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It knocks the breath out him, though he’s not exactly sure if it’s from surprise or pain. His vision stutters violently, tinged red and he reaches for anything to steady his tilting world. His fingertips scrape the dingy Detroit wall, clinging to the space between the rough bricks before slipping away. His knees hit the ground so hard he feels the bruises forming. That however, is the least of his worries.
Home, he thinks. He has to get home. He can feel the warmth that travels down his side. Logically, he knows it’s blood. He could touch it to see but he doesn’t want to acknowledge that just yet. He stumbles through alleyways, doing his best to avoid people. Even though this is Detriot, he can’t walk down the street covered in blood. They’ll find him again. They always do and he can’t lead them to his mother.
He takes alleyways, winding through buildings while his blood slips sluggishly through his fingers. His vest was supposed to protect him. But he moved at the last second. Had he moved any later, he would’ve been shot in the neck. Just thinking about bleeding all over a grimy alley, without his real name and at his father’s hands, makes him sick. He pauses to retch violently in an old trash can before continuing.
He doesn’t remember getting home, just remembers that he hurts. Just remembers that he’s losing so much blood. He knocks on the door, just barely. But his mother always listens carefully and within seconds, he hears the deadbolt slip back.
“William! What happened?” Mary reaches for him and he cringes backward. His alias doesn’t register for a moment. She reaches out again, gripping his arm and he groans loudly. The pain makes his head spin and he feels himself begin to fall again.
Mary drags him inside, pulls him onto the table and he feels her hands ripping his clothes away. She pokes and prods at the wound, flickers in and out of his line of sight. He hears her muttering to herself, hears supplies piling up next to his head. She fits something into his mouth. A wash cloth, he realizes. It sucks the moisture from his mouth.
“Bite down,” Mary says. He does and a moment later, the pain rips his mind into pieces.
-
He wakes gasping for breath, nails gripping the fabric of his shirt. Everything feels heavy, itchy against his skin, the sheets wound tightly around his legs. He kicks them off and calms only slightly, though the sluggishness that comes off dreams still keeps him from fully waking. Someone shifts in the bed beside him. His voice comes out weak with fear. “Mother?”
“Neil.” The voice that answers him makes the blood in his veins run cold. He lashes out, every nerve in his body stinging, screaming for him to run away as far as he can. But someone hits back, though he can tell it’s a pulled punch. His hands are forced his side and he feels something pinning them there. The sudden weight on top of him makes him panic again and he struggles violently against his assailant. “Neil, that’s enough.”
They let him struggle for a few more minutes before a punch all but shatters his jaw. His head snaps to the side, the opposite cheek smacking against the headboard. He blinks, still struggling for breath and slowly, he turns back. Andrew sits, straddling his lap with knees pressed into Neil’s palms. He regards Neil with his same bored and disinterested look. Neil knows him well enough to know that he has questions.
He tugs on his hands a little before giving up. His head falls back against the headboard again and he opts to look down his nose at Andrew. He smiles a little. “I’m fine.”
“Like hell,” Andrew says. But he rolls off him anyway. He settles beside Neil, a comfortable distance away. He’s woken Neil enough times to know that contact right after isn’t really the best idea. They both have woken up each other up enough to learn habits. It’s another reason why Andrew knows that Neil is being entirely truthful.
Neil allows himself to look at Andrew. The man crosses his legs to pick at a fraying him in his pants. They’re actually Neil’s pants, but Andrew had stolen them so long ago and their clothes were so mixed up from the wash, it didn’t really matter anymore. Even though Neil stares, Andrew doesn’t look at him. “Andrew, it was just a dream.”
“Like hell,” Andrew says again. The look he gives Neil could freeze rivers in Hell but all it does is make Neil smile again. Andrew turns a little to face him. “No dream is just a dream. What happened?”
Neil looks away this time. He plays with his hands, watching the moonlight turn the lines of his scars into shadows and silver. Andrew waits patiently for him to speak. The clock on the wall ticks steadily. Slowly, his breath falls in between each beat. His scar itches and he reaches up to rake his nails across it. Andrew catches his hand, winds his fingers into Neil’s and forces it back down again. “Neil…”
“I got shot,” Neil says. He feels Andrew’s hand tighten a bit. His grip always tightens when he hears about Neil getting hurt. It was almost like he couldn’t control it. Neil waited a moment until Andrew’s grip loosened. “Back when I was on the run. I got shot.”
Andrew pulls a little on collar of Neil’s t-shirt. “Yes or no?”
Neil hesitates. He’s never really told this story before. All he’s ever said about his scars was relatively vague, a story without all the details. It was easier to discuss them; he didn’t have to relive the pain if he didn’t give details and whoever asked was satisfied enough to let their imagination think of the rest. He debates the options in his head. Eventually he decides, this is Andrew. “Yes.”
Andrew pulls the collar of the shirt down and runs his fingers over the puckered scar. He makes a very small noise of disapproval before flicking Neil’s shirt back into place. He pulls his hand from Neil’s, examines his nails and gives Neil a very cool look from behind his eyelashes. He says nothing though; his mouth doesn’t even twitch.
“It was in Detroit. My mom actually let me go somewhere by myself. I told her, promised her, that I would be home in fifteen minutes. They cornered me as soon as I hit the curb. I ran and thought I lost them. And then the bullet hit me,” Neil says. He rubs his hand over his scar, feels the ridges across his skin.
Andrew still doesn’t move. His eyes are locked on Neil, the only sign that this story has caught his interest. Unpredictable, he had said once. Sometimes, Neil was unpredictable. Sometimes the stories he told about his life were unpredictable. It’s what keeps you interesting.
“I don’t remember making it home but I do remember it was hard to breathe. I was panicked and losing a lot of blood. It was a .30 carbine bullet, stuck in my shoulder. My mom had to cut out the bullet. But she nicked something digging for the bullet.”
“Nicked something,” Andrew repeats. His eyes narrow, just enough to be noticeable. He takes another look at the scar.
Weakly, Neil laughs. The memory of pain is almost as painful as the event itself. “She said that for hours, she debated taking me to the hospital. She’d pushed the bullet up underneath my collarbone and then broke it to try and get the bullet out. I almost bled out on the table.”
Neil looks out the window. In the reflection, he can see Andrew get up and pull a sweatshirt on. He leaves the room and Neil can hear him making coffee. He sneaks a look at the alarm clock, frowning at how early it is. A few minutes later, Andrew returns with steaming mugs of coffee. He gets settled back underneath the blankets and mirrors Neil’s frown from behind his glasses.
“So you almost bled to death?”
“Well, yes almost. They managed to get me back,” Neil says eventually. He takes a slow sip of his coffee. It burns all the way to the center of his chest, where it settles uncomfortably.
Andrew sets his cup down on the nightstand, fixing Neil with another one of his stern looks. “You died?”
“It was just for a minute, Andrew. Gosh, you didn’t even know me then. Don’t get upset. I’m-” Neil falls quiet, watching as Andrew struggles to control himself. For a moment, Neil isn’t even sure that Andrew is breathing.
“Bullshit,” Andrew says. But he leaves it at that, settling instead for taking Neil’s hand again. His grip is as tight as ever. The room is incredibly still and quiet as Andrew leans forward to press his forehead against Neil’s. His other hand wraps around the back of Neil’s neck.
His eyes are dark shades of gold. He is trembling, though just barely. Neil knows it’s because he’s angry. The very thought of Neil going through these kinds of ordeals always sends Andrew into a bit of a spin. He lets him hold on, lets him get his breath under control. Finally, Andrew lets out a slow breath through his teeth. He blinks once and sighs again before letting himself lean heavily against Neil.
“Andrew,” Neil says. He sets his cup on the windowsill, presses his hands to Andrew’s face. It feels wrong to speak so loud when they are so incredibly close. His voice is just barely a whisper. “Andrew, I am fine. I promise.”
Andrew shakes his head. “You are never getting shot again.”
“I’m not planning to,” Neil says. He laughs a little.
“If anyone tries that, they’ll get a knife to their throat,” Andrew snaps. His voice is rough but controlled. Gradually, he pulls back, dragging Neil back underneath the covers.
They lay there well past noon, Andrew’s hands under Neil’s shirt, tracing over scars like he can erase the stories behind them. Neil lets him, flinching only a little as they run over the puckered scar. Touch still lingering, Andrew leans in and presses a faint kiss to Neil’s forehead.
“You’re safe now,” he whispers. And Neil believes him.