(Untitled)

[m_pinocchio]

The next few days, he waits and he tries to pretend that he isn't waiting. He lies awake at night, staring up at the patterns of the shadows on the ceiling and listening to the footsteps in the hall outside his door, but he doesn't push the call button and ask for more painkillers, for anything to take the edge off and knock him out

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[little_moons]

The next few days are a whirlwind. Getting in touch with John, getting the footlocker from him, taking it over to that empty apartment in Trenton and standing there looking at it sitting alone in the middle of the bedroom floor. He'll need furniture. Shit, all these things that people take care of, not just when they're sick and shit, but just parts of living that I've never dealt with in my life. Going to work, begging my boss not to fuckin' fire me, pleading for time off, trying to explain without telling too much. Promising that it'll only be like this for a few weeks, then I'll spend every goddamn night behind that bar if he'll just cut me a fuckin' break. I'm good at this job, please.

I'm not used to that, either. I've never given a shit about a steady income, a real job, a real life, but I think maybe I need to start giving a shit about it now

[m_pinocchio]

Really, it's perfect timing. He's barely even surprised. He doesn't move, doesn't turn; only tilts his head up further, the tight scar tissue all down his neck stretching--not unpleasantly.

He's not panicking. Not most of him, anyway. The part of him that is is contained for the moment.

"Hey, yourself." He leans a little forward, hands braced more firmly on the sill, rolling the weight slightly on the prosthetic. "'Bout time."

[little_moons]

"Train ride was hell," I complain, but I'm still grinning, dumping my bag on the chair and stepping around the end of the bed to stand next to him by the window.

"Looks like you were doin' pretty okay without me."

[m_pinocchio]

He shrugs without turning. He guesses 'okay' is pretty relative these days. "Surviving," he murmurs, because that's as accurate as anything else. "They say they think maybe they can let me go a little early after all."

And how much Neil being here has to do with that, he really doesn't know.

[little_moons]

I go for a smoke, standing huddled under an awning in the guest parking lot, eyes on the fuckin' pavement. I smoke two cigarettes one after the other, sucking as hard as I can, then I start walking. Walking without thinking. Just... away. It's barely six in the afternoon, and I find a bar and slip inside. It's dark inside, a shitty little hovel of a place, which is more than fine by me.

I wanted to get drunk over this a fuckin' week ago, but I managed to hold off, hanging on to some ideal of how I was supposed to be supportive. How I was supposed to keep it together, for him.

I knock back cheap bourbon just to get drunk, chain smoking at the bar, hunched and scowling and practically screaming, STAY THE FUCK AWAY. I drink until I don't feel guilty for running out of there like a fuckin' coward. 'Til I don't feel guilty for not coming back right away, like I said I would. 'Til I don't feel guilty for wishing he'd just... get the fuck over it enough to let me back in. For being so fucking angry at him for leaving me in the dark for

[m_pinocchio]

He doesn't sleep.

That in itself isn't really new. But there's very little pain, and that is new, and he doesn't ask for drugs, doesn't try to dull it, doesn't try to distract himself. He sits in bed, in the dark, dinner untouched on the swiveling table next to him, staring out the window

[little_moons]

When I make my way down the hall, the nurses look like they're not quite so happy to see me... Or maybe that's just the guilt talking. Everywhere I go, I feel these accusing eyes turned my way, judgment from strangers on the fuckin' street, even though maybe I've got no reason to feel that way.

Bullshit.

Pausing outside his door, I drag in a shuddering breath, count to three and step inside.

[m_pinocchio]

Most of him isn't even surprised to see Neil coming through the door, but all the same, he feels a rush that almost makes him dizzy, a huge release of tension, adrenaline, relief, something like a full-body shudder. Like he's been dragged away from the edge of a cliff where he'd been about to tumble over.

The biggest mistake he's made since the mine, he thinks, is in assuming that things can't actually get any worse.

He meets Neil's gaze. Doesn't speak. Without thinking about it, he lifts a hand and reaches out for him, somewhere between beckoning and pleading.