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He's driving slow. Slower than usual. After weeks of recovery from the actions of the Auditor and that god forsaken clown, you'd think he would've gotten over it all. I have. I always get over it; so unprofessional that he's still mulling over his team mate's untimely demise. Then again, dying comes with the job. He for one should know that considering the kill count he maintains, yet he seems so down. Why? I don't understand. I've never understood those two anyway. So close and emotional for no good reason other than running the risk of losing one another. I love a good challenge but theirs just seemed fruitless considering one or both of them would die by the end of this all, if there even is an end. It hurts to think about. I've been at this for god knows how long with too many battle scars to count. And yet, here I am. Barely alive in a car with someone who's acting like the death of another grunt is the beginning of Armageddon. Eyes clearly puffy and red behind those cracked circular shades from crying each and every night. It isn't the most tough guy thing to do, crying to yourself for hours on end, but I understand some people are weaker than others. Sanford, though I thought he was strong, seems to have a very obvious weakness. Its starting to get on my nerves now. He's been like this for far too long,
"Stop the car." He looks surprised. I haven't said anything this entire journey so I guess a sudden bark of command would shock someone in a frail state such as his. Hands gripping at the wheel, bare knuckled and white as the sheer force and tension behind his grip slowly turn towards a lay by in the road. No questions, good. No questions means less of a fight against Sanford when I tell him to man up. His dead stare straight ahead laid undisturbed by the slow screeching of breaks against tires; the battered car grinding to a gentle stillness as there wasn't much momentum to remove in the first place. I turn to look at him, arm up on the dashboard and body sunken back into the chair. He sits forwards, back straight and weight towards the wheel. He couldn't look more uncomfortable, and as I open my mouth to express my disappointment in his weak willpower, he breaks every wall he'd built over the weeks.
"I hate myself!" His hands flail away from the wheel as his whole body is thrown back into the drivers seat. Even as someone as hardened to sudden sounds, I jumped at the shift of tone. He seemed so venerable, so I leave my scalding until after he tires himself out with self depreciation. Why bother entertaining this? It'll just make him more down in the dumps. I sit and listen, watching as he throws off his shades to wipe the build-up of tears away from his sore eyes,
"I could've stopped him, Hank. I could've stuck by him but- fucks sake! I didn't!" I'd heard all this before, about how Deimos sacrificed his life for mine, a fair exchange in my opinion. Deimos was unprofessional and childish, but I'd be lying if I said he wasn't useful. He also made time off missions a little less tense, something even I miss from time to time. I nod for Sanford to continue, expecting the exact same spiel I get any time I mention his ex-partner. I was surprised when I heard what he had to say next,
"I wish we'd all died. I wish you'd stayed dead." Was that too far? I don't think even I know if that was unjustified. I'm not one to willingly lay down and die but holy shit there's days I wish I would've given up. That day I was revived was definitely one of them. I think Sanford knew that. I think he knew I wouldn't get mad at him because, well, he's right. I hate to admit it, but he's right. His heart is taking control of his mind and by god it's got it all spot on.
I can practically see the cogs whirring and clicking into the place as Sanford stares forwards, past the wheel and into the broken speedometer of the car. Guilt flood his gut and face as he physically wretches at the afterthought of his word vomit. His brow furrows in concentration before gathering up the strength to continue his short winded speech,
"I'm sorry Hank but I just... I can't take being on my own all the time. You're there physically but... you're never really there." So that's what it's all about? He feels lonely. I never really get lonely any more. I used to but I became accustomed to my own company, creating the fun for myself and taking out any frustrations on my missions. Sanford though... I don't think I've ever seen him alone for so long. Thriving in the company of others, especially Deimos. I never understood why anyone would actively seek out comfort and conversation in others, many grunts in Nevada are entirely insufferable. Yet, Sanford and Deimos were never like that to me. I never searched for their attention but never shied away from it when I was given the chance to run. It felt different being surrounded by allies of some sort... is that what he was missing? I feel an overwhelming urge to apologise flood over me. Taking a leaf from Sanford's book, I oblige to the instinct,
"Yeah I'm... I'm sorry about that." He must not have expected me to offer any form of apology as his eyebrows raise and head snaps to face me, his neck slightly craned upwards to accommodate for my enhanced height. I never noticed before, but he has gold in his eyes. I always avoid eye contact, it's uncomfortable and extremely awkward, but I felt the need to make it just this once. Yes, gold and brown, almost honey coloured. I miss honey. It makes me feel warm inside and... so does this. Do I like this? After being so cold for years and avoiding all warmth, closeness and bonds at any cost, do I really like this? He looks so sad, eyes drooping down at the corners and skin red raw with dried tears, but the warmth still radiates from his caramel eyes. I miss caramel too, it was sweet and comforting... so is this. I do like this.
"I'm not good with words so... uh..." Opening my arms wide and raising my torso out of the fabric of the passenger side chair, I motion for what I hope translates into a hug. It's been a while since I last hugged someone. Any hugs since then were merely accidental in combat, death hugs I call them. This wasn't a death hug of course, but Sanford's confused expression clearly states he was confused to the meaning. I wasn't gonna kill him, that would be counter productive. I use my fingers to motion him in towards me, head lowering down to level my gaze slightly. I know this is submissive behaviour but he needs a hug. Even I can tell he needs this, even if I don't.
He gets the picture, tossing himself into my chest with a 'poomf' of the fabric. He's awkwardly straddling over the handbrake and gear stick to try and get a good grip around my waist. I can't help but let out a slight chuckle, to which he responds in a muffled sob. Again, he's crying, but this time I don't mind that much. Sure he's getting my coat all soaked in tears but in exchange... I'm close to someone. I'm physically close to people in my job, that much is true, but after the frozen numbness I've subjected myself to melts away at his touch I begin to understand why people hug. I wrap one arm around his back, the other gently petting his head; I'm doing what feels natural. One finger coils around a loose sprig of hair that's wrestled its way past the old bandages which seems to relax him substantially. He's still straddling over the two seats, so I use my free arm to pick him up. He fits perfectly on my lap and he's a big man. I'm obviously a lot bigger, though. Accepting his fate, Sanford melts back into my chest, sobbing quietly at every careful stroke of his head. I thought I would've forgotten how to be gentle with someone, but apparently not. I'm good at my job.
"It'll be okay." I've heard people say that before when the rarity of comfort was offered to someone in dire need. It'll be okay. Did it work? Does he feel any better? I can't tell as his fists are balled up in the fabric of my jacket and his face is submerged in blood stained cotton, but from what I can hear, he's calmed down completely with only a stifled sob surpassed his lips. Knowing that I've done this, that I've managed to calm him down for now, it feels great. It feels like hot summer nights and smooth whisky hitting your stomach. That's a good feeling. I've always known that it was going to be okay, I've cheated death enough before, but even telling that to Sanford has given me more hope than ever. I should comfort him more often; he's a great hugger too.
"Thank you, Hank..."
I really like hugs.