Chapter Text
Christian knows he’s burning the votive candle at both ends. He’s strapped for cash, the cops are riding his ass, and he’s barely been lucid amidst the stress and coke. And yet, as long as there’s another way to fuck up, he finds it.
It’s a miracle—no, he knows there’s no such thing as miracles—but it’s crazy luck, maybe, that he didn’t get caught at the bar last night. He thought he had the time to relax for an evening, but then the fucking *chief(ish) of police* waltzed in, brooding melodramatic atmosphere in tow. And things looked bad. They *got* bad. Then, surprisingly, they got better, which makes everything else a hell of a lot worse.
He doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Ah, hello, Christian,” Bart greets him once he returns to their shared motel room. Christian replies by shoving the artist out of his way, trudging towards the bathroom without a word. Bart falls to the ground but picks himself up quickly, readjusting his stupid beret.
“Yes, I figured that would be your response,” he says, and follows Christian, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. God, can’t he take a hint when Christian wants to be left alone? “You look more disheveled than usual.”
“What’s wrong with the way I look?” Christian stares Bart down, watching him shrink against the door. This almost makes Christian smile; after all, Bart’s a hostage. He should be scared. He doesn’t mean anything. Right?
Christian thinks back to what he said at the bar. He called Bart his “Smith”, and the thought makes the crook’s fists clench. *Disgusting*.Chief obviously cares about his partner, and Christian would never say the same about Bart. It was just a slip of the tongue, a mistake he made because he was too caught up with . . . other things. Which, again, he doesn’t want to talk about.
Meanwhile, Bart’s blabbering on, trying to backpedal. “Nothing’s wrong, you look great. You just seem a little out of sorts right now. You were gone all evening, after all. I guess that ‘errand’ you had to attend to ran long?”
“None of your business,” he grumbles, then slams the door. Then he turns around, ready to take his first shower in a week.
Christian isn’t a dirty person on purpose. A while back, it just became easier to not bother. If he doesn’t take care of himself then he doesn’t need to think about himself, and with the lifestyle he leads, he finds paying attention only makes it hurt more.
Every now and then, however, he feels the need to get clean. He lets his clothing drop off of him like shedding a skin, all the coke-powdered, alcohol-soaked, blood-sticky fabric dropping to a nasty nest around his feet. He doesn’t want to look in the mirror but he catches himself too late; his eyes stare back and they’re every cliche about tiredness he’s ever heard. “Hauling bags like they’re ready to skip down,” as he’s recently been told. He hated it when he heard it but it’s true.
Into the mildewy shower, turning the water onto the hottest setting as he scrubs scum. It all looks brown when the water swirls it away, like it’s only dirt. He can never believe how easy t is to get clean again.
Once he’s done, he yells at Bart to hand him pants and a shirt. Overtop it goes his priest outfit, his sister skin. He forces himself to care enough to brush his teeth, then he’s done.
“Wow!” Bart actually gasps when Christian emerges, and Christian really should be allowed into heaven for the restraint he practices, not throttling Bart then and there. “You look great, Christian! Really spiffy.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Christian tries to play it off. But his heart is beating heavily, fluttering like a moth in clasped hands. He doesn’t think he’s felt anything this real since—since before all this.
He doesn’t want to think about it. But before he came back to the motel, he got another burner phone. On it, a single contact is saved.
He keeps the phone on him, tucked into his outfit so it sits against his chest. He feels its weight, so light and ostensibly meaningless, as he and Bart leave the motel.
Calling the number could kill him But there’s nothing else he’s wanted to do so badly in his life.