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heirloommtomatoes · 4 years

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Together (Sam Drake x Reader)

This was a requested fic for “Don’t you dare ever do that again!” & “Who gave you that black eye?” from...four years ago? I posted it a while ago, deleted it, updated it coincidentally a few weeks ago, and @seizethesam was looking for it so here we are! Enjoy this throwback!

Word Count: 5,621

Warnings: Violence against a minor depicted. Might be disturbing to some. Strong language, depictions of PTSD. Mentions of suicide (implied).

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“The truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realize that the situation is over, you cannot move forward.”

―Steve Maraboli

The day Sam Drake died, he broke his wrist. He suspects now that it was likely more of a hairpin fracture, and wonders why it is this he remembers with such clarity. Not the gunshot, not slipping from his brother’s hand, not the sickening lurch in his gut as he fell, nor the stench of sweat and blood and metal and the red-hot wet of the pool of blood he lay in. Instead, he remembers trying to break his fall and failing, remembers the crunch of his wrist against the cement and the darkness that followed.

Fifteen years later, and all he has to show for it are bullet scars and a brother who learned to live without him.

“Sam, it’s four in the damn morning,” Nathan whispers into the phone as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, sensing Elena shift beside him at his movement. The feel of his brother’s name on his lips is still odd after having not spoken it for so many years.

Even just hearing Sam breathing on the other end still hits him with a surreality that nearly takes his own breath away. When you lose someone you respect, they become God. Nate had never been one for the pious doggerel of the nuns at St. Mary’s Boys’ Home where they had grown up. He had never prayed, had never presumed to try and speak to God. But over the last decade, he did speak to Sam. His grave had become his temple.

Nate remembers the shouting, the gunfire, the stench of humidity and smoke and sweat. He remembers his hand in Sam’s as he held onto his brother with everything he had over that ledge. But Sam had dropped anyway, and a part of Nate’s heart had gone with him, and he wasn’t sure if it had ever come back up.

“I know,” comes Sam’s reply, but his voice sounds broken, cracked, “I…uh,” he drags a hand down his face as he stands from where he was sat on the edge of the bed, offering a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he doesn’t disturb your sleep. He stands slowly, walks heel-to-hoe to the door, twisting the handle slowly.

“I need to talk but I—I don’t wanna wake Y/N,” he whispers, and it’s silence from the other end as Sam makes his way to the kitchen to take a seat on a stool next to the island.

“Ah,” Nate finally says, “So you wake me,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat and hits the silence that follows like a wall.

“I keep having these dreams, Nathan—” he takes a shaky breath and lowers his head; half in sorrow and half because he’s too tired to keep it up, “I keep remembering him.”

Sam presses his hand against his younger brother’s chest, pushing him back. A group of guards, three or four strong, train their guns on the pair of men.

“Hey, you keep your gun on me!”

Careful what you wish for. Sam doesn’t remember feeling the bullets hit, but he remembers the force of it pushing him back and his heel slipping on edge of the roof. It seems now like something that happened to someone else — and Sam supposes that if he were inclined to such thoughts of spirituality and philosophy, he would think that in a way it was. He doesn’t recognize himself in that man anymore.

His heel goes over the edge, but with a sharp pain in his arm he realizes he’s not falling. Nathan lunges for him, grabbing his wrist before gravity could complete its job. He hauls on his arm so hard Sam is afraid his shoulder will pop right out of the socket. He lets out a manic laugh at that when he remembers he was just shot, and thinks to himself that might be the wound more worth worrying about. Blood sputters from his mouth with it, splattering onto Nate’s face.

“Sam, don’t you let go!” Nathan shouts at him, face grimaced with the effort of carrying his brother’s weight. He thrusts his other arm down and reaches for Sam, “Grab my other hand!”

Sam looks up at Nathan. His face is covered in dirt and sweat and blood, his head haloed by the flat white light of a cloudy mid-afternoon sun. His breath comes hard, fast, and it takes a moment for Sam to register the tears making tracks down his brother’s face. Is he dead already? It seems fitting they would die together.

He falls.

Sam is vaguely aware of the stinging pain in his abdomen, and more aware of the cold that spreads through each and every limb like a wildfire. The dampness around his abdomen seems to weigh on him as if someone has decided to stuff a molten bowling ball into a gaping hole in his body.

“Cuidadoso! Él todavía está viva!”

When darkness swallows him, there’s are only two names that stay gasping at the surface:

Nathan.

Y/N.

He wakes, hours or days later, to a light that sears straight through him and aches in the backs of his eyes. He doesn’t remember dying. With some hazy sense of dread, he wonders if the voices that sound as though people are shouting at him from behind glass are some sort of chorus of angels, or more likely, demons. He hadn’t believed in any of what they’d taught in the Boys’ Home, but old habits persist. A breath enters his lungs, one that feels as though he’s stepping out into a winter’s day from a cabin on fire, his chest burning with the effort. All this pain and numbness fighting for dominance in his stomach, in his legs, in his head. Tingling, stinging, aching, all so persistent. Darkness swallows him, and it’s weeks before he wakes again.

Nathan.

Y/N.

Two years later, and he’s been in the same cell as some child for the better half of it. Sam thinks he must be a teenager still, and something in his chest aches at that that he can’t quite place.

Panama is nothing like he thought it was going to be. Maybe it’s just that he’s alone now. That’s probably it. He thought he’d get used to it more quickly, but falling asleep in the same bed that always pokes at his lower back no matter which way he turns and spending his days brawling and trading cigarettes has yet to become monotonous. He’s not sure if this is a blessing or a curse. He’s not sure what that says about him. He’s not sure if he wants to know.

With a gnawing guilt, Sam has come to find that prison is one of the only places he’s felt free. No responsibility weighing over him, no little brother to parent and worry over, no need to be constantly searching for work. It’s a loveless existence, but no one he cares about on the outside know where he is or what he’s doing. It’s his own kind of hell and kind of heaven, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if he did die that day, and every day after.

The humidity and heat takes some getting used to, though. The stench it brings, both from the men and from the miles of green around them was fierce and unrelenting and ever-present. And despite the wet season that comes and goes through March to December, dust clings to the walls year round, smelling of tobacco and sweat and blood.

Not long after waking and Sam has plucked out a book from underneath his mattress. It’s some shitty millionth-edition copy of a book on Henry Avery, but he figures it’s better than nothing and probably the best he’s going to get in this shithole. The boy sits silently on his own bed, and for a fleeting moment Sam wonders what goes on in that small head of his. As if on cue the boy opens his mouth to speak.

“What’re you gonna do when you get out?” he asks, accent thick. Sam looks over.

He can barely see him sitting on his bed in the shadows, knees drawn up to his chest, arms resting lazily over the tops of them.

“How old are you?” Sam counters, ignoring the question. They weren’t going to let him out of here. It was a stupid question.

“Dieceséis,” comes the reply, “My name’s Roberto, by the way.”

Sam sits up suddenly, setting the book down by his side, “Sixteen? Fucking sixteen? Jesus, you’re a kid. I didn’t know they even let people that young in here.”

Roberto shrugs, “Ran out of space everywhere else, I guess.”

A silence settles over them and Sam lays back down, hands clasped over his stomach, thumb rubbing over one of the small dips in his skin where his scars are.

“You got a lady out there? Waiting for you?”

Sam snorts, “I don’t know so much about the waiting part, but yeah.”

He tries to not think of you. This place would spoil your memory, like a song you listened to over and over during a breakup and can’t listen to anymore without thinking of it. When — if — he sees you again, he doesn’t want that. He knows you don’t deserve it.

But as if he can help it. Memories of you are among the only things keeping him sane. He remembers waking next to you, the soft golden glow of dawn washing through the nearly-transparent curtains of a hotel room. The hum of the fan wasn’t enough to drown out the songbirds that had decided your window was most appealing that day and had rudely awoken him at such a small hour. He remembers flopping over to face you, watching your breath rise and fall, reaching out to trace the gentle curve of your spine—

“You gonna marry her when you get out?”

Sam takes a breath in. As he lets it out he tightens his jaw. He knows the kid is an ignorant shit. He doesn’t know better. “I’m not getting out,” he replies, “So stop acting like that’s ever gonna fuckin’ happen.” The response comes out as more of a snap than Sam had intended, but he pushes away the feelings of guilt, forces himself to keep his gaze away from his cellmate.

“Oh.”

Sam closes his eyes, tries to think of something else other than the way Roberto’s tone reminded him so much of Nathan when they were kids, but it’s like someone telling you not to think of the phantom pain after losing a limb. And what do you think of?

He hears shuffling from the other side of the cell. The lifting of a mattress, a grunt of effort, the crinkling of paper and the heavy thud of setting it all back down again.

“Here,” Roberto says, and Sam feels his weight at the end of the bed. The older man groans and runs his hands down his face as he sits up, shirt sticking to his back that’s wet with sweat from the midday heat.

Roberto lifts a small square piece of paper in his hands, “Mira,” he says, gesturing to the photo.

It’s a black and white photograph of a woman, heavy-set with kind eyes and a massive grin plastered to her face, the several missing teeth only adding to her obvious charm. Her hands are clasped over her stomach, an apron bound as tightly around her as the head wrap she wears to stave off the heat of the day.

“Who’s this?” Sam asks, not bothering to wonder how he managed to get it in the first place.

“Mi madre,” Roberto responds, “When I get out, I’m gonna find her. Maybe you can come visit us,” he adds with a childlike enthusiasm that’s like an arrow to Sam’s heart. God, this kid deserves so much more than this.

“Do you have any pictures of your girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you scared you’ll forget what she looks like?”

Another year passes, and eventually Sam gets used to the torrential rain November brings. Or more importantly, he gets used to what it means; the cigarette trading turns into more frequent brawling in the laundry rooms or courtyard and the withdrawal symptoms make the fighting take on an animalistic turn as the men become restless. He leans against the railing that overlooks one of the courtyards, clasped hands fidgeting as he watches the men below, screaming and grunting and splashing in the mud as punch after punch lands.

He can sense Roberto’s presence beside him before the kid announces himself.

“The guards are looking for me,” he says, voice small, “I took a piece of bread from the kitchen.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of hiding yourself,” Sam responds without turning his gaze to look at him.

“They’re distracted by the brawling anyway,” Roberto says, shuffling closer as if Sam’s shadow could hide him. Hell, Sam thinks it probably could. The kid must weigh barely a hundred pounds.

“I fuckin’ hate this rain,” Sam says, picking a cigarette out from his pocket and fiddling with it in his hand, “Can’t even light a goddamn smoke.”

Roberto’s shoulder is almost touching Sam’s side. He looks down at him and frowns. The kid looks like a wet rat in his white t-shirt, black hair matted to his forehead. Sam shrugs off the navy prison jacket and drapes it over the kid’s shoulders, “You’ll catch a cold,” he says when Roberto looks up at him in surprise and grabs the lapels to tug it closer to himself as Sam sticks the cigarette in his mouth. He wasn’t about to try and light it in the downpour, but it felt good to hold there.

Sam meets the boy’s gaze, and its only then he notices the dark bruising around his eye, “Who gave you that black eye?” he demands, the intensity in his own voice surprising himself as he leans forward to tilt Roberto’s head in the light.

The teen swats him away and grumbles something under his breath, turning his gaze back to the courtyard.

“What?”

“I got in a fight,” he says, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” Sam tells him, “Those guys down there could snap you like a twig, you know that? Don’t you dare ever do that again,” he says, taking the cigarette from his mouth and irritably throwing it over the edge as he leans over.

Roberto shrugs his shoulders and hugs the jacket close, “Let’s go back to our cell. I got a deck of cards.”

Sam looks back down at him at the suggestion and slings an arm over his shoulders, steering him back down the stairs and under cover.

“It’s called crazy eights,” Sam tells him later as they sit opposite each other on Roberto’s bed, raising his voice to be heard above the rain that had worsened on their way back. Thunder cracks and Roberto jumps slightly, looking over his shoulder toward the cell bars.

The air is thick with the humidity of it, as if the rain is pushing all the heaviness that had been hanging above them back down. It brings about new smells too; smells of faeces and urine and vomit that Sam knows are a result of the practically non-existent plumbing of the place. He turns his gaze back to Sam, scrunching his nose as he sniffs. Nervous habit.

“My little brother and I used to play it,” he continues as he shuffles the deck he imagines Roberto traded for a pack of cigarettes back in March when it was still possible to smoke them outside. It feels almost natural to talk about Nathan again, but god help him if he was going to speak his name aloud.

“Our parents would fight sometimes,” he says, “He’d get scared, so he and I would hole up in his room, play cards. Talk about history, practice our latin.”

“He sounds nice,” Roberto says, and is aware of how bland his response is. He’s worried anything else will make Sam shut up, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Too nice for his own good, I’d say,” Sam says as he nods and deals out the cards, “Last person I taught this game to was my girlfriend,” he continues, and wonders why he’s only telling him this now. God, it feels good to talk about the two of you, “She was awful at it,” he laughs, and Roberto decides then and there that if he had an older brother, he would have a laugh like that.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Sam says with no hesitation, the answer coming like a reflex. Of course he loves you. Kid has a habit of asking stupid questions, “What about your family?” he asks as he finishes dealing the cards and picks up his hand.

Roberto seems to have nothing to say for the first time since Sam befriended him two years ago as he reaches for his cards and shrugs, “They’re nice. I have a younger sister. My parents have work in town, but they come home in the afternoon and make the best dinners for us,” he says, setting his hand back down in front of him and sitting cross-legged, hands gripping at his ankles. Sam thinks he looks younger than he is sitting like this.

Heavy footsteps sound down the hallway and Roberto tenses, looks over his shoulder.

“I told you the guards were after me,” he says in a quiet voice, but Sam’s brow furrows. He’d stolen from the kitchens before. Everyone had. The punishment for it was far from severe, but of course as everything in the prison it depended what kind of mood the guards were in. The worst he’d seen was someone thrown in solitary for a day or two.

Five guards approach the door, hands set to their guns as a man clad in brown opens the door. Sam looks at Roberto with wide eyes and gets to his feet, “Hey, hey, hey,” he says quickly, holding his hands out in front of him as if that might stop them, “What the hell—”

“Cállate, gringo,” a guard yells at him, shoving his shoulder against his chest hard enough to knock him against the back wall. Sam lets out a grunt as he slides down, the force nearly knocking the breath out of him as he turns his gaze to Roberto.

“¿Dónde es?” the guards yells at him, lifting his gun to line up with his head. Roberto crawls back on his bed until he hits the wall, sending cards flying to the ground in his struggle.

“No—no sé lo que estás hablando,” Roberto stutters, and Sam wonders if it’s the fear or dampness making him shiver.

Sam scrambles to his feet and grabs Roberto’s wrist, shoves him behind himself, “Hey, you keep your gun on me,” he says, the words tasting familiar to him. He holds out an arm protectively and can feel Roberto gripping his shirt and peeking out from behind him.

“¿Qué carajo crees que estás haciendo?” the guard spits out, “This doesn’t concern you.”

The guard raises his arm and slams his elbow against the side of Sam’s head, knocking him to the concrete floor.

As one of them keeps a gun on Roberto, the other four lift the mattresses and throw them to the floor, one of them trapping Sam’s arm. When he goes to reach for one of the guard’s legs to trip him, another sends his boot into his ribcage. Pain explodes across his abdomen and when he opens his mouth he finds he has no breath to gasp at the agony of it.

“What do we have here?” a guard says, holding out the small slip of paper Roberto had kept under his mattress, “Where did you get this?” one of the guards spits at Roberto, holding up the photograph, “Who gave all this shit to you?” he repeats, gesturing at the cards.

“No va a halbar,” another guard says, snatching the photo out of his hands and shoving it in front of Roberto’s face, “Keeping a photo of your dead madre around? You want to be a traitor like the rest of your family?”

Roberto stares, frozen where he sits, back still against the wall, eyes wide.

“Alright, hijo de puta,” the guard says with a sigh, “Grab him,” he gestures to Sam and two others tug him from the ground, holding each of his arms back. Sam hangs his head, legs limp as he spits out a mix of phlegm and blood onto the ground.

“Don’t—don’t fucking touch him,” he croaks, feeling as though he’d been cut in two, his breath still returning to him.

The guard who has established himself as the leader of the group throws the first punch. Then another. Sam roars. He lurches forward, and his shoulders hurt when the guards pull him back. When Roberto starts to hit back, a renewed fire in Sam’s belly causes him to throw himself back in hopes of catching the guards by surprise. It earns him a mouthful of fist, and darkness swallows him.

When he comes to, hours or days later, the rain has stopped.

He’s laying on the ground at the foot of his bed, the mattress sprawled next to him. Slowly, he pushes himself onto his hands, wincing at the aching in his abdomen. He turns his gaze to the bed at the other side of the cell to where Roberto is curled up, breath coming fast, hands clutching at his middle.

And suddenly his pain is just pain and he stands, scrambling to the other bed.

“Roberto, hey, can you hear me?” he says, grabbing the boy by his shoulders and turning him onto his back. Blood stained his shirt where it had dripped from his nose, his face a sickly pale, stomach bloated and purple.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, shit, shit shit—” Sam feels his throat tighten, the pain in his abdomen fading almost entirely in the face of this new crisis. An anger replaces it, bubbling in his belly, tingling in each of his limbs, spinning the world around him until his eyes can’t focus on a single thing anymore.

The only thing he can think of is that he can’t lose him—not again. He’d failed him before, failed him so many times back in Cartegena, back at the Boys’ Home, back when he couldn’t make their parents stop arguing, back when he didn’t just give him his other damn hand when he was shot and dangling from that roof, back when he didn’t get out of bed when he heard his mother close the door to the house at three in the damn morning he could’ve gotten up he could’ve told her not to leave he could’ve stopped her and all this never would have happened—

“Sam?”

“Roberto, hey,” Sam says, breathing a sigh of relief, “Don’t move, okay? I’ll—I’ll get you some water, alright? By the end of the week we’ll be laughing about all this, yeah? How does that sound?”

“I’m—I’m sorry I lied, Sam,” he continues, voice cracking, “About my family.”

“Just rest, Roberto, c’mon—”

“No,” he says firmly, and Sam can tell he has to strain to raise his voice, “I wanna tell you now.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows the boy is going to die. Sam knows what he is about to hear will give him the reason no one will be willing to help the kid the way they helped him with his bullet wounds. He knows these four walls will be the last thing Roberto sees, and he feels like throwing up; feels as though he’s on a boat lost at sea in the middle of a storm and the compass is spinning.

“My parents, they—” he coughs; a dry sound, closer to hacking than anything and blood sprays onto his white shirt, “They were involved with the wrong sort. I—I don’t know, but the others, they visited our house in the middle of the night and they—” he coughs again, “They burned it down. I tried to escape with my sister, but the police arrived and—” he takes a gasping breath, “My father escaped. He has one of the guards working for him and he promised he was gonna get me out and I wanted you to come with me so we could still be together and I could meet your little brother and—” he takes another breath, tears swelling in his eyes that spill over the sides of his cheeks, “Some of the others, they found out about me and that’s—that’s the fight I told you about,” he finishes, daring to turn his head to look Sam in the eye. The moment they lock gazes, Sam can feel the tightening in his throat loosen like a dam.

Born into something so much bigger than himself, all choice ripped from him before he even had the chance to know what any kind of self-agency felt like. That was something Sam could relate to.

Roberto dies three days later.

The rain had left for the dry season, making way for the sun and birds and scent of earth to return to the otherwise concrete establishment. Sam had watched as they carried his body away on the stretcher, eyes wide and unseeing, stomach turned a disgusting mix of blacks and blues and purples. A fucking kid.

Roberto had had the photo of his mother in one hand and Sam’s in the other, gripping it like a vice as he died.

“I’ll make sure this gets back to your father, make sure he knows—”

“No, mantener la fotografía—keep it. It’s yours.”

Sam had learned after that to keep to himself. He kept conversation limited, never spoke of you or Nathan or Roberto. Never told anyone what happened, or why the kid was no longer attached to his hip.

There is nothing more irritating than the constant chatter of a child, and nothing more somber than the silence they leave after they are gone.

So Sam compartmentalizes. He moves on. He is a different man now, tempered with bitterness and disappointment and distain, wearing different clothes but marred with the same scars. In his youth, he had thought himself strong, had thought himself to be made of iron and wit. The truth is that he is - and he suspects most people are - a shattered, graceless mosaic of experience compacted to display something resembling an assertable face to the world. Inside he makes himself of awkward, delicate things; of memories of dead goddamn children and mothers, of a little brother left alone. When he looks in the mirror, he barely recognises the person staring back. Sam knew a man like him once, but he isn’t him.

And what makes him human was that sometimes the façade splinters. And in that moment he was closer to something tangible, something recognisable, than he might ever know.

“At the time, losing him felt like losing you,” Sam says finally, fiddling with the napkin holder on the kitchen island, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” His voice comes out in a strained whisper, squeezing itself uncomfortably around all the other words he does not say.

“I love you, little brother.”

“I know.”

Sam stays silent after that. His shoulders feel lighter but his chest feels as though someone has filled it with bricks.

“I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Nate says, a tinge of guilt and stubbornness in his voice that only Sam could pick out.

“Yeah.”

Sam takes the phone away from his ear. Then, faintly —

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Sam’s breath hitches. He shakes his head, though Nathan can’t see. Guilt, rage, sorrow, and an inescapable and indefatigable longing for something he can’t quite place skips through him, fizzy like soda pop.

He nods, small but staccatoed movement, “Yeah,” he tries to say, but the pain weighs down the word and it gets caught in his throat. He wants to say thank you, he wants to say, I love you, thank you, thank you, thank you for everything, but he’s not ready. He’s not ready, but for the first time in a long time he feels that maybe one day he will be.

“Goodnight, Sam. Talk soon,” Nate says, voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam says again, but he’s not sure if Nathan hears it as he pulls the phone from his ear and presses the red button to end the call.

Sam flips the phone over and sets in down on the counter. He lifts his hands to run them down his face with a small fatigued groan before resting his elbows on the island, shoving both hands in his hair with his head bowed.

“Sam.”

He almost jumps at the sound of your voice behind him, piercing through the quiet like a bullet through flesh. Hesitantly, you set a hand against his shoulder, rubbing it softly.

“Did I wake you?”

You don’t respond. You’d tried to not eavesdrop, but when Sam had started going on about how he had heard his mother leave the house morning of her death, your feet had planted in the hallway and you couldn’t help the hand that flew to your mouth. Did he really blame himself for that? How many mistakes that weren’t his crowded the empty shadowed corners of his life?

He lifts a hand to cover yours on his shoulder, rubs his thumb over the ring on your finger.

“Let’s go back to bed,” he whispers, lowering his voice to hide the hoarseness in it. You nod and he laces his fingers through yours as he stands and starts back toward the bedroom.

“Sam, wait.”

Sam slows gradually before coming to a stop, his feet scuffing against the wood of the apartment floor.

“Come here.”

He turns wordlessly into your outstretched arms, wraps his arms tightly around your middle, buries his head in the crook of your neck.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” you whisper against his hair, one hand rubbing his back and the other threaded in his hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Sam’s grip loosens as you feel him shudder as he breaths out, dropping one arm entirely to have the other wrapped loosely around you. He sobs quietly into your shoulder and crumples against you, bringing you both to your knees on the floor.

The two of you stay like that for as long as it takes for Sam’s tears to slow.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?” you whisper once he has this breath back, “Get some rest,” you tell him, not being able to help the tears that have formed in your own eyes at the sight of him so distraught. When he lifts his head, his face is red and his eyes are puffy and tired, hair disheveled from having his face buried in your shoulder.

He nods as the two of you stand and crawl back into bed.

Sam lays on his side. He has his back to you.

Tentatively, you shuffle yourself closer to him and press yourself against his back, draping an arm over his middle. He lets out a sigh and his shoulders fall as he lets out a tension he hadn’t known was there.

Sam doesn’t sleep that night, but his mind doesn’t wander much either which he counts as a blessing. He tries to breathe deep, focus on the warmth of you behind him, on the uncomfortable stiffness in his fingers laced in yours.

In the morning he turns to face you and can feel the awe in his expression, can feel how stupid he must look as he stares.

In all his thirteen years in prison he’d only cried once. It was during his twelfth year, when he had begun to think he wasn’t capable of it. He would dream nearly every night, and each time it would be of Nathan, of you. When the people he loved most in this world became no more than figures with no voices or faces even in his dreams, he knew he was lost. Aren’t you scared you’ll forget what she looks like?

The twitch of a smile graces your lips, but you keep your eyes closed, “You know if I didn’t know better that’d be a little creepy,” you whisper, voice scratchy.

“Sorry,” he murmurs in return, the word meaningless and flat. You open you eyes to find you’ve moved a good half foot down the bed and were staring straight at his chest.

“I don’t mind,” you say with a sigh that creeps its way into a smile, and he lets out a small laugh. When you turn your gaze to his, he can’t help but think you have the eyes of everyone who has ever cared.

And this, Sam thinks, is the way it will go. He will trace his fingers over remembered lines, recalling until he catches upon a changed border. He will not run at the sight. He will adapt. And you...his lips curve into a smile and his heart catches in his throat. You and him will grow together around the differences like vines wrapping around tree branches, healing the way bones do.

#my writing #sam drake x reader #sam x reader #elena-fishy #sam drake #uncharted #uncharted 4 #!!!! enjoy #i very very loosely proof read this so sorry if it has errors #this is #SO cheesy and lovely @ the end jskskj holy fuck lmaaaooo bye #i wrote 90% of this 4 years ago so #i #will cut myself #a liTTLE slack #as a snack #CHEESY AND LOVEY*** NOT LOVELY LMAO

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ashes-and-ashes · 5 years

Note

Confession time... I live for people treating Remus like shit because of his lycanthropy, and Sirius (and the others) being really protective and losing their temper when they see it. So if you were to write that, know that it would end me, but I'd die happy 💙

Whoops. I got carried away. Hope you like this Rosie (and I hope it is angsty enough!!)

tw for alcohol, implied self harm and depression

Bar fights

Sirius stares down into his glass.

He scowls. It was called the Dragon, supposedly the “fiercest drink in all of Wizarding Britain” and he can already tell that it wouldn’t be strong enough. Firewhisky and gillywater and something that made it turn bright blue, all mixed into a glass. It steamed slightly, bubbles floating to the surface and the barkeeper smirks over at him.

“A little young to be drinking eh?” He laughs. “You sure you can finish that?”

Sirius just raises an eyebrow, downing the drink in one shot. “Not strong enough,” he mutters, rapping his knuckles on the bar.

The barkeeper blinks at him, then turns away. Sirius sighs.

He supposed it wasn’t fair. He’s a Black. Judging by the amount Walburga drank, he’d been ingesting alcohol in the womb.

Sirius scrubs his hand over his face, staring down at the bar. It’s stained, from the rings of some drink long dried, and he picks at the marks with his fingernail.

He had sworn to himself, a few years ago when he was 12 that he would never drink again. Sworn it while huddled in his room, biting back his sobs as he tried to heal the gashes in his back and the waves of pain all over his body. Walburga was bad enough sober - the cuts on Sirius’ arms and legs were proof of that. But she only ever used Crucio when she was drunk.

He snatches the glass from the barkeeper, downs it again. He had only really started drinking a month ago, to keep away the nightmares and the thoughts and the images. Sobriety was hell. Better to wash it away in the haze of drink then linger on what his life had become.

The Prank. Even thinking the words made him shudder. He had replayed that night in his head, over and over again, turning over every second until the memories were seared into his brain.

If only I hadn't read the letter. If only I was strong enough to resist the torture. If only I was faster, smarter, quicker. If only I hadn’t been so stupid.

He slumps in his chair. It was over now. Him and Remus were done. He still couldn’t help but feel that it was punishment, punishment for running away, punishment for leaving Reg with his parents.

And it was Remus’ birthday today, his 16th. Sirius’ heart aches as he imagines it. Everyone crowded around Remus, everyone singing Happy Birthday to him. He had spent ages planning the events for Remus’ birthday, the picnic and the candles and the secret spot by the lake.

He laughs bitterly. Everyone thought they’d be forever, him and Re. The Prank had torn them apart.

Good, he thinks, tightening his grip on the empty glass. He’s rid of me now. He’s free.

Sirius knew he could never be free of Remus. He loved him too much, a burning, aching pain inside of him, so much that it hurt. There would always be a part of him that loved Remus, no matter how many days passed, a part of him that could never be filled by anyone else.

How many moments did they have together? How many whispered secrets and shared kisses, how many times had they traced each other’s scars?

He’d thought they’d last forever.

Sirius hears the door bang open, the sound of laughter filling the bar. He turns on his stool, half-paying attention when he freezes.

Remus stares at him, surrounded by people. James and Lily chatting animatedly, Dorcas and Marlene with their arms around each other, Gideon next to Fabian who was holding Kingsley’s hand, Peter talking to Mary. His best friends, all of them, the ones who he’d die for and they all hated him.

Sirius curses under his breath, standing in a fluid motion. He turns, grabbing his cloak, hoping that Remus would ignore him, would look away.

He’s wrong. Halfway to the door, Remus steps in front of him. “What,” he hisses, “Are you doing here?”

Sirius drops his gaze. He’s heard that steel in Remus’ voice before, heard it used on Snape and the Slytherins, to his mother and his father and everyone else who crossed him. But he’s never had it directed at him before.

Sirius swallows, hard, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I’m….I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming here - “

Around him, he can feel the life going out of the party, near-identical glares being turned in his direction. He looks down. “I’ll leave now.”

Part of him still hopes. Hopes that Remus will shake his head, ask him to stay. That he can celebrate the birthday of the boy he loved most, that he could pretend just for one night that everything was okay again.

But instead, Remus just nods. “I think you should.”

Sirius bites his lip, walking towards the door. He slips out then closes it behind him, managing to make it to the alley behind the bar.

He drops to the ground, perched on the balls of his feet, his head in his hands. The night is cool, the air crisp, and he takes a deep breath.

He can feel it, the numbness, the way he was slowly drowning in it. It was as if a sheet of plastic had been placed over the world, blurring everything together, muting out all sounds. He supposed he deserved it.

Sirius lets his head rest against the wall. His lungs burn, a blinding headache forcing its way into his head and he wishes he had a cigarette.

Sirius clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palm, carving bloody half-moons into his flesh.

He scared himself sometimes, when the numbness came down and his heart ached and all he wanted to do was bleed. Something stronger, deeper than just a blade against skin, when he wanted to fight.

There’s a flurry of movement to his left, two guys walking into the alley. They’re sketchy looking, dirty and high, and Sirius ignores them. Behind him, a window opens, and he can hear laughed pouring into the alley.

He recognizes the laughs - Kingsley’s low rumble and Lily’s high-pitched giggle, James’ snort and Peter’s squeak and Marlene howling as someone banged the table. And Remus, the huff of breath as he smiled, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. He would recognize Remus’ laugh anywhere, would recognize him even if he was blind.

The two guys on his left are mumbling, and Sirius barely makes out a few words.

“Piece of shit…”

“Just mug him then…”

“Nah don’t want to get busted….”

He ignores the words, yanking on his hair with his hands, so hard his eyes begin to water. His feet ache from crouching, his neck stiff and he winces as he he forces himself to his feet. He turns, snarling as he starts to exit the alley.

“Asshole. Won’t pay up.”

“At least he’s not a queer.”

There’s a low laugh. “Well. Or a werewolf.”

The other person snorts. “Werewolves. Filthy half breeds, ought to be put down the load of them. Always biting people and rutting around everywhere.”

“As if they’re good for anything else.”

The anger rises in Sirius, so fast he almost falls over. He turns around, clenching his fists together. “Don’t talk about werewolves like that.”

The two men pause, then look up at Sirius. The first one smiles. “What the hell you doing kid?”

The other one laughs. “Trying to be tough. Spoiling for a fight.”

“Fucktard.” The two of them snort. “Go away kid. Won’t ask again.”

Sirius doesn’t. He carefully widens his stance, one foot in front of the other. “I said. Don’t talk about werewolves like that.”

“Why?” The man winks. “Ahh. I see. Fucking one are you? Taking it straight up the ass like the fag you are, I’m sure. Probably enjoy it too.”

“Is it beastiality if he’s in human form while you fuck?” The man shrugs. “Or is it just - “

Sirius snaps.

His wand is in his hand in an instant, pointed directly at the first man. “Stupefy!” The man crashes backwards, directly into a bunch of boxes, and Sirius whirls. “Diffendo!”

Gashes appear in the floor and in the man’s skin, blood welling up from the cuts as he snarls. “Bastard. What the fuck?”

Sirius laughs, the sound slightly unhinged. His heart is pounding in his chest, his muscles tense and he loves it because finally. Finally he’s free, not thinking about Remus or Snape or the Prank, finally his head is clear. He just smiles back. “I warned you. Don’t talk about werewolves like that.”

“Fucking son of a bitch.” The man spits at Sirius’ feet. “Gay fag.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Flipendo!”

The spell hurtles toward the man, who just flicks his wand. “Protego.”

Sirius steps to the side, the bolt careening past his leg. He raises his wand, fire dancing at the top. “Incendio!”

He’s not sure how long the fight lasts. The man is good, handling multiple spells with ease, managing to slice Sirius’ arm, repel his spell and revive his unconscious friend on the floor. Sirius curses, blood running down his arm, pouring into his eye from a cut on his forehead. He blinks furiously, trying to get the thick liquid out, anger burning in his chest. Without thinking, he points his wand straight at the man, right at his chest. “Cru - “

“Sirius no!”

And suddenly a hand is wrapped around his wrist, the crimson jet at the tip of his wand flying wide. He turns, yanking his arm away, about to curse the person when he stops dead.

Remus stares back at him, panting and covered in blood, the moonlight making the lines on his face glow. Sirius swears. “Shit, Re, I….” He trails off. “Re. Re, there’s blood all over you - “

“It’s yours.” Remus’ voice is steady. “I’m fine.”

“But…” With a start, Sirius remembers the men. He turns around, his wand raised, only to have Remus step in front of him. “Sirius. No.”

Sirius whirls, fury burning in his chest. “What the fuck do you mean, no?”

Remus glares back at him. “No.”

There’s a bang. Sirius whips around, in time to see the man’s fingers close over the handle of his wand. With a pop, both men disappear, vanishing to god knows where, leaving nothing behind but a trail of blood.

“This close.” Sirius’ throat is tight, like someone was slowly strangling him. He coughs, swallowing hard. “I was this close to defeating them Re, this close! I had them!”

“You were about to use Crucio on them.” Remus’ voice is cold. “You were going to use an unforgivable curse on them.”

Sirius looks down. He feels something wet on his head, on his face. Rain starts to trickle from the sky in steady streams, darkening the pavement where he stood. He meets Remus’ gaze. “Yes.”

“God Sirius.” Remus runs his hands through his hair. “How could you? You know what it was like, being tortured. How could you wish that into someone else?”

Sirius bites his lip. He can taste blood, coating his tongue and cheek, salty and metallic. “They were insulting werewolves.”

Remus stares back at him, his face draining of colour. Sirius continues. “Saying things like...like they deserved to be put down. That they were monsters. That - “

“No.” Remus’ voice is shaking. “No. Y-you.”

“Re - “

Remus shakes him off. “No. Not for me. Never for me.”

Sirius frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not worth it.” Remus is trembling, his voice cracking on the words. “I’m not worth it Sirus, I’m not worth you attaching them! I’m not worth a fucking unforgivable curse, God, Sirius, you could have been thrown in Azkaban for that!”

“I don’t - “

“Don’t you dare.” Remus glares at him. “Don’t you dare say that you don’t care about going to Azkaban, don’t you dare say it. I am nothing, Sirius, I am nothing but a half breed, and you are a Black! You are practically a Prince and I swear, you cannot throw your life away for me!”

“I’m not throwing my life away.” Sirius keeps his voice calm. “I love you Remus, I know you don’t anymore but I do. I love you so damn much - I would go to Azkaban in a heartbeat if it would make you happy - “

“We are over,” Remus spits and the sound breaks Sirius’ heart. “We’ve been done for a month! How can you - how can you risk your life for something so stupid - “

“You’re not stupid! You mean something - “

Remus shakes his head. “I mean nothing. I am nothing in this world, nothing in this story! I am a small mark on your book Sirius, and you should leave and forget about me.”

Sirius closes his eyes. It’s pouring now, plastering Remus’ hair to his head. It soaks the ground, washing away the blood, rivlets of water dripping down his back.

“How can I forget about you, Re? I still love you.”

Remus closes his eyes. “Do you think I don’t?” He laughs bitterly. “It’s been almost a month now and I still find myself longing for what we had before.” He looks up. “But you see why we can’t, right? It’s not just...just what you did. You’re a prince, Sirius, you have your whole life ahead of you. As soon as I’m 17 I have to register. I’ll be put into a Werewolf Camp. I’ll probably die alone and starving in some alleyway somewhere.”

“Bullshit.” Sirius shakes his head. “I don’t give a damn about you being a werewolf, Re, I still love you - “

Remus just shakes his head. A small, choked noise escapes his throat, maybe a sob or maybe a laugh, and Sirius’ breath hitches. “Re - ?”

Remus just presses him against the wall and kisses him.

The rain pounds against the sidewalk, filling the air with the scent of rain, and Sirius leans back. Hungry, open mouths and roaming hands and God he’s wanted this for so long, wanted to feel Remus against him again, their lips pressed together, the steady rise and fall of the scars on their skin. He feels Remus’ fingers on his back, moving unfalteringly over the gashes, and Sirius closes his eyes.

Slowly, carefully, Remus pulls away. He steps back, his arms falling to his side, his hair sticking up in spikes. It’s hard to tell from all the rain, but Sirius thinks he sees tears in his eyes. “God. I’ve wanted…”

“Me too.” Sirius swallows. “Re - “

“No.” Remus takes another step back. “We can’t - we can’t do this - “

“Yes we can!” Sirius shakes his head. “I don’t care, Remus, I don’t give a damn that you’re a werewolf or that you’re not high-born or that you’re poor!”

“How could you fall in love - “

“I fell in love with Remus Lupin.” Sirius closes his eyes. “The kind, brave, beautiful boy who comforted me on my first night away from home. The boy who helped me with my projects and let me copy his homework. The one who taught me stitching spells when my mother started cutting me, the one who came when I woke up screaming from nightmares. I fell in love with the boy who kissed me for the first time just before a transformation, who always gave second chances. I fell in love with you, Re. Fuck the werewolf.”

“You - “ Remus’ voice cracks. “You deserve the world, Sirius. I...I don’t know if I can give that to you.”

Sirius just reaches forward. He presses his palm against Remus’ cheek, the fluttering in his heart growing as Remus leans into the touch. “You are my world, Re. I don’t need anything else.”

Remus bites his lip. “Sirius - “

“I love you.” He laughs. “God. I love you so much.”

Remus swallows, hard. He nods, pulls Sirius up closer against him. “I love you too.”

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freedomartspress · 4 years

Text

Grappler — Samuel Clementine

Small, fat fingers, wrapped around the gnarled limbs of a crab apple tree turn red then white when you hang from them. The weight of my small body being held up, just barely, by the tree and I felt myself bounce slightly in the hot Missouri air. I was sweating hard even then, but after days of climbing the small tree, my eyes would adjust to the sting of perspiration and my fingers learn to go numb before the pain of the rough bark forces me to release. I’ve known that feeling before in one way or another ever since. I would lose my grip and fall, feet first, into the grass below, my body twisted in fear or limp in exhaustion, but I would try to climb it all day. Even on days that I would make it to the top I would try again. The crab apple tree was nothing to fear or hate, but an opponent. My mother saw me some days, when she was up, and would watch from the screen door of the trailer as I’d try to climb that little tree. She’d watch me and from time to time the muscles in her arm would jump to grip the handle of the door the way my forearm would jump to grab the crabapple tree. She’d wince as if the bark on the handle would stick her and she’d turn away with that same pained look in her eyes. Three weeks after my fifth Thanksgiving on this earth, she turned away crying.

When I was finally able to climb the tree five times in a row without stopping, my mother informed me that my sister and I would be living with our father for the foreseeable future. I was either never told why or the years have taken it from me. Two days later I lived with my father in a halfway house in Springfield, Illinois. The trailer I lived with my mother and sister at the time gave me direct access to the tree, but now I had no friends and no opponents. Just long, cold walks with my father and groups of kids I didn’t know that seemed to be a constantly rotating cast of people that would be there one day and gone the next. I was never privy to the things that put my father in prison, but years later my mother would only tell me, “Your dad likes to fight.” When he couldn't pay rent he would refuse to leave wherever it was he was living and he would be removed by the cops. He was abusive and bad tempered and often cruel. When I lived with him he kept his nose clean and tried to teach me about God. I didn’t particularly like the pastor nor did I like the songs, but I remember feeling that I owed somebody something the whole time I was there.

We’d walk, sometimes for hours, from friend’s houses to soup kitchens to shelters to the halfway house. I was too large to be carried, but when it was late and bitterly cold he’d carry me as far as his arms could handle it. After some time the cold wind and the ache in my feet would numb just like my hands on the crabapple tree. The hostile cold would cut through my father and I like a knife and it took quick feet and tactics to make sure we didn’t freeze or starve. When my grandparents would send toys I would have to give the bulk away. My father never told me why he did this, but I can only guess it was to prepare me for the losses I can see coming. He didn’t want me to react to pressure, but to prepare my heart accordingly. About a year after I arrived in Springfield, my father left my sister and I with a woman named Mary he had met at a bus stop a week earlier. He said he’d be back the next day with a car, but two days passed. She, understandably, panicked and called the police and asked me if I knew anyone to call. I called the only number I knew, my grandmother, and the last thing I saw him doing was struggling with a cop to reach us as we were put into my grandparent’s car.

I would live for the rest of my childhood with my mother’s parents. They were in their mid fifties when they adopted my sister and I. We are the third generation in my family to have been raised by them, but the only black children they’ve ever raised. This began a losing battle in my home. My great-grandfather was a golden glove boxer when he was my age, but when he had children he put the gloves down and put his hands to raising a family. His offspring, five girls and one boy, are the people who raised me for much of my adolescence. Each of them would, in earnest and sometimes subconsciously, show me how they dealt with the abuses they suffered as poor kids in a hard home. Uncle Jimmy wrestled and boxed and drank to numb himself. The sisters, my aunts, work themselves relentlessly because working meant not being home and money meant never having to come back. It was a family of tacticians and fighters, but we only ever fought each other.

I would wrestle, as my father did, and in it I found an outlet and an art. The control I gained over my body and my breathing made nights when I would go home to an imploding home seem easier to deal with. I could stay for a few hours after school and I would focus on defeating a single opponent. I had nowhere to be, but on the mat. My fat fingers would grip my opponents, turning red then white, as their weight would shift and I’d send them flying to the ground. I could grapple with a single opponent and it was never to hurt them, but to learn. We could teach each other about our strengths and weaknesses only by grappling with each other. I would only wrestle for one year, but these lessons would remain with me. Grappling is fighting someone while holding on to them. As grapplers, it is our duty to hold onto our opponents.

Samuel Clementine works as a UPS package handler and does theatre throughout the Midwest.

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imsfire2 · 7 years

Text

Out of darkness

So, he watches her.

The street is dark, and she is walking into the dark; he isn’t quite sure where the borders of the darkness lie, in the pools of streetlight or in himself. His eyes aren’t working quite right anymore, and he clings on to the last sweet thing he will see, clings to the sight of her walking, as his brain clings to the last sweet thing it will know, the memory (remember me remember me) the memory of her body her lips the sadness in her eyes…

The blood running down his hip and pooling in the plastic seat is sickly, stickily hot and he is beginning to feel numb inside, the pain putting itself at a distance from him.

The street is dark, and Aurora walks into the dark, and he goes into the dark watching her.

Dark indeed, long dark, long like a bad childhood, like a fever, like fear...

He can feel something in the darkness. A surface under his fingertips. He touches it. Firm. Not hard but firm. Neither warm nor cold. Motionless; not something alive. When he moves his hand, curls his fingers, his nails find a faint texture beneath them. Roughness, very delicate, structured, something interwoven, woven. Fabric.

He can’t open his eyes, because dead men do not see. Then he does; and sees nothing. Lies in the dark, remembering with a brilliant vividness the young woman walking away from him, her straight back, swinging hips, sweet beauty going into the dark. He’s there now in the depths of darkness and it still isn’t over. He wonders how long it truly takes to die.

His breathing seems to be quite steady, and the pain has vanished. So there’s that at least. Interesting to know. Dying, in these final stages; not painful.

He wonders if all the men he’s killed had a split second of this stillness in them, this quiet, troubled peace, before their shot hearts stopped.

On his left there’s something that isn’t darkness. It looks, weirdly, like the outline of a door, with a light behind it.

Gabriel would laugh if he had the strength or the breath left for it. The door to heaven, right there, shut in his face. Fair enough. It’s hardly a surprise to learn he didn’t do enough to merit redemption. Even now, even from here on the wrong side, the light beyond the door is strangely beautiful. Thin lines like the angels’ lances, violent unearthly light of paradise, cutting through the endless night. Even if he didn’t make it, then, heaven does exist.

Curious how comforting that is. It’s not for him, but it is there, for others. Blessed Mother of God and the words float up into his mind and he can’t remember the next line but even the start of the prayer sounds sweet Blessed Mother of God

Blessed Mother of God

Is this my consolation?

If this is all, I am content

Darkness

The next time he wakes, he sees a regular door, and daylight; and he’s in a small grey room, in a bed, with a pillow beneath his head. Things bleep.

His left side and his hand both hurt. He has no idea why his hand hurts.

It isn’t until a nurse comes in, and he tries to say “What happened?” and cannot speak that he realises he’s been intubated. One of the beeping machines is helping him to keep breathing.

It’s really true, then. He’s alive.

“Ah, good morning,” says the nurse when his desperate eyes meet hers. “Good, good.” He blinks at her. She nods her head though she cannot possibly know what he’s trying to say; checks the machinery, leaves him alone again. He lies looking up, staring at the reality of not being dead.

Later, for the rest of the day, doctors and other nurses come and go, and in between their visits he stares up and sees the plaster panels overhead, the support struts, the light fitting with the plain fabric shade. In his hearing all they will say is courteous, neutral, encouraging things, like relax, you need to rest and it was touch and go for a while there but you’ll pull through and excellent, normal blood pressure.

Someone must have called an ambulance. The man behind the counter, perhaps. How wonderful after all his dark deeds to owe his life to some ordinary act of compassion, a little man at a diner counter making a telephone call.

And someone must be footing the cost of all this. Félix, presumably, the sonofabitch would do a thing like that, after all. No doubt he’ll refuse ever to speak to Gabriel again, but he’ll still pay his hospital bill; out of some sick sense of honour, or to prove his ownership, one last time.

On the second day he has a visitor. Not Félix, not any of the crew, but Doña Cecilia. He can see the shadows of her guards outside, one on either side of the door, but she comes in alone and stands looking down at him. Gives him a faint smile from on high, like the royalty she is.

“So, young Archangel, you’re still with us, then. You have a little breathing space. Time to think things through, eh? - make that decision we talked about.”

She doesn’t stay long, and doesn’t tell him anything about the rest of them. That’s bad, he thinks, with a coldness settling in his chest alongside the pain that seems to live there now. It could mean many things, and none of them are good.

They take the breathing tube out two days later. He wonders what to ask, now that he’ll be able to speak again. Outside this little grey room, he has no idea of the shape of the world anymore. No idea even of who is living and who is dead. All he knows is that he should have been among the latter, and somehow he is not.

The doctor supervising the extubation asks him a couple of pointless questions, inspects his stitches, listens to his chest and abdomen, congratulates him on being alive; leaves. The nurses renew the dressing on his wound, check his catheter and the drip in his arm, give him sips of water from a cup like a baby’s beaker and promise him a first taste of solid food that evening. Soup, they say, as though it were manna. It sounds like manna. Chicken soup with vegetables.

It’s then that he decides to ask one question; the only one he has some hope will be safe. His voice sounds like sawdust. “Please, who called the ambulance?”

“Señor?”

“How did I get here? – the guy in the diner, did he call an ambulance, was it him? I’d like to thank him, when I get out.”

Saying that much has made everything hurt, and the nearer of the two nurses touches his hand gently. “I don’t know, Señor, but I can find out for you. Would you like that? Now you need to rest, you’ve had a tiring day.”

Strange to be petted, so, and spoken to like that; as though he’s a sick five-year-old, not a grown man and a murderer.

He nods, whispers a thank you, accepting her authority and her kindness. Stares up at the ceiling when the two of them leave, and is asleep within minutes.

“I found out the answer, Señor. To your question. I checked the records and apparently it was an anonymous caller. A young woman, calling from a cell-phone.”

Blessed Mother of God, is this my consolation? If this is to be all, I am content. I remembered her, and she did not forget me. Holy Mary, Mother of God, thank you, thank you…

“It’s nice to see a patient smile like that,” one nurse is saying to the other as they leave the room. “He looks happy to be alive for the first time.”

Doña Cecelia comes again the next day, and the rest of his questions are answered; and after that conversation, he lies shaking and unable to sleep, long into the night, in the darkness.

By the time Gabriel stands in front of a mirror for the first time and looks at himself with his bandages and dressings off, Félix and the boys, and the Señora, are all long buried, and he knows that there has been a guard on the door of his room the entire time, not just when Doña Cecelia visits. The same guard who is now outside the hospital bathroom where he’s being prepared for his shower. He’s too weak to do the job for himself safely (and though his spirit bridles at hearing that, he has to admit the doctor is right; he can barely stand unaided after these weeks bedbound and inert). He must bear being manhandled and washed by a stranger; like a small boy, like an orphan. It’s a peculiarly precise embarrassment.

He hangs on to the handles in the tiled wall with shaking arms, looks straight ahead, refuses to acknowledge the humiliation. Thanks the nurse afterwards.

The mirror had steamed up within moments. He’d had enough of the view anyway. Always lean, he’s now painfully thin; cheekbones jutting, muscles wasted and slack. Yet his beard has grown well. He looks like a revolutionary out of a kids’ history book; gaunt and angry, savage-eyed, and superbly moustachioed.

The scar on his abdomen is huge; easily four times the length he’d anticipated when he first felt the wound. Where the knife went in there’s a ragged three centimetre slash but that’s just the start; it extends above and off to the side now, neat surgical incisions. Its whole length sutured up with stitches black as boars’ bristles, delicate as lace.

It itches and aches, and it feels as though every organ inside hurts too, despite the analgesia.

The cannula in his hand itches too, and the skin under the tape holding it down is inflamed. It won’t be taken out for another three to four days. They’re still pumping antibiotics into him through it. The consultant tells him smoothly that he should focus on making a good recovery instead of grumbling about a few square centimetres of rash. Partial splenectomy, traumatic injury to the large and small intestines and the left lobe of the liver, a punctured lung, and massive blood loss; plus a chip out of the anterior end of one rib. He had to ask for explanations of some of the medical terms, but now he knows, he’ll remember.

“You nearly died,” Doña Cecelia tells him firmly. “Next time don’t be so slow. I shouldn’t have to keep telling you these things. It’s time to get out of this life, Gabriel.” She stands over him, looking down her regal nose; although her voice is kind she’s never lowered herself to the level of giving him so much as a pat on the hand. “I’ll pay to keep you alive,” she tells him now “because you were always a good boy to me and I don’t like the idea of your handsome face wasting into dust just yet. But I won’t give you a job, after. You need to understand that. You were Félix’s man and I don’t want that association.”

“Of course, Doña Cecelia. And thank you. I am forever in your debt, beyond anything I can ever hope to repay.”

“Really? Well, since you put it so nicely, you young gallant. So - don’t be an idiot, then. Live, and make a new start. Since that idiot Félix made you his residuary heir and his poor whore of a wife predeceased him, you aren’t without resources.”

“I don’t want to carry on that business.”

“I should hope not! That isn’t what I’m paying good money for. You’d be back in this place, in the morgue, within a week, the way things are at present. Why do you think I have a man stationed outside here right now, eh? The business has as good as collapsed anyway. But the properties he owned, those still have solid value. Think about it; make up your mind what to do, and then do it. Action has a magic of its own. Didn’t some poet say that? So act.”

“I will, Doña Cecelia. I know what I’m going to do.”

She smiles at that. “Tell a lady your plans? I’d like to think of you going out from here soon and finding yourself a life that won’t kill you. What are you off to do, then?”

Gabriel smiles, slowly, letting himself hope for the first time he can remember. “I’m going to Spain.”

#sqc fic #solo quiero caminar #rapidashpatronus #runakvaed #mototwinkclub #yavemiel #oh-nostalgiaa #ruby-red-inky-blue #ohstar #ibohe #diegocassians #moodybluestocking #fix-it

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