later that night (or, well: the next morning. but it’s not as if his cell has windows), once the police had broken up the crowd and tidied away most of the blood and dead creatures, she visits him.
he’s sprawled on the bench in his cell, his knees wide and his cuffed wrists loosely curled between them. he’s resting, possibly asleep, the back of his ballcap leaning against the wall. the cuts on his face reopened at some point in transit to the station, leaving a few uneven smears of damp red to curl across his cheek.
sam wants to get moses out of there, steal him away and stitch him up, dab away the tacky blood and swaddle him in neosporin and gauze.
instead, she nods a hello to pest in the next cell over, and he leans forward to wrap his hands around the bars and call out to her.
“hey, sam,” pest says, half a frightened grin plastered on his face. “you here to doctor him up this time? or are you just visiting the block’s criminal element,” and he gestures between himself and moses, makes his hand into a gun and points it at her.
sam doesn’t have it in her to laugh. she doesn’t even smile, or really react at all, just stares blankly until pest’s expression falters. she’s still wearing that terrible too-large sweatshirt. for a dizzy second she can’t find where she put her knife. then she remembers what she did with it.
“shut up, pest,” comes from the next cell, and sam startles, full-body. moses hasn’t moved but his eyes are open now.
pest rolls his eyes and curls up on his own cell’s bench, facing the wall with his jacket over his head.
sam smiles at moses, and he smiles back.
“it’s not fair, you know” she says. she’s trying to say the right thing. sam is entranced by the curves of his eyelashes, mouth, wounds.
he closes his eyes and it’s a dismissal. her gut feels hollow, not the light emptiness of the moment before a first kiss but the scooped out sluggish slash of teeth to the gut and intestines spilling out onto the grubby station floor. sam doesn’t know how to fix this kind of thing. she’s just graduated.
he’s sprawled on the bench in his cell, his knees wide and his cuffed wrists loosely curled between them. he’s resting, possibly asleep, the back of his ballcap leaning against the wall. the cuts on his face reopened at some point in transit to the station, leaving a few uneven smears of damp red to curl across his cheek.
sam wants to get moses out of there, steal him away and stitch him up, dab away the tacky blood and swaddle him in neosporin and gauze.
instead, she nods a hello to pest in the next cell over, and he leans forward to wrap his hands around the bars and call out to her.
“hey, sam,” pest says, half a frightened grin plastered on his face. “you here to doctor him up this time? or are you just visiting the block’s criminal element,” and he gestures between himself and moses, makes his hand into a gun and points it at her.
sam doesn’t have it in her to laugh. she doesn’t even smile, or really react at all, just stares blankly until pest’s expression falters. she’s still wearing that terrible too-large sweatshirt. for a dizzy second she can’t find where she put her knife. then she remembers what she did with it.
“shut up, pest,” comes from the next cell, and sam startles, full-body. moses hasn’t moved but his eyes are open now.
pest rolls his eyes and curls up on his own cell’s bench, facing the wall with his jacket over his head.
sam smiles at moses, and he smiles back.
“it’s not fair, you know” she says. she’s trying to say the right thing. sam is entranced by the curves of his eyelashes, mouth, wounds.
he closes his eyes and it’s a dismissal. her gut feels hollow, not the light emptiness of the moment before a first kiss but the scooped out sluggish slash of teeth to the gut and intestines spilling out onto the grubby station floor. sam doesn’t know how to fix this kind of thing. she’s just graduated.
“yeah,” he says. “i know.”
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