Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It takes a grand total of three weeks before he sees Nick again, and not under better circumstances than they’d met. If anything, it’s under worse ones. Not like Jack would consider himself unaccustomed to bad situations——he’s in them more often than not——but that doesn’t make any of it more pleasant.

They’ve kept in contact since that night, exchanged names and phone numbers and all those things that Jack assumes normal people exchange when they’d like to see more of each other. They don’t meet up——that’s too dangerous with the size of the targets on their backs——but they check in. Jack thinks that’s the typical thing to do: are you still alives and was that you who blew up the car on 15th streets and typing, erasing, and retyping the suggestion of getting breakfast at some point.

That’s the normal thing to do. Checking in, that is.

(He never does send that text about breakfast.)

And that’s why it strikes Jack as so terribly abnormal when Nick doesn’t respond, because Nick always responds. One day goes by, then two, and Jack’s between thinking Nick disappeared on him, or that he’s been tagged. Taken out. The thought fills him with an odd amount of dread, keeps him up and pacing around his place, keeps him looking over his shoulder like he’ll be next. Knowing how these kinds of things go down, he probably will be.

It’s three o’clock in the morning, almost on the dot, when his phone rings. Some unknown number. Maybe spam, and in the past Jack would have thought it to be some kind of job, but he’d dropped his guy——him and Nick both had. No guy, no jobs.

Jack puts the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” Nick says. His voice sounds wet. That’s enough to make Jack stop his pacing entirely.

“Nick?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, and coughs. “I caught some strays, couple days ago. Think you can take care of them for me?”

“Bullets?” Jack asks. “Can’t June——“

“Stray people.”

“Ones we didn’t——“

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.” He’s moving again, only this time toward his shoes, and toward where he keeps his guns. “You want me to take care of them?”

“I’d do it myself,” Nick says, “But they’ve got me under lock and key. Grabbed me right out of my apartment.”

“Where are you?”

“Some basement,” is the slurred answer. “Don’t know where, but I’ll stay on the line. Track the call.”

“Got it,” Jack says. He’s got the phone clamped between his shoulder and his ear as he shoves his shoes on. “I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t do anything. Everything’s going to be——.”

“Don’t give me the speech,” Nick replies.

“Habit,” Jack says with a shrug.

“Don’t know if I’ll be awake when you get here,” Nick says. “They gave me something. Magic——“ He coughs. “Magic drugs,” he finishes.

“Try to hang on,” Jack tells him. “I don’t want to carry you.”

“Check my pulse when you get here.”

“Just stay awake.” Jack says, and grabs his gun off the table next to his front door. “Talk to me,” he tells Nick as he walks out of the apartment, then down the stairs to where he’s keeping his car. It’s some beat-up old SUV, nothing like his old car, and he hates it, but he’d needed something. At any rate, the trunk can fit a lot more bodies than he’s used to.

Then he’s in the car, and it’s a minute later, then longer, and he’s nervous again, because Nick hasn’t said a word.

“Nick?”

Maybe he really has passed out. Maybe worse.

Jack finds the gas pedal, and steps on it.

***

It’s some house in a neighborhood that Jack’s never been to before, on the rougher side of town. The houses are a more than a little rundown, and the whole place has a distinct air of danger to it.

There are people hiding in the shadows, Dimitri’s people, more likely than not, Jack can feel it. After a certain amount of time, a person learns to pick up on this kind of thing, and forty years is more than enough time. They’ve set a trap, and he’s walked right into it. Even a couple blocks away from the house, he can tell. Then again, they probably know he knows, so there's no point in them being subtle.

He parks the car right in front of the house, holds his breath, and then lets it out when a few seconds without gunfire pass. They’re probably waiting inside, though why they’d bother waiting, he doesn’t know. He figures he doesn’t need to know though, as long as he’s able to use this to dispatch the people waiting for him in that house.

He breaks the windows, downs three men before one even gets it in his head to shoot back. When he does, his aim is shit enough to miss Jack by a mile, and Jack’s quick enough on the reaction to hit him between the eyes.

Four down, Jack has no idea how many more to go. Nick is just one man, and from the sound of it he hadn’t been in much of a position to do anything, much less escape. They can only have so many——

A bullet scores the trunk of a tree directly next to Jack’s head, and he flinches, then ducks behind the tree as another bullet whizzes past his head. It’s coming from behind him, from the roof of the house across the street. Jack squints into the dark for the shooter, then winces as he hears another gunshot, then the shattering of one of his car windows.

Fucker. He doesn't particularly like the car, but it's all that he's got right now, and breaking the window is just inconsiderate.

He peers around the tree again, and squeezes off a couple shots in the direction of the dark blob that he assumes is shooting at him.

After the second one, he hears a cry of pain, and then nothing but crickets. Then he’s walking forward again, shooting the lock on the front door before he’s got time to think better of it. The door pops open, then slams back when he kicks it open. He drops the mostly empty magazine out of his gun, replaces it with a full one. He’d still had a couple bullets left, but it’s better safe than sorry.

Not that he’s ever safe, and he’s sorry more often than not these days.

“Hello?” He calls. No use in trying to keep quiet when they already know he’s here, and have heard his gunshots. “Hey!”

He spots a set of stairs, leading down, toward the back of the house. The lights inside are dim and yellow, just light enough to see by. It reveals a plain living room——plain except for the bodies——and an empty, rundown dining area and kitchen.

Almost nothing here, and no one Jack can see. No one he can hear either——not until he gets closer to the stairs.

Something creaks, and it’s not a result of his own steps.

There’s someone behind the wall, on the steps. Someone with, as evidenced by the metallic click that had followed the creak, a loaded gun.

“Someone there?” He asks.

He must move up, maybe down, a step, because there’s another noise, and this time Jack’s got him pinpointed well enough to feel good about squeezing the trigger.

There’s a bang, followed by a wordless collapse, and the repeated thuds of a body slowly sliding down the stairs. That has to be it, he thinks. Especially at an hour like this. It wouldn’t make sense to post more men, not at a place as out of the way as this.

That’s what tells himself as he creeps around to the top of the staircase. He flips the light switch with the tip of his gun, and sucks in a harsh breath when he sees the crumple of a dead man at the base of the stairs.

Well, that’s just messy. It’s going to be terrible to clean up, and——

He doesn’t have to clean this up, does he? No point in covering his tracks if Dimitri already knows he was here, no use in cleaning up bloodstains when Dimitri will find someone else who can do it. No one involved is gonna want this getting out, and anything that can be traced back to him is probably set in stone already. All that matters right now is finding Nick, getting him——getting both of them——out of here.

After he steps over the body, it’s a straight shot into the basement, which is almost as empty as the rest of the house. There’s a card table with a small pile of white powder on it, a folding chair, and a lump up against the left wall that’s got to be——

That’s Nick. He’s got his back pressed to the wall, he’s pale, his black button-up is in shreds, and he’s got his knees pulled to his chest. His head is tipped up, turned toward the ceiling, and his eyes are open, glazed and unseeing. Blood paints his cheeks, hands, and the bits of exposed chest that Jack can see.

Nick looks dead, but Jack’s been wrong about these kinds of things before.

He kneels down, and sets a hand on Nick’s shoulder. Ice cold, no reaction.

Jack shakes Nick roughly, watches his head bobble from side to side, arms clutched up to his chest like he’s ready to be buried. He’s cold. Sweaty. The whole basement smells like stale sweat. It’s just short of sickening.

Jack shakes him again. Harder this time.

Finally, Nick’s eyes focus, and respond ever so slightly to the light of the basement.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he finally mumbles. His teeth are pink when he smiles.

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on you,” Jack responds. “Everyone else here is dead,” he continues, and grabs Nick’s right arm to haul him upright.

When he does, he can feel an awful scraping sensation under Nick’s skin. Nick doesn’t react in the slightest, but when Jack feels more closely, he can tell it’s a broken bone.

“Your arm’s broken,” he says. He can hear something, maybe bordering on concern, creep into his voice, and he hates it.

Nick squints at him, pupils blown out wide. “What?”

“Your arm,” Jack repeats. He feels along Nick’s forearm again, just to make sure, and winces internally where he can feel the unevenness of the bone there. Well, bones now, he guesses. “Right here,” he says, and brushes his thumb over the spot, over the bruise-purpled skin.

“Where?”

“Just——“ Jack sighs. “Can you stand?”

“I can’t feel my face,” Nick mumbles.

“You’re sure talking like it.”

“Fuck you.”

That’s better.

“Can you stand?” Jack repeats. He shifts his grip to under Nick’s arms, in case he has to haul him up.

“You gonna keep asking the same question over and over?” Nick asks, and laughs——it’s more like a giggle. Jesus Christ, he’s high out of his mind.

“Are you going to answer?”

“Dunno,” Nick says. “Haven’t tried standing yet.”

“What’d they give you?”

“Dunno.” He repeats, and shrugs. “Never tried it before. Can’t feel shit,” he continues. “It’s great.”

“I’m pulling you up,” Jack says. He tries to look Nick in the eyes as he speaks, but Nick seems far more focused on——Jack’s not really sure what. His eyes aren’t entirely focused anymore. “On three.”

“Three,” Nick repeats back to him, and nods. He makes an uncoordinated grab for Jack’s jacket, maybe for leverage.

“Careful,” Jack says. “Your arm.”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Nick says, and then counts them off.

On three, Jack pulls both of them up, and does what feels like about 80% of the lifting himself. Nick might as well be dead weight, and they’re both lucky that he’s not. He wobbles on his feet, grabs Jack’s jacket, and all but face plants right into Jack’s chest. Better forward than back, though.

“You’re warm,” Nick mumbles. He grabs Jack’s wrist, and shoves Jack’s hand against his chest. “Feel.”

“What?”

“You didn’t check my pulse earlier,” Nick says emphatically. “Got rattled.”

“I did not,” Jack replies. It’s only half the truth, and feeling Nick’s heart go a couple seconds without beating is enough to rattle him even further.

“Yes, you did,” Nick insists.

“Shut up.” Jack removes his hand from Nick’s chest. He’s so cold, clammy and shaking. “We need to get out of here.”

“Uh-huh,” Nick says. “Less’go.” He steps forward——tries to, anyway——and almost immediately trips. His knees buckle in, and Jack finds himself grabbing Nick’s broken arm yet again.

“That doesn’t hurt?”

Nick shakes his head, and Jack doesn’t even bother responding before he starts all but dragging Nick toward the stairs. He can’t seem to get his feet under him, but Jack doesn’t want to pause and wait for Nick to balance. He’ll carry Nick if he has to——doesn’t seem like it would be that difficult anyway, he’s light. Lighter than Jack would’ve expected. That makes it easy to drag him up the stairs though, over the body and through the living room.

Nick’s quiet the whole time, save for his slow, wheezy breathing. He keeps his head dipped, and Jack keeps an arm around Nick so he doesn’t fall over. His shirt is tacky, dried hard with blood.

He needs help. Medical attention. June——anyone.

“Don’t bleed on the seats,” Jack tells Nick as he bundles him into the passenger’s seat. He's just lucky that neither of them are sitting on shattered glass, his broken window is in the back seat. He slams the passenger's door and takes three seconds to put himself in the driver’s seat, another second to put the key in the ignition and turn the engine over.

“Can I have a gun?” Nick asks. He’s leaning against the door, knees pulled up, a kind of sleepy expression on his face. “In case they come after us.”

“You’re high out of your mind,” Jack snaps as he throws the car into gear. “I’m not giving you a gun.”

“I’m not out of my mind.”

“You called me to come rescue you,” Jack says. “And you think you can handle a gun?”

“Rescue is a strong word——“

“You can’t walk.” Jack knows that he’s got a short string on a good day, and he’s already nearly at the end of it. “I’m taking you to June.”

“Can we trust her?” Nick asks. He’s got his eyes shut now, got his forehead pressed up against the car window. “Everybody knows everybody in this line of work.” He crosses his arms like he’s cold. “Tangentially,” he mumbles.

“I trust her.”

“Why?”

“She’s the best.”

“I trusted her before we quit,” Nick says, and hits his forehead gently against the glass. “We don’t know who she works for.”

Jack sighs. “She’s independent——“

“Everyone works for someone. Or with someone. It’s not exclusive, we can’t trust her.” He sounds shaky, about as paranoid as Jack’s heard anyone sound——and he’s been listening to himself for his entire life.

“She let you stay in her basement for two weeks.”

Nick shakes his head, and Jack watches as half-congealed blood spreads across his window. “Don’t take me to June’s.”

“You really don’t trust her?”

Nothing.

“Nick?”

“Don’t want to put her in danger. People are looking for her, and I don’t want to...” He breathes out, heavy and shaky, the kind of shaky that you only hear when someone’s hurting really bad. “Just take me back to your place——“

“No.”

“Why?” Nick looks at him, confused. “Don’t give me all that bullshit——“

“If they know where you are, they probably know where I am.”

Nick goes quiet then.

“We’re fucked,” he says, after about five seconds.

“We’re going to June’s.” He glances over at Nick. “She’s a professional, we can’t put her in that much danger.”

“Just hurry,” Nick tells him, in an exasperated well I can’t stop you tone of voice.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Jack asks.

That’s when Nick throws up. Vomits against the side of the car, and all over himself, straight down into his lap. It’s starkly red the harsh light from the street lamps.

“Is that blood?” Jack asks.

“Take a wild fucking guess,” Nick says sharply

“You have internal——

“I have a lot of bleeding,” Nick snarks, and then looks like he’s about to be sick again. “What do you expect——they sliced me up like fucking deli meat.”

“How bad?” Jack asks, tightens his grip on the steering wheel, slows as they come to a red light.

“Pretty bad. I tore something back open on the way to the car. Stomach.” Nick tips his head back, shuts his eyes again. There’s a trail of vomit-drool running from his mouth to his cheek. His head bobbles forward for a second, but then he rights it. “'N things are starting to hurt again.”

Hesitantly, Jack reaches over, then taps at Nick’s abdomen. It’s wet and warm there, blood-sticky in a way that doesn’t show on what’s left of his shirt.

“You’re not making it to June’s unless we fix that.”

“Fuck,” is Nick’s weak reply. “Do you have gauze——“

“Nothing in here,” Jack says, and floors it when the light turns green.

Nick opens his eyes specifically to scrutinize Jack. “How long have you been doing this?”

“It’s a new car. I haven’t had time——“

“It’s been three weeks, it’s the first fucking thing you do.”

“I’ve had it for three days,” he says back, curtly. “We can find a pharmacy——“

“Security cameras. Don’t want to be tracked.” Nick grits his teeth, clenches his jaw, and puts pressure on his abdomen, where Jack assumes the blood is coming from. He doesn’t say anything, just shuts his eyes and wheezes as he breathes, and that’s enough to have Jack putting the gas pedal against the floor.

***

Getting Nick out of the car is a bitch and a half. He can barely hold his head up, is slippery from all the blood he’s lost, and shaking like a leaf.

And yet, they manage.

“I’m fine,” Nick insists, like he’s been insisting for the last couple minutes. His voice is weak, which doesn’t help the excuse fly, and neither does the puddle of blood that’s run down under his feet. His socks——they must have taken his shoes——make squishing sounds when he limps, and leave behind prints of blood in the snow. Jack puts pressure on Nick’s injury, hauls him forward a little more quickly.

Nick’s feet catch on the steps, and he winces as Jack pulls him along.

“Did that hurt?”

Jack thinks Nick nods, it’s hard to tell. For all he knows, it’s Nick struggling to hold his head up, which is nothing short of concerning. “A little.”

Jack stops them both in front of the door, then Nick goes pale again——paler——and makes a choking sound, spits up red all over Jack’s sweater, all over his shoes.

“You’ve got blood on your sweater,” Nick says, then knocks his head against Jack’s chest. It makes a wet sound.

“Your blood, asshole,” Jack snaps back. “You’re paying for my dry cleaning.” Then he presses the door buzzer once, then again, and again, and again——

“Hello?”

“June, it’s me,” Jack says. “I’m with Nick, he’s hurt bad.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, like she’s not quite sure what she’s heard, then “I’ll be right down.”

“She’s coming,” Jack tells Nick.

“Great,” Nick slurs, head still pressed against Jack’s chest. Jack keeps a tight grip on him, holds him up, and waits for June.

It seems to take an eternity for June to arrive. In reality, it takes about two minutes, but Jack feels every second of it three times over, and he’s sure it must be even worse for Nick, who is gagging, like he’s trying not to vomit for a third time, when she finally opens the door.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Get inside.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. Nick winces when they cross into the doorway, like the movement hurts him, but keeps his feet moving, keeps his head held up right until Jack lifts and all but drops him onto the table in June’s work room. Nick’s head bangs against the metal, and he winces.

“You could be a little more gentle,” he snaps, and Jack wants to say something biting in return, but the words don’t come. For the first time in a long time, there’s nothing waiting to be said, just a knot of worry in his chest.

He’s stalled out, frozen up and acting like it’s his first time seeing something like this, when June pulls out a pair of scissors, and starts cutting Nick’s shirt off of him. It’s already so shredded that there’s not much to cut, and every removed piece reveals more blood, more bruises.

Nick’s shirt finally comes the rest of the way off, and the extent of the damage, shown in the stark light of June’s workroom, just about turns Jack’s stomach. There’s bruising everywhere, gashes and cuts, all horrible to look at. They pull with the uneven rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Other than that, Nick is eerily still.

Please keep breathing, he thinks.

“He’s going to be okay?”

“I can hear you,” Nick says. “I’m fine. Stop worrying.”

“I’m not worrying——“

“Stop, both of you,” June snaps. “He’s going to be fine.” She looks back to Nick and pulls a face. “Have you been eating?”

“Yes,” Nick snaps. “I’ve been fucking eating.”

Jack can’t help it, he laughs. “What is she, your mother?”

It must be difficult to try to sit up and throw a punch when you’ve lost more than a safe amount of blood, and have a pretty bad puncture wound in your stomach, but Nick makes an effort.

June slams him back down against the table in half a second.

“Stay down, you fucking lunatic.”

“I feel fine.”

“You’re delirious.” She pulls out a flashlight, checks his pupils, and frowns. That doesn’t seem promising.

“I’m not——“

“Shut up,” Jack tells him.

“Don’t tell me to shut up, I’m fucking bleeding out because of you——“

“Both of you!” June says. “Stop.” She turns her head, her eyes snap to Jack. “Get out.”

“But——“

“Get out!”

“Fine,” Jack says, turns on his heel, and starts out of the room.

“Oh,” June says, right before Jack’s out of the room. “That’s not good.”

“What’s not good?” He hears Nick ask. There’s a waver to his voice that Jack doesn’t like.

“This is infected.”

“How bad——oh,” Nick says. The last part comes out as something of a squeak. “Ow——fuck——ow.”

Jack turns around in time to see Nick, pants down around his ankles, with a yellow-oozing gash on the inside of his left thigh.

“You’re going to need stitches,” June says. “Antibiotics, and rest, but you’ll be okay.”

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Nick says, after a couple seconds of silence, and then turns his head to the side, looks at Jack.

“What do you mean?” June asks. She grabs his broken arm, finds the break. “I’m going to set this,” she tells Nick. “It’s going to hurt.”

“They were asking,” Nick mumbles, ignoring her second comment. “About you, about Jack, and the kid, and I didn’t——didn’t say a thing.”

“Try to relax,” she tells him, and then moves to set the bone.

Nick’s jaw tightens, his eyes squeeze shut, and he makes this horrible, choking, pained noise. The little color in his cheeks drains, and then his jaw goes slack. Out cold.

June turns Nick’s head so he’s looking up, brushes his sweaty and matted hair from his forehead, and he can hear her sigh.

“I told you to leave,” she says.

“I was leaving.”

“Finish leaving,” she tells him firmly. “Go home, wait upstairs——I don’t care. Just cool off.”

“I’m not——“

“You’re upset,” June interrupts. “I don’t think watching is going to help.”

She’s right, and as much as——some part of Jack——doesn’t want to go, he knows it’s the right idea. Even if it’s hard to walk out of that room, sit himself in June’s living room, and stare at the wall, it’s the smart thing to do. She needs to work, and Jack needs to not stare at Nick’s bloody, pale body.

First, he heads outside. The cold air is good for him, helps snap him at least halfway out of the shock he’s in, and kicking clean snow over Nick’s bloody footprints until his hands start to go numb from the cold is a welcome distraction.

He heads back inside after that, glances into June’s workroom on his way to her living room, and quickly looks away again when he realizes Nick looks too much like a corpse for him to be comfortable with. What’s even worse is realizing that he cares too much for him to be comfortable with.

Once he’s upstairs, he paces, but then his knee starts acting up, and there’s only so much of that he can take before he has to sit down. He doesn’t want June to have to take a look at him too.

He sits on the couch, flips distractedly through every single one of June’s coffee-table books without reading a word, and stares into space running over every possible outcome of this scenario in his head. It doesn’t work if Nick dies——what’s the point of bringing him here if he bleeds out and dies anyway? The only way it works is if Nick pulls through, and if he’s okay. Otherwise, what’s the point——

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he looks down to see a text from June; he can come back. And Nick looks like he’s been hit by a bus, but he’s okay.

According to his phone clock, it’s nearly six in the morning.

Jack’s lost almost two hours staring at the wall. He’s not used to losing time, it unnerves him a bit, but he’d rather lose it somewhere safe, like here, than out on a job.

He doesn’t feel the time at all though, all the hours he’s been awake have been waved away by the adrenaline still in his system.

He slips his phone back in his pocket, stands, and makes his way to the stairs. Part of him is uneasy, worried to see how Nick looks. He can’t possibly look worse, but he can look breakable under all those bandages that June has no doubt covered him in, and that’s what Jack doesn’t like the idea of seeing.

She meets him at the doorway, standing between him and Nick, who Jack can see in the blurry distance.

“He’s asleep,” June says.

Jack nods.

“And he’s going to be alright,” she continues. “You can go home if you want.”

“I’ll stay until he wakes up.”

“It’s nice to see you two getting along. You need more friends.”

“We’re not friends.”

“I’ve never heard of you saving someone for free.”

That’s true. He’s taken a couple charity cases——back when he was still freelance, what must be 20 years ago now——did things for cheap, but never for free. Not on purpose, anyway. Everyone ends up shorted a few times, but the people who shorted him ended up dead, so it all evened out in the end.

“It makes sense,” Jack says. “We have a lot of the same enemies, and if they’re not after him they’re after me.” He crosses his arms. “It’s self-preservation, I need someone to take the heat off myself.”

“It’s sweet,” June says. “And convenient, because he’s going to need someone to stay with, and I can’t take him this time.”

“What?”

June looks at him like she thinks he’s stupid. She does that a lot, he thinks it might be her default expression. Not without good reason.

“He’s been seriously injured,” June says. “Someone needs to look after him for a bit. Make sure he’s not going to rip his stitches, make sure he’s eating——“

“And that’s me?” He shakes his head. “No. Can’t you take him?”

“I could.”

“Why won’t you?”

“I’m a very busy woman,” she says. “And he’s not going to want to put me in danger.”

He tips his head. “But putting me in danger is fine?”

“You’ve already got a target on your back,” she says softly, then steps forward and pats him on the shoulder. “Just so you know, he snores.”

Then she’s past him, out of the basement, up and off to do… whatever it is she does. Take some headache medicine, maybe. He knows she needs it after dealing with them.

With a frown, he looks back down at Nick, still unconscious. His stomach is a swathe of white bandages, and his arms, his legs——there’s some kind of damage nearly everywhere. There’s stitches in his face, and a big, clunky cast on his broken arm.

Nick looks surprisingly small like this, not like the cocky asshole he really is. He looks… sick.

Jesus, Jack can’t watch out for him when he’s in a state like this——if it were anyone else he would’ve just pulled out his gun and called it a mercy kill. He can barely take care of himself, that’s why he’s got June. With a sigh, Jack walks toward Nick. The shadows under his eyes are long, purple. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping, and Jack guesses they have that in common.

He stops right next to Nick, looks down at him, and then sets two fingers under Nick’s jaw, at the top of his throat.

One second passes. Then two. Then——

Ba-bum.

It’s slow, but he’s still there.

“Asshole,” Nick mutters, and startles Jack into pulling his hand back. “Don’t press so hard.”

“I thought you were out.”

“I was.” He squints up at Jack. “What’d she say?”

“You’ll live.”

“Admit it,” Nick says, “you were worried about me.”

“Bullshit.” Jack takes a step back. “I think the drugs are getting to you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Go back to sleep,” Jack tells him. “You can tell me off tomorrow.”

“You’re staying?” Nick asks. He sounds almost confused, and extremely tired. Even as he speaks, his eyes are drifting closed again, and he’s back under before Jack can answer.

Quietly, he turns away, finds a chair to sit in, and settles into it. Finally, the exhaustion of the day is catching up to him. He’s tired, he aches, but that’s not so bad. Not in the grand scheme of things, not if Nick’s alive.

That matters, and as much as he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, he does care. He shouldn’t, he doesn’t want to, but it’s not really something he thinks he can stop. And if he’s stuck like that, he might as well make the most of it.

After all, there are worse ways this could’ve gone.

Chapter Text

By some fucking miracle, Jack’s apartment isn’t under watch when he goes to clear it. There’s nothing out of place, no shady characters nearby, and the tapes on all the security cameras check out fine. So, in theory, he’s not in danger.

(Yet. This is the kind of thing that’s always relative.)

He can go home. But, according to June, that comes with the caveat of what is essentially babysitting Nick.

“You’re not babysitting,” Nick tells him with an irritated expression on his face. “I can take care of myself.”

The way he’s clinging to the railing, the doped-up painkiller look in his eyes, says different. So do the bandages, and the bruises. They’d looked bad last night, but now, in the light of day——technically the light of afternoon——outside June’s apartment, they look much worse. He’s got a bruise almost in the shape of a domino mask: two black eyes and a dark stripe across his nose, and another that curls up from under the collar of the shirt he’d borrowed from June.

“Then why don’t you?”

Nick scowls. It looks like he’s about to say something, but then June opens the door behind them, and he freezes up.

“I’ve got your things,” she says, and passes Nick a pharmacy’s worth of pills, which he looks down at unhappily as June turns toward Jack. “Good luck.”

“Hey, I heard that,” Nick says, but there’s no bite to it. Jack doesn’t know if that’s because he’s not taking it to heart, or because he’s too tired to be properly upset at two people at once.

“Good luck to both of you,” she says.

“Thank you,” Nick replies, half-sarcastic, before Jack grabs his upper arm and starts pulling him toward the car. After everything that happened last night, it seems like second nature, and they need to get moving anyway. It’s only a matter of time before someone sees them out here.

It takes Nick two tries to get into the car. Whether it’s because of the drugs he’s on, or because he’s hurting, Jack doesn’t know, but he doesn’t like watching it. As much as it annoys him to say anything positive about his… his… partner, Nick is capable. He knows how to use a gun, and he’s agile. Knowing that, then seeing him like this, is nothing short of strange.

Then Jack’s in the driver’s seat, engine running, and Nick’s fumbling, one-armed, with the seatbelt. Jack looks at him intently for a couple seconds until Nick glances up, then wordlessly relents and lets Jack fix the buckle.

“You’re welcome,” Jack says as they pull out onto the road.

Nick doesn’t respond. He just breathes, shaky and uneven, and taps the fingers of his good arm against his cast. Other than that, he’s still.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Jack flips on the radio, goes through the channels until he finds what he thinks will piss Nick off the most, and sticks on that. When he comes to a red light, he looks over to see the muscle in Nick’s jaw tic with irritation.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He looks more miserable than angry when he says that, and smaller than he should.

“Because I know June gave you painkillers, and there’s no shame——“

“I’m fine.”

Jack shrugs, and starts off again when the light turns red. “There’s water in the glove compartment. In case you need something to take them with.”

In a particularly pathetic act of retaliation, Nick smacks the radio off. Then he sits back, and shuts his eyes. He looks so tired, but Jack can’t really focus on that, because needs to keep the car on the road.

After a minute or two, Nick nods off, his head dips forward, and he jerks back awake with a gasp when his forehead touches the door. Jack would laugh at him if he didn’t do the same thing in Nick’s situation. Being a light sleeper might be necessary in their line of work, but that doesn’t make it fun.

Nick looks around at the road, scrubs his good hand over his face, and then winces when the action pulls at his stitches.

“This is the way I go home,” he says after a second.

Oddly enough, Jack thinks he should’ve expected that, given everything else. “You don’t think——“

“I’d know if you were in my building,” Nick says. “So would they.”

“I’m good at covering my tracks,” Jack responds in a way of defense.

“Not that good,” Nick insists.

He’s right, of course. It’d be pretty damn hard to hide that well, especially when he didn’t realize he had to hide until a few weeks back.

“And you don’t exactly look inconspicuous.” Nick’s reaching for the glove compartment now, popping it open and taking the plastic water bottle inside. It takes him two tries to twist the cap off——it’s one of those tiny ones, the kind that are built to save plastic, but only cause frustration.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The beard,” Nick says, and gestures at Jack with a cast-covered hand. “It’s distracting.”

It’s not like Jack had been growing it on purpose, so it really can’t be his fault, but he’s not telling Nick he hasn’t seen the point in shaving. That seems like admitting weakness, it’s definitely admitting laziness. Jack just grits his teeth, and doesn’t respond.

With a sigh, Nick twists the top back onto the water bottle, sets his head back down, closes his eyes, and stays that way until they pull up in front of Jack’s apartment.

All in all, the drive isn’t long. It just feels long. Something about having someone else in the car with him seems to stretch the time. He’s never been particularly comfortable in the company of others, and this isn’t any different. Well, it’s not much different. He knows Nick better than he’s known almost anyone in the last twenty years, but he’s not sure if that makes it better or worse.

Probably worse. Attachment——if that’s really what this is turning into——always makes things worse.

They get to the apartment without much hassle. Nick’s limping a bit, but that’s to be expected, and Jack finds himself a hair off from scared of letting Nick know where he lives, but he pushes through. It’s not like there’s anything stopping him from killing Nick if things go sour in the long run.

Part of him knows that shouldn’t be comforting, but it is. A lot of things are like that.

Being alone is like that; having Nick in his apartment, curled up on his sofa wih his shoes still on and blood crusted under his fingernails and on his chest, isn’t. He’s disgusting, sweaty and tired and sickly pale, but Jack doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stand up again, not after he’d collapsed onto the couch with a groan like he was being raptured. Not when he’s——

Asleep. Jesus, they’ve only been inside for five minutes. He must be exhausted. Jack guesses that he would be too, if he’d been through everything that Nick has in the past few days.

Jack can’t stop staring at him. He’s not sure why exactly——maybe it’s paranoia, or some kind of curiosity. Either way, he spends a good handful of minutes watching Nick breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. His breath is steady, and he wheezes more often than not when he exhales. Something about it makes a small, caring part of Jack worry.

Something else about that small, caring part makes him want to drape Nick in a blanket. He’s been cold since Jack found him in that basement, and is curled into himself like he’s trying hard to keep warm. His muscles are tensed, and there’s no way that’s comfortable——with or without his injuries. If he’s going to get back on his feet, and out of Jack’s place, Nick needs to be warm and comfortable. Right now, he’s neither of those things.

Jack turns, walks back to his bedroom, and grabs the blanket off of his bed. It’s not particularly thick or soft, but it’s the only one he’s got, so it’ll have to be enough for Nick.

He walks back to the living room as quietly as he can, and tries to cover Nick in the blanket so gently that he doesn’t wake up.

For a second, Nick’s eyes flutter open. They don’t focus, and he’s back asleep in half an instant, but something about the look on his face makes Jack decide that he can’t spend another second in his apartment. He’s got his shoes on before he can think better of it, and is already halfway out the door and ready to lock it by the time he pauses to worry, to consider what could happen if he leaves Nick alone.

Logically, Jack knows he’ll just sleep. Illogically, he doesn’t know what Nick will do.

Actually, he needs to move before he loses his shit, so that’s what he does. He takes the stairs down to the ground floor, then walks a couple circuits around the block. Nervousness tightens up his chest as he walks, makes him twitchy, and after he looks over his shoulder five times in under a minute he decides that walking isn’t working.

Abruptly, he stops. Luckily, the sidewalk isn’t busy, so he doesn’t disrupt much but his own movement.

It’s then that he realizes he hasn’t eaten anything all day. Nick hasn’t eaten anything in who knows how long.

Fuck it, he’s getting burgers. There’s no food in his kitchen anyway.

***

Jack drops a paper bag, filled with food and grease, on the table, in front of Nick, who is curled up small on the couch. He’d woken up when Jack had entered the apartment, but hasn’t said anything yet. He’s barely even moved. If Jack wasn't watching him intently, he'd probably think that Nick was still asleep.

“Dinner,” Jack says, and takes his burger from the bag.

“Not hungry.” Nick says it in a slow, tired way. Almost disinterested, more so exhausted.

Jack shrugs, leaves Nick to it. His loss. He can eat later if he wants, but that’s the only nice thing Jack’s doing for him today.

He eats, and Nick watches in silence. There’s kind of a nervous expression on his face, one he’s got to be too tired or drugged up to hide, because Jack has a feeling that Nick wouldn’t look scared if he could help it.

After a minute, Jack pushes the paper bag closer to Nick.

“Eat something.”

Nick shakes his head, shuts his eyes.

He sleeps for the rest of the evening, and Jack doesn’t bother waking him. It seems inconsiderate. What Nick needs is rest, and Jack finds himself nervous at the idea of Nick being awake, because he’ll probably have to talk to him. He’s not sure what he’d say, and at the end of the day it’s easier to let Nick sleep than do anything else, so that’s what he does. He turns on the tv, volume on low, just to have something to keep his attention, and sits on the opposite side of the couch from Nick.

Nick shifts a couple times in his sleep as Casablanca plays in the background, and wakes up at one point, stares at the screen for a minute, then turns his head to look at Jack. He looks a little sad, but Jack thinks that might just be his default.

For a minute, Nick just watches. His pupils are smaller now, and he doesn’t look high off the pills he’d taken earlier so much as tired from healing.

“Am I sleeping on the couch?” He asks.

The nice thing to do would be to offer Nick the bed. He’s been hurt, and his back’s probably shot from that explosion back in October, but something in Jack bristles at the thought of Nick in his room, in his bed, in his space——in the last part of his space that hasn’t been invaded.

Jack hesitates.

“Don’t hurt yourself thinking,” Nick says, and then turns over so he’s facing the back of the couch. “I’ll take it,” he continues, and then yawns. “Good night.”

Oh. He’s just been kicked out of his living room, hasn’t he?

***

He’s not asleep, leather jacket pulled tight around him because it’s so damn cold in his bedroom, when he hears the bedroom door creak open. The sound makes him sit up immediately. He knows that it is——it should be——Nick, but having anyone in his apartment, even someone he’s starting to think he should trust, is unnerving and startling.

It’s Nick, shoulders hunched in, blanket slung around them. He’s weirdly shadowed in the light from the living room, and Jack can’t see his face well at all.

“Do you have my pills?” Nick asks.

“Why would I have your pills?”

“I can’t find them,” he mumbles. “My arm hurts, I can’t sleep, just tell me——“

“The drawer next to the stove.”

“Are you sleeping with your jacket on?”

“Yes,” Jack says. “I’m cold.”

“Where’s your——oh!” Nick says. His expression goes from exhausted to lit-up in half a second. “This is it,” he says, not a question. “You only have one blanket.”

“I don’t need more than one.”

“And you let me have it.” Nick pulls the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “That’s sweet.”

“Common decency,” Jack snaps back. Not like you’d know anything about that. “You’re injured.”

“I know,” Nick says. “Didn’t mean you had to share.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks back into the main area. Jack watches until he disappears, and then turns on his side and tries to get comfortable as he listens to Nick fumble around the kitchen. At one point, he can hear the plastic pill bottle hit the ground, and the scatter of pills on the floor. He hears Nick curse too.

The decent thing to do would be get up and help him, but Jack’s never claimed to be a decent person, so he listens to Nick struggle for about five minutes instead. He hears water run as Nick pours himself a glass so he has something to take his pills with, then a few seconds of silence, and Nick starts walking again.

Back to the bedroom.

Jack turns back over in bed when Nick makes it to the doorway, but he doesn’t stop there. He keeps coming, and something in Jack’s stomach flips at the thought of his space being invaded like this. Nick, if he can sense it, doesn’t seem to care. He just——

Climbs into Jack’s bed.

Shit.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks.

“Getting in bed,” Nick says, like it’s obvious. “Before you fucking freeze to death.”

“Hey——“

“Calm down,” Nick tells him. “It’s big enough to share.” He lays flat on one side of the bed. It’s a queen; big enough for an adult to sleep in without it being embarrassing, but small enough that it doesn’t feel overwhelmingly lonely to sleep in alone.

In place of an actual response, Jack just grunts as Nick makes himself comfortable.

“I’m not going to try to kill you,” Nick says, and lifts the blanket up, throws it in the general direction of Jack. “Or kiss you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not——“

“I’m just fucking with you.” Nick rolls onto his stomach, then makes a pained sound and switches to his back. “You’re not my type anyway.” He yawns then, and goes quiet.

He’s asleep inside ten minutes, Jack can tell based off the way he breathes, the lack of tension in his body.

Lucky. Jack’s shoulders feel so tense they hurt.

It takes a long, long time for him to fall asleep.

***

Jack wakes up with Nick directly next to him, and to the sound of snoring. Nick’s good arm is reached out, grabbing at Jack’s shirt.

June was right. He hadn’t been expecting Nick to be clingy though. Well, maybe that’s not quite the right word, but it’s strange to have someone else touching him in a way that isn’t entirely utility-based. He’s not sure he likes it. Touch isn’t something typical for him, it never really has been——being around people never really has been.

It’s not that he’s scared of people——it’s called anthropophobia, he’d looked it up once when he was drunk. It’s not really that he’s scared at all, more so adverse. Always has been. It’s not a side effect of the job, but it doesn’t hurt. The fewer connections he has, the better.

Gently, in an attempt to detach him, he grabs Nick’s wrist. That wakes him up almost instantly, and he flinches back, barely misses hitting Jack when he lashes out with his cast-covered arm. He’s breathing fast, but quickly gets it under control.

Nick looks down at the bed for a second. “I think we have the same sheets,” he says. Then: “I’m making coffee.”

“I don’t have coffee.”

“What?” Nick says it with kind of a laugh in his voice.

“I don’t have coffee,” Jack repeats. He’s not going to drink a whole pot of it by himself, and pre-packaged single servings taste too much like chemicals for his liking. “I have tea.”

“Tea?” Nick repeats, and then turns his face against the mattress in distaste.

“Take it or leave it,” Jack says, and then sits up. He tosses the blanket off of himself, and the momentum carries enough to throw it halfway off of Nick as well.

“I’m leaving it,” Nick mumbles into the mattress as Jack stands up, and that’s that. Jack will leave Nick to sleep or be sleepy, but he’s getting up. Not like he’s got anything worth doing, but it is almost nine o’clock.

***

Nick has fallen back asleep by the time Jack comes to check in on him again. He’s curled up in a way that doesn’t look comfortable in the slightest, and has grabbed Jack’s pillow and decided to cling to it. And drool on it.

It’s disgusting, but Jack leaves him to it, even though he’s pretty sure it’s not healthy to sleep so many hours in one day. He’ll wake up eventually——he finally does, just before noon. Wakes up and stumbles out into the main room with a pained expression on his face.

He makes a beeline for the counter, where he’d left his pills out the night before, and swallows two of the painkillers dry before Jack can say so much as hello.

“Good afternoon,” he says, after Nick has grimaced his way through some pills.

“Fuck,” Nick says, and leans down so he can press his face against the countertop. “Already?”

“Almost.”

“Fuck,” he repeats.

“You already said that.”

“I know,” Nick gripes. He’s got his jaw clenched, his whole body is tensed up, and he must be hurting badly to be holding himself like that. “It fucking hurts.” He straightens back up, and turns to glare at Jack. “Have you ever broken a bone before?”

“My arm,” Jack responds. “When I was in high school.” He’s been careful and lucky enough not to have broken any more.

“It’s worse than you remember,” Nick says. “Whatever you remember, it’s so much fucking worse.”

“I think you’ll live,” Jack says.

“Feels like I’m dying,” Nick mumbles, and tips his head back. After a second he rights himself, and limps into the kitchen proper. There’s hardly any food in there, but it doesn’t seem like he’s in the market for breakfast, just water, which Jack watches him drink three glasses of in swift succession. He pauses to itch at the bandages on his arm, which is when Jack remembers one of the instructions that June had been adamant about when she’d sent the two of them off.

“I need to change your bandages,” he says, and Nick pulls a face.

“You have to?”

“June told me to.” Jack crosses his arms.

“Do you do everything she tells you?”

“Don’t you?”

After a second, Nick rolls his eyes. “Fine, yes. Where do you want to do this?”

"Here,” Jack tells him. “Take off your shirt.”

“I can’t,” Nick says.

“Why?” Jack asks. “What, are you shy——“

“I have stitches, dumbass.”

Jack sighs, and really weighs his options before saying what he does. He doesn’t want to have to do it. It seems ridiculous, and how did Nick get into the shirt in the first place if he can’t get it off?

“Do you want me to help you?”

“I think I’ll fester.”

“Put your arms up.”

With a reluctant look on his face, Nick obeys. The action is accompanied by a wince.

Feeling awkward, Jack bends down to grasp the hem of Nick’s shirt, and then pulls it up and off as gently as he can. He can still feel Nick flinch at one point though. Still, it’s not as bad as it could be, and soon the shirt is folded on the side of the couch, and Jack’s looking——trying not to stare——at Nick.

He’s failing.

“Is that a tattoo?”

“What?” Nick asks. “Hey,” he says after a second. “My eyes are up here.”

“What is it?” Jack asks. Even when he squints, tips his head a little, he still can’t make out what the mess of ink lines situated between Nick’s hips, at the base of his stomach, is supposed to be. He looks thinner now, worse then he had a couple days ago.

“It’s——stop staring.”

“I don’t even have a guess,” Jack continues, mostly to piss Nick off, but it is the truth.

“It’s a mistake,” Nick snaps. “It was a long time ago, I was drunk——“

Jack starts laughing.

“Just get the fucking first aid kit,” Nick says. “Stop looking at it.”

Jack’s not; he’s moved his attention to Nick’s hips, then his chest, and——

He excuses himself to get the first aid kit before he feels his face start to go red for reasons he doesn’t understand. Nick’s not the kind of person Jack would consider attractive——he doesn’t like men, never has. Something in him likes Nick though, something pathetic in him wants to touch Nick, have Nick touch him in return, and Jack hates that part of himself with everything he’s got. It’s the weak part, the lonely part, one he’s been trying to stamp out and kill for years.

By the time he comes back into the living room he’s stuffed those thoughts away, and Nick is laying on his stomach, flat against the couch. He’s only minimally less distracting this way. When he comes closer, he can see a huge patch of gauze over Nick’s left shoulder blade, stitches over his mid-back, the shape of his ribs and the ridges of his spine, and a section of deep-scored, knotted scar tissue that settles in Nick’s lower back. The fallout of the explosion in October. It looks painful. Jack wouldn’t know. He’s got scars, sure, plenty of them, but nothing nearly that bad.

“Does that hurt?” Jack asks as he sits down on the coffee table and opens up the first aid kit.

“What?” Nick asks. His voice is muffled by the couch.

“This,” Jack says, and——before he can think better of it——traces the line of the shrapnel scar. There are smaller ones around it, healed over slices and cuts that Jack wouldn’t see unless he was looking for them. Some look surgical, some not. The one next to his spine is easily the worst.

“Oh, yeah,” Nick says. “It does. I’m on something for it, so it’s usually not that bad.”

“It looks bad.”

Jack can practically feel Nick scowl.

“Just don’t touch it again.”

Part of Jack wants to, just to see how Nick reacts, maybe to feel the texture of the scar tissue again. Just to feel——something. There’s something nice about touching living skin. It’s a feeling that Jack had almost forgotten about, one he’s deprived himself of for a long time. It comes with this kind of desire, this skin-hunger, that he’s too old, too tired for.

This is the closest to intimate he’s been with anyone in an embarrassingly long time. He doesn’t have the time or energy, much less motivation for that kind of thing anymore, but part of him is wishing that he did. Being close to Nick, touching him, is nicer than it should be.

It makes him feel attached, present in a way that he usually isn’t. There’s an easiness to the attachment that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t like Nick, their partnership is one of convenience. Nick doesn’t give a shit about him, and he shouldn’t give a shit about Nick, but still——Jack’s stomach sinks at the thought of losing Nick somehow, or of having him leave.

Well, in a good or bad way, it’s going to happen eventually. More likely than not, soon. Jack just needs to get used to the idea, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. He can’t think about that right now though. He’s got bandages to change.

Chapter Text

They keep sharing a bed. It’s one of the stupidest, most self-taunting things that Jack’s done, but he can’t bring himself to change the arrangement. They’re both too old to sleep on the couch, and he’s still only got one blanket, so they have the excuse of it being practical. There’s two pillows at least, but Jack only has the second one because he likes holding something when he sleeps. Makes him feel less lonely——not like he’d ever admit that to anyone, he can barely admit it to himself.

But the problem is: Nick’s using that pillow now.

The problem is——

On the fifth day, Jack wakes up holding Nick. The feeling is, at risk of sounding a little pathetic, overwhelming. It’s good, though. Nick’s a little bony, yes, but he’s finally warmed up, and he’s turned toward Jack so that Jack can feel the soft puff of Nick’s breath against his neck.

Nick is curled on his side, who is on his back, staring intentionally at the ceiling and not at Nick. Jack hasn’t moved yet, which means the other man is still fast asleep, warm and relaxed. The whole thing is driving Jack a little insane, but it feels so good to have a warm body pressed up next to him. Nick’s got one of his legs thrown over Jack’s, he’s got an arm over Jack’s chest, and Jack’s own arm is bent so that his hand is in Nick’s hair.

His hair is surprisingly soft. It’s become messy these past few days, and flops forward now that it’s not stiff from product and blood and sweat.

Shit. How did this happen? Jack’s always been a still sleeper, and he’s learned over the past few days that Nick moves around a lot in his sleep, but this looks like a joint effort on the part of their subconsciouses. Still——something about it feels embarrassing.

He goes to move his hand from Nick’s hair and straighten out his arm, it’s in an awkward position and he’s sure it’ll feel like pins and needles soon enough, but the second he moves his hand Nick’s eyes open. It happens every damn morning, he should know not to try and be subtle at this point, because no matter what he always wakes Nick up.

“Good morning,” Nick mumbles, and half-heartedly picks up his hand to pat Jack’s chest. He turns onto his back then, away from Jack, and Jack watches him stretch. His back arches, bones pop, and he makes a sound that Jack wishes he could say he doesn’t to hear again.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t do much of anything but move his arms so they’re at his sides, and make sure he’s not touching Nick in any capacity. Nick doesn’t seem uncomfortable, he seems more sleepy than anything, but Jack doesn’t want to push his luck, and he doesn’t want to get too comfortable with the idea of touching another person. It’s too easy to get used to something intoxicating like that, and then not know what to do when it disappears.

He shouldn’t get used to staring either, but that’s still what he’s doing, looking at Nick as he tucks his arms behind his head and sighs, lets the muscles in his body go lax. His shirt has ridden up, either in the night or just now, and Jack can see a sliver of skin and ink peeking out from under the fabric.

“Why’d you grab me?” Nick asks. He’s scruffy now, side effect of not shaving. Jack needs to get him a razor.

“What?”

Nick looks over at him and quirks his eyebrows. “Last night, at three am. I wake up, and you’ve got me around the waist.” He shifts his legs, and Jack hears a click as Nick’s hip pops. “Hurt like a bitch, but you didn’t want to let go.”

“Oh,” Jack says.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a cuddler,” Nick says.

“I’m not,” Jack insists.

“I don’t mind,” Nick says after a second. He’s got a curious look on his face as he watches Jack. “You’re warm, and your place is fucking freezing.”

Nick’s one to talk, he’s cold too. He must run cold, otherwise Jack would have cause to believe he was sick. Nick pulls the blanket up around his shoulders, then sighs and closes his eyes, probably in an attempt to go back to sleep. Jack swears, the man sleeps as much as a cat, maybe more. It’s part of healing, and Jack can understand that, but sometimes he finds himself concerned.

As hard as it is to admit it, Jack thinks he’s come to an understanding with himself that he’s worrying about Nick, that he likes Nick, no matter what. It goes against his instincts, but something about having another person to worry about is nice. Even if he does sleep three quarters of the time, and complain about the most insignificant things a lot of the rest of the time. That last, unaccounted for, section of time is populated by the things that make Jack feel like there’s an actual reason for him to worry. That’s the time Nick spends curled up and groaning in pain even after he’s taken his pills, the time Jack had found him on the floor, holding his head and muttering something about a headache, the time Jack had woken up to screaming——

(That’s not unusual. It’s just usually his own screams.)

That, and the fact that Nick never seems to eat. Well, not never, just not most of the time. Since Jack took him home, he’s eaten half of a breakfast, picked at Chinese food one night, and choked down a couple saltine crackers before taking something for a migraine.

Three meals (crackers are hardly a meal, but Jack is going to count it) in four——now five——days, and likely three days of starving before that, when he’d been in that basement.

That’s not normal, and Nick’s starting to lose weight over it——Jack can tell. He’d been thin when they’d first met, but he’s bordering on gaunt now. When Jack changes Nick’s bandages, he can see Nick’s ribs. Nick’s hips jut out in a way that Jack thinks they’re probably not supposed to.

He’s got to be sick, Jack’s almost sure of it. Some injury that June didn’t catch is giving him so much trouble he can’t eat, and doesn’t feel much like sleeping, or something new has happened and Nick hasn’t bothered to tell anyone. Jack can't force Nick to eat, Nick is an adult, he should be able to take care of himself, but that doesn't stop Jack from worrying.

Jack will just have to call June about it. If anyone will know what to do, it’s her. She’s the best, and he’s already planning out what he’s going to say when he starts out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Nick asks, half-asleep.

“I’m getting up,” Jack replies. His voice is raspy from sleep, and he clears his throat. Part of him wants to lay right back down and put an arm around Nick again, but he stops himself. He’s not used to sleeping in, and he’s still worried about making Nick uncomfortable.

“I’m sleeping,” Nick mumbles. “Have fun.” He grabs Jack’s pillow, pulls it close to himself, and rolls over, away from Jack.

That’s the end of that, Jack thinks. He guesses he’ll see Nick this afternoon. With the way he’s been sleeping, he definitely won’t be up before noon.

“You’re feeling okay?” Jack asks before he exits the room.

He watches Nick’s eyes open, watches him pick his head up a little. “Why the fuck do you care?” He doesn’t sound pissed off, just tired.

“I don’t.”

Nick flips him off, and he looks away from Jack again, goes limp like he’s going back to sleep for real this time. Jack just rolls his eyes, and walks from the bedroom to the kitchen. He goes through the motions of boiling water for tea——which he’s been made to do out of principle after Nick figured out he’s been microwaving his water for years——and grabs his phone off the counter as he does so, and contemplates calling June.

He doesn’t want to worry her, but maybe she needs to be worried. On the off chance that Nick really is sick, Jack doesn’t want to stall and make things worse. The sooner Nick is healthy, the sooner he can go back to his own life and leave Jack…

Alone.

The thought forms a pit in Jack’s chest, in his stomach. He’s never been a stranger to loanliness, but now he finds it to be his enemy. The thought of going back to solitude, silence, all those things that he’d become so intimately acquainted with for so long, is uncomfortable. As bad as it feels now, he has the terrible idea that it would be crippling if fully realized again.

When. They can’t keep living like this forever. It’s not sustainable, and Nick more likely than not has his own things to get back to. Not his own people——neither of them really have people——but his own things, certainly. Not that Jack has any idea of what they are. He hardly knows what his own things are at this point, because he can’t go back to work, not with people having it out for himself and Nick the way that they do.

Usually, if someone tries to have you killed, they don’t want you coming back to work, even if you do survive. Usually, those people will want you dead, and keep trying until they get there.

Their boss——former boss——holds a lot of influence, and odds are he’s not going to give up until either he’s dead, or both Nick and Jack are. The way Jack sees it, as he runs over and over options in his head, the only viable options are 1) to kill everyone involved and 2) take all the money they’ve got and fuck off somewhere far away, like Venice, for the rest of their (likely short) lives.

That’s been done before though, and Jack personally thinks he’d rather die than uproot himself. He should be retiring soon, doing… whatever it is that retirees do, not fighting for his life and plotting out how to kill his way to a solution. Killing might be the only solution at this point though, and Jack’s not entirely against it. He’s killed, and cleaned up, enough people over the years that it doesn’t really register as the morally fucked act that it should. It’s just survival, and there’s nothing really wrong with that. He’s sure Nick would agree.

Jesus, Nick.

Jack glances back toward the bedroom, sees Nick turned on his stomach, seemingly asleep. When Jack listens, he can hear soft snoring.

Definitely asleep.

He takes that as his cue to call June. He’s half not expecting her to answer——it’s relatively early, and she’s probably more than done with both his and Nick’s bullshit by now. Jack knows he’s done with Nick’s bullshit, and more than done with his own. The issue is, both of those things are inescapable as of now.

June picks up after the fourth ring.

“What happened this time?”

“Nothing urgent,” Jack assures her. She sounds tired. “No one’s bleeding out.”

“That’s a welcome change,” she says. “If that’s all you wanted to tell me——“

“I’m worried about Nick,” Jack says. He doesn’t want to interrupt, but the words need to come out before he stops himself, pins himself under the worry of being vulnerable and the assumption that Nick can take care of himself, and naturally looks a little skeletal.

“That’s sweet,” June tells him. “I’m glad you’re getting along.”

“We’re not.”

“Why are you worried?”

“He’s not eating,” Jack says. He keeps his eyes on the bedroom door, watching and listening for any sign of movement from the inside. “I think he’s sick, or he’s hurt and he’s not telling me.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him eat?” June asks. Her voice is perfectly even, but Jack knows her well enough to tell when she's worried. She's worried now, and that doesn't help Jack's mood in the slightest.

“Crackers, last night.”

“That’s not too bad——“

“It’s been four——it’s been five days, he’s eaten three times.”

“Shit,” June says. “You need to get some food in him,” she continues. “Before he starves himself.”

“I can’t make him eat——“

“You’re going to have to,” June tells him. “He won’t do it on his own.”

“He’s not a fucking teenage girl,” Jack says dismissively. “He’s just——he’s sick.”

“I know,” June says firmly. “It sounds like he’s very sick, but I didn’t think it had gotten this bad. And you don’t need to be a teenage girl to have an eating disorder.”

“He doesn’t——“

“Then what is it?” He can hear June sigh over the phone.

“He can’t have an eating disorder. He doesn’t throw up. I’d know if he was throwing up.”

“You don’t have to——Christ.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to… make yourself throw up to have an eating disorder.” He can hear her sigh again, and he’d bet ten bucks that she’s thinking it’s too early for this. It is too early for this. Jack thinks any time is probably too early for this. “He’s restricting food, and he’s definitely underweight. That’s enough.”

“You told me to make sure he was eating,” Jack says. “Before we left.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think you were serious,” Jack says, and goes quiet for a second. “What’s wrong with him?”

June’s sigh on the other end of the line is enough for Jack to know he worded that question incorrectly, but he doesn’t think it matters that much. What matters is the fact that Nick is starving himself, and seems to think that no one’s going to notice, that he can keep on doing this until he dies. With the way Jack’s neglected to feed him, that might have been the truth.

“I think it started in October,” June says, after some consideration. “Something——a common onset for eating disorders is trauma.”

“By that logic, shouldn’t everyone who does what we do have one?”

“You’ve never been blown up,” June says. “Trauma, lack of control——those are both catalysts. There was a week in my basement where he wasn’t able to do anything by himself. That kind of thing takes a toll on a person.”

“So he fucking starves himself?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand,” Jack says, because he really doesn’t. He’s been through his fair share of shit over the years, but he’s never wanted to starve himself over it. Maybe he's hated himself, gotten more roughed up on purpose, but he's never stopped eating.

“Nick was the top of your industry for a long time,” June says. “Both of you were. Now you’re not——“

“Hey.”

“Let me finish,” June says. “And you’re older, you’re slower, you’ve probably gained some weight——“

Jack shifts uncomfortably, and wishes June was a little less on the nose with this assessment.

“——You feel out of control. Maybe you wonder what you can do to get back on top.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jack says, though he knows well enough to know that it’s the exact opposite of ridiculous. It’s concerningly accurate.

“Why do you think anorexia is so common in athletes?” June asks.

Jack’s heart sinks. “Jesus Christ.” He paces across the kitchen.

“Get some food in him,” June tells him. “Just… don’t overwhelm him.”

“I’m not going to——“

“Jack,” she says. “I’m serious. You don’t want to make this any worse.”

“I’ll handle it,” Jack tells her. Handle it with tact, like always. He’ll fix the issue——that’s what he’s supposed to do. Usually it involves more killing people than stopping them from killing themselves, but there’s a first time for everything. Anyway, based off of what June said, it doesn’t really seem like Nick is trying to kill himself, just that he’s doing it anyway. Not that Jack knows anything about eating disorders to say for sure one way or the other——that much is obvious. Sue him, he’s never had a reason to know, never thought it would be the kind of thing that would affect him.

It still isn’t, not really. It’s Nick’s problem, but——for some reason——Jack’s decided that Nick is his problem. He cares, whether he really wants to or not, so Nick’s going to have to get better, whether he wants to or not. He’s not above holding Nick down and force feeding him if he has to, even though June did tell him not to overwhelm Nick. If worse comes to worse, though.

“When you say ‘handle it…’” June says, then trails off.

“Don’t worry,” Jack says. “I know what I’m doing.”

That’s a lie, boldfaced, and they both know it, but he hangs up on her before she can respond. He’ll figure it out soon enough. Fixing things is his job, he can fix this, all he needs to do is figure out how.

***

Luckily, Nick sleeps in. It gives Jack all the time he should need to figure things out, though he’s not so sure if he comes up with any worthwhile results. He guesses he’ll just wing it, do whatever makes sense when he gets there. None of the scenarios have been working anyway, at least in Jack’s head, Nick is always too stubborn to admit to anything.

He’s stubborn, and he’s an asshole, neither of which lend themselves well to conversations that Jack assumes June wants him to have with Nick. Well, those things and the fact that Jack rarely holds conversations at all. Living with Nick has made him talk more in the past week than he had in the last month. He’s still not the best at it, but he’s… he can move things forward. His job involves a lot of moving things forward, so there’s nothing to it.

Maybe it’s not the right way to do things, by the standards of June, or——let’s face it——anyone under the age of forty, but it’ll work. What matters now is less so tact, more so how effective he is. Nick seems like he’d be liable to try and run if Jack goes about this the wrong way, which is why he decides on an ambush. If he corners Nick right, there's no space for him to run at all.

He waits until Nick is in the shower before returning to the bedroom. If he’s not fully dressed, he can’t just run out. He shouldn’t run out anyway, not when there are probably people looking for him, but that’s not the point of this.

Jack sits. He waits. Eventually, Nick comes out of the shower, towel tied around his hips, and freezes the second he sees Jack.

“Can I help you?” Nick asks sarcastically.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Jack replies before Nick can do something like pick a subject to talk about, or turn tail and run back to the bathroom.

Nick looks at him, confused. “What?”

“You’ve been living with me for almost a week, and I’ve barely seen you eat,” Jack says calmly. “So, why aren’t you eating?”

“I eat,” Nick lies.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Are you interrogating me?”

“I’m——just answer the question.”

“No,” Nick says.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“It’s a stupid fucking question,” Nick says. “Can I put on some clothes?”

“After you answer the question.”

“I’m not——why’s it your business?”

“You’re fucking starving yourself,” Jack snaps. “In my apartment, it’s my business.”

“I’m not starving——“

“I can see your ribs.”

Nick crosses his arms, shrugs with a ticked-off expression on his face. “I’m thin. Big deal, so fucking what?”

“You’re underweight,” Jack corrects. “I talked to June, and——“

“You talked to June?”

“I was worried,” Jack snaps. The words all come out in a rush, and he regrets them the second he says them.

“You’re not supposed to worry,” Nick says, all the fight gone out of him, a second later. “I’m an adult,” he adds. “Sixty fucking years old, I think I can take care of myself.”

“Then fucking prove it,” Jack snaps. “Start eating.”

“I eat,” Nick snaps back, defensive.

“When?” Jack asks. “When was the last time you ate? Not crackers, not half a fucking piece of toast——when’s the last time you actually ate a meal?”

“What are you——I’m not a teenage girl.”

“Answer the fucking question.” Jack stares him down. It’s only a matter of time before Nick says something. It’s not like he’s got anywhere to run, and Jack’s not letting up until he gets some kind of answer.

Nick’s got this look on his face, this expression like he wants to disappear, or escape, but Jack’s between him and the door, and there’s no sneaking out of this.

“Breakfast,” is Nick’s answer, after almost two minutes of silence.

“We haven’t fucking eaten breakfast,” Jack says. “Try again.”

“After all that shit with the kid.” Nick looks at the floor. “That breakfast. That’s the last time I finished something.”

Jesus Christ, that was a month ago.

“Happy?” Nick snaps. “Did you get what you fucking wanted?”

He sounds so tired, maybe a little defeated, and the tone of it all makes Jack feel terrible.

“No,” he says. What he wanted was for June to be wrong, and for himself to be overreacting. What he wanted was for this to go better, for Nick not to be looking like a caged animal right now.

His hair is still wet, and he’s hunched in on himself, arms crossed over his chest. None of that hides the fact that he’s painfully thin.

“Can I get dressed now?” Nick asks.

***

Nick walks out into the living room like he’s a prisoner on death row. He’s wearing a sweatshirt that Jack hasn’t seen in probably a year, and jeans that hang low on his hips. His hands are in the pockets of the sweatshirt, and he’s looking at Jack with an expression that makes it seem like he thinks he’s going to be beaten or something like that.

“Fuck you,” Nick says before Jack’s even managed to open his mouth, much less get a word in edgewise. “I should leave right fucking now.”

“Then why don’t you?” Jack asks. Even as he says it, worry blooms in his chest.

“Nowhere to go, and I don’t want to die.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Jack says. Nick looks like he’s about to start shaking from rage. “Sit down,” Jack tells him.

Nick sighs, like he’s been burdened, and resolutely stays standing. He crosses his arms, stares Jack down like he’s trying to kill him with his mind. Jack’s half-surprised it doesn’t work, especially when he decides to speak again.

“You can sit.” That's nicer, he thinks. Not much nicer, but at least he's making an effort.

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

Jack shrugs. Nick’s going to tire himself out sooner or later. He can’t skip that many meals without losing energy as well. With the amount he’s been sleeping, Jack would get that he’s been running on empty for a while.

“How do you like your eggs?” Jack asks.

“I’m not going to eat them.”

“I’m not letting you sleep until you eat something, so good luck.”

“What the fuck is this?” Nick snaps. “I don’t need an intervention.”

“Fried?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Jack looks Nick dead in the eyes. “I don’t care. Either you’re eating, or I’m making you eat.”

“You can’t——“

“Want to bet?”

Nick’s shaking. No way can he win any kind of fight in this condition, and he’s probably smart enough not to try. His gaze dips down to the ground.

“Scrambled.”

“What was that?” Jack asks.

“Scrambled,” Nick repeats. “Eggs. I don’t like runny yolks.”

Jack hardly thinks Nick will have to worry about that, he’s got a habit of burning anything he tries to cook. Nick’s going to have to eat it though.

“That wasn’t too hard, was it?” Jack asks.

Nick doesn’t answer, but Jack didn’t really expect him to. He just stands, stares, and finally gives in and sits down on the couch when Jack greases the pan starts cracking eggs. Nick sits stiffly, curls onto his side and makes a small sound like he’s hurting. He probably is——he hasn’t taken anything for pain since last night, and it’s nearly noon.

Jack leaves the eggs on what he thinks is low——he’s never really been able to get the hang of the electric stove——and grabs Nick’s painkillers off of the counter on his way to the couch. He sets them loudly on the coffee table, and Nick doesn’t respond. He stays curled into himself, staring listlessly ahead, at nothing.

“Nick?”

Jack shakes his shoulder, and Nick doesn’t look up at him.

“How’s your arm?”

Nick tucks his broken arm a little closer. “It hurts,” he says, and it sounds so weak. “Everything fucking hurts,” he says, and shivers a little, turns his head against the mattress.

“I’ve got your painkillers.”

“Can open the bottle for me?” Nick asks. He sounds dull, pained, like he’s admitted defeat, like he’ll——maybe——let Jack help him. Like he’s——maybe——let the exhaustion really catch up to him.

“Sure.” Jack snags the bottle off of the table, and sits on the couch. He’s only doing this because he’s a good person, and because Nick is so heartbreakingly pathetic right now. He looks like he can barely hold his head up, much less open a pill bottle with only one working hand.

Jack pops the plastic bottle open easily, and tips a couple pills into his hand, then goes to pass them to Nick.

“Can I have one more?” Nick asks as he looks between Jack and the pills.

“No.”

With a frown, Nick grabs the pills and swallows them dry. Jack should’ve gotten some water for him——he takes pills dry all the time, but Nick is… fragile isn’t the right word. Nick is a guest, and some part of Jack feels like he should be marginally polite.

Nick looks up at him, eyes so blue in the light, and something in Jack’s heart jumps. He likes having Nick this close, likes it when Nick looks at him like this, and he’s not quite sure why. The warm feeling in his chest makes him worry that he’s in too deep.

“Jack?” Nick asks as he adjusts his arm to a hopefully more comfortable position. His voice is soft, laced with pain, and Jack, against better judgement, leans in toward Nick to better hear him.

Just then, Nick’s expression melts into a catlike grin. “Your eggs are burning,” he says, voice back to rights. “Fucker.”

Nick draws himself back, sits against the couch like he’s lacking bones, and watches Jack with an amused look on his face that screams gotcha. He’s not in half as much pain as he was letting on, and Jack feels stupid for falling for it.

“You’re not going to make me eat burnt eggs, are you?” Nick takes on a pathetic expression again, the same one Jack fell for just a minute ago. “That’s just adding insult to injury.”

In place of fuck you, Jack just stands and walks to the kitchen, turns off the heat on the stove before the eggs graduate from burnt to smoking.

He’s done——he wants to be done. He wants so badly to not care, to let Nick starve himself or strike out on his own or something, but his head’s losing the battle with his heart right now.

Heart. What a joke. Jack’s never had to deal with something like this before, it’s not fair for it to start now. Not fair for it to start with Nick, of all people. Then again, when has life ever been fair?

Chapter Text

Jack makes sure Nick eats. It’s not the easiest, because he doesn’t have a tendency to eat regularly himself——but he still eats, is the point. He always makes sure to eat something, and maybe he’s getting a little soft because of it, but it’s better than turning to skin and bones. Getting Nick to eat is like pulling teeth, and this is a lesson that Jack finds himself learning over and over again as they move slowly but surely through the week.

He can’t leave Nick alone, or he’ll just throw the food out. Can’t threaten Nick that much either, because Nick seems to think that Jack won’t hurt him (and he's right, unfortunately), or he just doesn’t care enough to bother with the idea of defending himself. Nick’s picky too, has issues with the texture of some foods on par with a five year old, though that might just be him doing his best to fuck with Jack——to break him, in a sense. Make him give up.

That’s not happening. It’s inconvenient, sure, but Jack will sit with Nick for an hour and watch him eat if that’s what it takes. He’ll give Nick shit the entire time, yeah, but he’s getting the job done at least. Nick hasn’t lost any more weight, and Jack doesn’t think that he’s gained any either, but it’s a start. It’s better than nothing. Though he has found himself a little confused about one or two of the variables.

“Why don’t you just throw up?” Jack asks on a Friday evening, as he watches Nick pick his way through some Chinese takeout. He thinks it’s an insensitive question, but he doesn’t think that Nick can afford to be too upset over it. At least, not much more upset than he already is.

Maybe he’s wrong, because Nick looks at him like he’s just grown a second head. Nick stops chewing, swallows.

“What?”

“Why don’t you throw up whatever I make you eat?” Jack asks. “I couldn’t stop you.” Not easily, anyway. He’d find a way if he had to.

Nick’s gaze flickers to the ground, then back to Jack, then sticks itself firmly on the ground again before answering.

“It’ll fuck up my teeth,” He mumbles. “If you throw up enough, it fucks up your teeth.” He watches Jack, then glares tiredly. “Stop smiling. It’s not funny.”

It’s really not, but the expression stays on Jack’s face. Part of him wants to laugh, and that seems cruel, but it just strikes him as such a strange answer.

“That’s so vain,” he says.

“It’s not——it’s practical.” Nick insists. “I like my teeth. I've got nice teeth.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Finish your food.”

“Do you want me to throw up?” Nick asks. “Would that make you less confused?”

“No,” Jack snaps. “Jesus Christ——“

“Jesus Christ, would you drop it then?”

Jack goes quiet.

“Thank you,” Nick says, and fishes a piece of chicken out of the takeout container. He sticks it in his mouth and chews methodically. Chews slowly, like he thinks this is going to be the day he breaks Jack.

Goddamn him.

***

It’s all too easy to get stir crazy in an apartment as small as Jack’s. Or, well, it’s easy now that Nick’s there. Jack isn’t used to having anyone around, taking up space, sleeping in his living room, and that’s why Jack’s pacing around the block, out in the biting cold. He doesn’t particularly like the way his thoughts act, but it’s not terrible to be alone with them after nearly constantly being around Nick.

Unfortunately, most of those thoughts happen to be about Nick. He’s by far one of the most interesting things to happen to Jack recently. Maybe it’s just because Jack hasn’t really been talking to people recently, and it’s not like him and Nick talk so much as argue, but it’s still something. And, he’s discovered that, as much as Nick has a tendency to make him nervous, having Nick around calms him down as well. You don’t need to watch your back so much when there’s someone else doing the same. If nothing else, having Nick around——when he’s not asleep——can be efficient.

Helping with his bandages is still stressful though. More so now that Nick trying to starve himself is out in the open. Nick’s good enough at masking his expressions most of the time, but there’s nothing but irritation and contempt on his face whenever Jack’s helping him with his bandages.

He doesn’t need much help now that he’s had a week or so to heal, but there are a couple spots——a gash on his back, where Nick can’t quite reach, and a deep cut on the inside of Nick’s thigh, fighting infection——that he needs help with. Jack’s happy to provide. Some selfish part of him likes the excuse to touch Nick, and he really can’t hold it against himself. It’s been so long since he had another person around. That sounds bad——he sounds sad——and he knows it, but he’s really not.

He’s fine, been fine for years, and really doesn’t want to stop and consider the possibility that somewhere down the line he managed to mix up fine and getting by.

Well, he hasn’t, and he’s not——getting by, that is. He’s doing better, is what he means. Maybe not thriving, maybe not good, but certainly better than the bare minimum. Better than just surviving.

He’s happy, isn’t he? Or something like it. He’s doing better than Nick, anyway. He’s eating, he doesn’t think that he looks like he wants to kill himself. June might have started slipping him anti anxiety medication a while back, but it's not like he’s on antidepressants. He’s not——he doesn’t need help. Not really.

It’s as he’s thinking these things that he realizes someone’s tailing him. He’s seen the same dark gray coat behind him at the same distance for the last three loops he’s taken around the block. When he glances around——and tries his best to be casual about it——he notices a vaguely familiar face that he knows works for the same people trying to put him and Nick out of commission. Strictly speaking, that’s not information that Jack should know, or even be close to knowing, but he’s had a couple days where he’s gotten worried enough to break into computer databases and so he can see the information that his former employers have on him, and those times had also shown him a handful of other sad sacks that his boss relies on to do his dirty work.

This man, who has muddy-colored hair, and a lot of it of it, on the top of his head, is one such sad sack. A sloppy sad sack, if he’s let Jack notice him, and a definite sign that he needs to get himself and Nick the hell out of here. Sooner rather than later. Maybe now.

Odds are, they’ve got a few hours before people finally come and take them out. Jack knows how these things work——a little slower than they should, but slow and methodical so they hardly ever have to try again. That’s too bad, because Jack’s determined to make them try again. A few times, a dozen times, however long it takes to make them give up.

He speeds up, ends up rounding a corner before his pursuer, and ducks into the first door to his apartment building that he can find. He finds himself in a stairwell, and climbs the three floors to his level as quickly as his knees will allow. He’s not winded by the time he gets to his door, but he has to stop and take a breath. When he does, he hears Nick talking. He can’t quite make out the words, and the whole thing has him unnerved. There shouldn’t be anyone for Nick to talk to.

Jack opens the door as quietly as he can. Mentally, he’s working out every possible way to get to his gun as quickly as he can, just in case. The door barely clicks when he opens and closes it, and Nick doesn’t seem to notice.

He just keeps talking.

“I know, I’m surprised he left me alone too.”

Nick’s talking to June, about him.

Shit.

“No, he hasn’t——that’s not why I’m talking to you.” A pause. “It’s not about that. It’s——let me talk.”

Jack stays as still as possible. He’d go the extra mile and hold his breath, but he’s not that dramatic.

“You told him I wasn’t eating.”

There’s another pause, and then Nick makes a frustrated sound.

“Yes, I’m eating. He’s making very fucking certain of that. I just——“ There’s the dull sound of a fist hitting the couch. “No, I didn’t drop you. Yes, I’m pissed.” He sighs. “June——“

Jack listens, and hears nothing from Nick for a second. She must have cut him off.

“Fucking——doctor-patient confidentiality, I don’t know. I know you’re not my real doctor. No, I don’t have one. I know I should.”

There’s a spell of silence, which Jack takes as an inaudible response from June.

“I know——listen, being here is going to kill me, just let me stay with you. He’s a fucking basket case.”

That’s… harsh. Not entirely inaccurate, but harsh. Jack knows he has a tendency to act up a bit, act paranoid and skittish, but it’s the only reason he’s been alive for so long. Any other way of thinking is practically suicide.

“Paranoid, I know,” Nick says, and pauses. “Well, whatever you’re giving him isn’t working. How was it worse?” He makes an exasperated sound as June responds. “Because he looks at me like he’s scared.”

Jack feels a kind of pit form in his stomach. Does he really do that?

“I don’t know. Like he thinks I’m going to kill him, or myself.” The floor creaks as Nick paces back and forth across the living room floor. “He doesn’t like having me around,” Nick finally says, and Jack feels his heart sink. “I think he knows I’m——he’s uncomfortable with it.”

Well, clearly he doesn’t know shit, because he has no idea what Nick is talking about. Nick doesn’t know shit either though, because——having another person living with him is strange, but it isn’t bad——he’s not uncomfortable. It’s the opposite, he’s scared he might have gotten too comfortable.

“I’m sleeping in his fucking bed——stop laughing——and every morning I wake up to him staring me down like he’s going to stab me before I——do something to him, I don’t fucking know.”

Shit. Shit. That’s not what’s happening at all. Isn’t Nick supposed to be smarter than this?

“Just——listen. He doesn’t want me here.” He can hear Nick sigh. “I’m taking up his space, I’m eating his fucking food, and he’s sick of it. He wants me out, so get me out.”

Jack can hear Nick sit down on the couch to punctuate his sentence. There’s only so much longer Jack can go without Nick noticing him, only so much longer he can go without risking putting them both in danger.

“I know you don’t want me staying with you. I know——I don’t have anyone else, June. I don’t know anyone——“

Jack walks into Nick’s view. Loudly. Usually he has a light gait, there are more pros to being silent than there are to being loud, but he doesn’t want to verbally interrupt the tirade Nick has gone on.

Nick stops anyway, turns and looks at Jack with a mortified and guilty expression. For a second, Jack almost feels bad for him, but he can’t quite commit to it. Nick just said all that shit about him to, maybe, both of their only friend in the world, and that’s not really something that feels like it will roll off Jack’s back like it’s nothing.

“I’m not paranoid,” he says. “But someone’s tracked us down, and we need to leave.”

“Now?” Nick asks, and presses the button on the phone to hang up.

Jack nods. “As soon as possible.” He heads toward the bedroom, mind on his duffle bag. “They’re close to finding us, if they haven’t already.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Jack snaps back. “I saw someone——“

“You saw someone? On the street?” Nick asks, a mock-surprised tone to his voice.

“Someone watching me,” Jack says. “He followed me around the block twice, the same way I would’ve done if I was following someone.”

“Clearly you’re not doing it right if someone can catch on to you tailing them.”

“That’s not——just listen.”

“I’m listening. You saw someone. Outside. Who seemed like they were following you.”

“He was following me,” Jack insists. “Why else would he walk around the apartment building four times in a row?”

“Maybe he lives here, maybe he’s trying to get away from his annoying fucking roommate,” Nick responds. “I don’t know.” His tone of voice sounds almost bitter, and Jack feels bad for a moment.

“Trust me,” he says. “I don’t want to leave either, but I think we have to.” He starts toward the bedroom. “Grab your shit, let’s go. We can get a hotel.”

Nick crosses his arms. It’s awkward because of the cast, but he manages. “I don’t have anything.”

“Then just wait here,” Jack says, and vanishes into the bedroom. He crouches, much to the disappointment of his back, which twinges, and grabs the duffle bag he keeps under there. It’s got a couple pairs of clothes, spare ammunition, stuff to make it through little while on the run. Well, on the run makes it sound more serious than it actually is. Right now, it’s nothing. Right now, Jack wants to believe that he’s overreacting, but it’s better safe than sorry, and he’s got a feeling in his gut that they’ve been found, that something is going to go sickeningly wrong.

If they stay here, someone is going to get hurt. Someone’s going to die. Maybe both of them.

“How much of that did you hear?” Nick asks.

“Enough.”

“Listen——“

“I don’t care,” Jack says. “You listen, we need to get out of here.”

“I’ll go, just give me a gun first,” Nick tells him.

“You can’t shoot with that cast.”

“I’m ambidextrous.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I can shoot with my left hand,” Nick says.

“I’m not giving you a gun.”

“Are you scared I’m going to turn it on you?” Nick asks. “Because that’s fucking crazy, even for me. If you’re really worried,” he says, “you’ll give me a gun.”

Jack bites the inside of his cheek, then relents. Nick lights up a little, like a kid on Christmas, when he gets his good hand on the gun. He hides it in his jacket and, smile still on his face, looks at Jack like he’s somehow the one holding them up.

“Ready?”

He hardly ever is, but they don’t really have a choice if they want to live.

***

They only end up killing three people on their way out. It’s all quiet, all clean, and neither of them get hurt. Jack considers that something of a miracle, considering the fact that Nick’s got a broken arm and is half-starved. Jack's not fairing too well himself: his eye is twitching, and a tremor has started to work its way through his hands.

It’s not so bad that it stops his aim from being accurate, but it’s still unnerving. Fixers aren’t supposed to shake. They don’t let their nerves get the better of them. They don’t let anything get the better of them, but here Jack is anyway.

“Here” being a semi-crummy hotel in the outskirts of the city. Nothing nice enough to attract attention, nothing so bad that them staying there would be suspicious. The place is clean enough, but the room is just on the inconvenient side of cramped. It’ll work though, and that’s all they need it to do. If they’re lucky, things will be set to rights inside a week, and they should be out of here tomorrow. It’s in their best interests to keep moving, exhausting as it’s going to be. It’s past midnight, and they’ve only just gotten themselves into a room.

God, Jack’s already exhausted. That’s how he knows he’s getting too old for this.

Who’s he kidding? He was too old for this years ago, and he’s known it would be a good idea to get out long before that.

He can’t sleep. Maybe it’s the paranoia, or the excess of coffee that he drank earlier in the day, but——despite feeling exhausted——Jack’s wired. There’s this horrible tension in his body, all through his chest and shoulders and down into his arms. He’s not sure when, but at some point he’d started clenching his jaw, and it hurts.

Nick doesn’t seem to have any such issues. If anything, Jack’s starting to think Nick can sleep too easily. It makes sense if he’s sick though, doesn’t it? Sick, hurt…

Maybe just not paranoid. Nick doesn’t seem paranoid in the slightest, but maybe that’s just because he’s good at hiding it. Somehow, Jack doubts that’s the truth. He thinks, as he watches Nick’s chest rise and fall, listens to the soft wheeze of his breath come from across the room, that Nick doesn’t worry about half as much as Jack does.

Jack knows he worries too much. Knows he thinks too much, and that’s exactly what he’s doing now. It’s hard to stop, especially when he’s got a clear look at Nick now, passed out in his own bed on the other side of the room.

When he looks at Nick, really looks at him, takes his time and doesn’t snark or yell or anything, he gets this ache in his chest. It’s affectionate, and affection is an unfamiliar feeling enough to make Jack uncomfortable. It’s the same way he felt when——god knows how many years ago this was now——he looked at his girlfriend. He’s only ever had one, and it feels like it was a lifetime ago——because it was, when he was at the beginning of all this, and she’d gotten away from him before someone got her——but he’ll never forget the feeling.

It hurts, just a little. It’s confusing, more than anything, because Jack’s feeling it now, staring across the motel room at Nick, slack with sleep, cast-covered arm at a weird angle, hair messy, facial hair unkempt.

He’s staring at Nick, and he’s got this pit in his chest, the feeling for an emotion he thought he’d turned off years ago come back full force. It’s the same kind of feeling he gets when he wants to kiss someone, the kind of feeling he gets when he’s lonely and knows someone who would make him less so, and it’s appallingly strong.

It’s confusing. A result of trauma bonding or something——he’s never felt remotely this way about a man before. Hasn’t felt this way about anyone at all in a very long time, and he was more than okay with that. Relationships just complicate things, he’d learned that in his 20s and never questioned it, or bothered to try and fight it.

He doesn’t bother fighting it now either. All he’s got to do is give it time. The feeling will pass, and no one will get hurt.

Don’t think about it. That’s all he’s got to do.

***

He’s dozing, slipping in and out of sleep, a few hours later. It’s hard to fall into anything really resembling a restful state, between the change in surroundings, the paranoia that’s knotted it’s way deep into his chest, and the fact that he feels like he’s missing something, he can’t actually seem to sleep for more than a handful of minutes at a time. When he’s not sleeping, he’s not really awake either. Nothing about any of these states is remotely restful.

He’s just… exhausted. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, and unable to commit to either. He can hear the sounds of the motel——creaking water pipes, the groan of flooring as people move over it, the shouting of a malcontented couple in a room or two over. It’s two in the morning, and he just wishes they’d quiet down, but they only seem to be getting louder.

There’s a high pitched sound then, like panic, one that Jack can’t rightfully identify until he realizes it’s coming from him, a compliment to his wheezy breathing. His chest feels tight, and he goes to sit up, but finds that he can’t. He’s——stuck. There’s really no other way to describe it, but it’s what he imagines paralysis must feel like. He’s completely stuck, and it’s absolutely terrifying.

“Hey,” Jack hears from across the room. “Shut the fuck up.” Nick’s voice sounds echoey and far away. Sleepy. Jack must have woken him up.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jack can see Nick pick up his head and turn to look at him.

“Are you okay?”

No. He tries to speak, but he’s all locked up, feels like he’s paralyzed, and if that isn’t the scariest thing in the world Jack doesn’t know what is. All he can do it make a worried sound, and hope that Nick picks up on it. Or hope Nick ignores it——Jack doesn’t know what he wants, only that he wants this to stop.

He can hear the squeal of mattress springs, see movement out of the corner of his eyes, and an approaching shadow. Nick?

Nick. His hair’s all messy, and he’s got shadows under his eyes that seem longer than they were before they’d gone to bed. He looks pissed off as he comes closer, but his expression softens a little when he stops next to the bed. Jack has a feeling that his own expression is bordering on terrified, and that seems to pull some kind of sympathy out of Nick, because the next thing Jack knows Nick has a hand on his arm. He squeezes.

“Hey, can you move?”

Jack can’t respond verbally, much less shake his head. He’s just——shaking. It’s the kind of thing that’s happened to him a few times, but no one’s ever been around to see it before. It happens when he’s stressed, when he hasn’t been sleeping like he should, which is the case more often than it should be. His neck feels strained, his whole body tense, but it’s going to be over soon. Episodes like this never last long.

Nick’s moving again. He’s right next to Jack now, flat on the mattress, hand still on Jack’s arm, moving up and down, up and down. It’s kind of grounding, even though Jack’s still breathing a bit too fast, sounding wheezy and scared in a way that he doesn’t want to in front of Nick——in front of anyone.

“You’re fucking loud,” Nick tells him, sounding half-asleep. The words come out mumbled. “Stop breathing so fast.” He moves his hand down to Jack’s forearm, then his hand. “It’s keeping me awake.”

Finally, Jack finds himself able to move. He twitches his legs, and the second thing he does is grab Nick’s hand, because it’s right there. The feeling is grounding. Nick’s got nice hands, warm with kind of rough palms, because you don’t do their kind of work without a couple callouses.

“You snore louder than this,” Jack finally says, after he’s had a moment to catch his breath. “It——it’s not that loud.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Nick says. “And relax, you need your beauty sleep.”

“Asshole,” Jack hears himself mutter. He yawns though, and something in his jaw pops. Consequences of keeping it clenched all night, he guesses.

Either way, he’s exhausted, and it doesn’t take too long for him to fall back asleep. He blames it on the exhaustion; company’s got nothing to do with it.

***

Nick’s in his bed when he wakes up. Or he’s in Nick’s bed? His memory of the night is fuzzy from a lack of sleep, but he wakes up with Nick next to him, with Nick’s hand holding his own. He never would’ve expected Nick to be as clingy as he is. He never would’ve expected himself to be the same, albeit with far different feelings attached. After a second, Jack pulls his hand away, and Nick, still half-asleep, pats the mattress like he’s looking for Jack.

Upon not finding him, Nick goes back to sleep almost instantly. Shows how much he cares. Shows how worried he is; it’s a wonder he’s survived as long as he has.

“Why are you in my bed?” Jack asks.

Nick’s eyes open a sliver. “Huh?”

“Why are you in my bed?” Jack repeats.

“You were whining in your sleep,” Nick mumbles. “Last night. Had a bad dream or something.”

Part of Jack regrets asking. He finds the answer embarrassing. People like him are supposed to be tough as nails, not crying out in their sleep because they got scared. People like him aren’t supposed to get scared at all.

“So you decided to sleep in my bed?”

“Calmed you down, didn’t it?”

Jack takes a second to think about how to respond, which is all the time that Nick needs to laugh at him.

“I think you’ll survive,” Nick tells him. “It’s not like I’m contagious.” He’s got a little smile on his face when he talks, so soft that it makes something in Jack’s chest ache. He hates it, this starved feeling, and he hates the way that Nick is looking at him, because he knows it’s going to all go away sooner rather than later.

Eventually, Nick will leave, and——as annoying as he can be——Jack will miss him, and he’ll be alone again. And Jack hadn’t minded being alone. He’s never minded being alone until now, but just the thought of it turns his stomach a bit, makes him nervous. It’s got to be something like Stockholm syndrome.

That’s what he tells himself anyway, as he watches Nick get himself out of bed and stretch. His spine pops in a way that makes Jack feel downright envious. He watches Nick walk over to the duffle bag——not remotely containing anything that belongs to him——and dig until he finds a razor. That makes sense, Nick’s gotten scruffy. He hasn’t shaved in a bit, consequences of having a broken arm and not owning a razor. So, naturally he decides to steal Jack’s. Really considerate.

Asshole.

After Nick disappears into the bathroom, Jack rolls back over. He might as well try to get some more sleep.

It’s two minutes before he hears the thunky sound of the razor hitting the sink, and an exclamation of pain from Nick.

“Did you cut yourself?” Jack asks.

“No.”

Nick’s a good liar, but it’s pretty obvious he’s bullshitting, especially when he curses again a few seconds later.

“Do you want help?”

“Fuck you, no.”

Jack rolls out of bed before he can think better of it. When he reaches the bathroom, he finds Nick with three different cuts on his face.

“Give me that,” he says, and takes the razor from Nick before he has an opportunity to tighten his grip on it.

Nick flashes Jack a suspicious expression, but lets him keep the razor. Jack’s not sure whether the look is sarcastic or earnest.

“Don’t cut my throat with that thing,” Nick says. He’s only half sarcastic with it, and Jack can’t understand why. He can’t understand why he’s heard Nick say half the stuff he has today. Surely he has to know Jack doesn’t dislike him, doesn’t want him gone.

“Why would I do that?” Jack asks. He lifts his hand, touches Nick’s jaw, and turns his head so he can get a better angle at the scruff he's supposed to be getting rid of.

Nick doesn’t respond, he just makes kind of a shrugging motion, and looks at Jack like the answer should be more than obvious. He lets Jack move him though, turns his throat up, vulnerable. The sight makes Jack freeze for a second, especially when Nick swallows and he has to watch the motion. Something primal in him, acting forty years younger than it ought to be, wants to lean in and bite. Instead, he focuses on shaving the remaining stubble there.

“We need a plan,” he tells Nick after a moment. “For when they find us again.”

“If they find us again.”

“When.”

Nick frowns and rubs at his jaw. “That’s awfully pessimistic.”

“It’s realistic,” Jack says, and lifts the razor until it’s up against Nick’s face. Gently, he runs it over the scruffy skin on Nick’s jaw. “They’re not going to stop until we’re dead.”

“So we kill them first,” Nick says, matter-of-fact, like it’s just that easy. “Unless you want to keep running? Leave New York?”

“Stop talking,” Jack tells him, then flicks shaving cream off of the razor, and moves it up to Nick’s jaw. He’s not bad at this so far, but it’s weird shaving when it’s not himself. “No, I don’t want to leave.”

Nick looks at him, shrugs. It’s as close to then what do you want to do as he can get without speaking. Jack’s just surprised he actually listened and shut up.

The only inconvenient thing about that is the fact that Jack has to respond, and he’s not sure what to say.

“So we take them out,” Nick says, right as Jack moves the razor. Nick flinches back, and a bead of blood appears on his cheek. “Ow, fuck.”

“I told you to stay still.”

“I’m right though,” Nick counters, making himself part of an entirely different conversation. He is right, Jack knows that much, he just doesn’t want to admit to it.

“It makes sense.”

“If we’re staying in New York, it’s the only way we might get out of this alive. I don’t know about you,” Nick makes a half-shrugging movement. “But I don’t want to die yet.”

Jack nods. “Alright,” he says. “Where should we start?”

Chapter Text

Killing people has always been easy to Jack. Maybe that’s some kind of red flag, maybe it’s a flag red enough that no one should want to touch him, but he swears it’s not because he enjoys it. Very rarely has he ever felt good about taking a life. He’s just——uniquely talented at it. He has a very specific set of skills, or whatever the line is.

Said skills do work the best when he’s in solitude though, and he’s barely had a moment to himself since he dragged Nick out of the apartment. It wasn’t all for nothing——people were tracking them——people still are tracking them——hence why they’re at their fourth motel in as many days. It’s another dingy affair, with carpeting that looks like it’s seen better decades, and at least one roach that Jack’s seen so far.

They’ve faced worse over the past few days, so Jack can’t really find it in him to complain much. It’s not like a bug is going to try and shoot at them. Really, the bug might be the only thing trying not to shoot them at this point. Their former boss has a lot of friends in high places, even more friends in low ones, and everyone seems to be either under his thumb or owes him a favor. Then there’s Dimitri and his goons——the ones that got them into this whole mess in the first place——and, knowing their luck, probably one or two other people they’ve both pissed off over the years.

With all that combined, New York isn’t remotely safe anymore. The state as a whole as much as the city. Then again, Jack’s been thinking that for years, been thinking that nowhere’s safe, been too convinced of that to leave his apartment some days. Even today, his chest had frozen up at the thought of leaving the motel, and he’d nearly felt sick. He’s been feeling sick, feeling exhausted and down, for the past two, near-sleepless days, and it’s only gotten worse. Tonight’s just the worst moment so far in a long line.

That’s why he’s still here, sitting on one of the beds, methodically cleaning his gun while he waits for Nick to return with food. It’s safer to travel together, but Jack hadn’t been able to make himself move, and Nick had made a good case about the two of them being more recognizable if they were together. Still, Jack doesn’t like the idea of Nick out there alone.

Nick, alone, picking up food almost seems worse. Jack doesn’t even know if he should count on Nick to bring anything back——including himself. Part of him is still scared that Nick will run off, especially after hearing what he had when Nick had been talking with June. How Nick managed to get it into his head that Jack doesn’t want him around, Jack has no idea. He thinks he’s been——well, he hasn’t been nice, but he’s been close enough to it.

He’s been civil, and part of him wants to be nice, but it’s hard to remember how to do that sometimes. Something about killing most of the people he’s interacted with over the past decade has made him forget his manners. At best, he’s standoffish, but that’s still better than outright hostile. He likes to think he’s come a long way in the past couple weeks, anyway.

Nick probably knows that he’s not hated. Regardless of if he knows it or not, he’s got no reason to think he is. Sure, they’d gotten off on the wrong foot when they’d first met, but they’re——Jack thinks they’re as close to friends as a fixer can get. He’s become comfortable around Nick, and that’s something he can’t say about anyone in recent memory. He’d like Nick to think of them as friends, but he’ll settle for friendly.

The door squeaks as it opens, and Jack feels himself tense up at the sound. When he looks up, it’s just Nick, looking cold and ticked-off, with a plastic takeout bag filled with food in his good hand.

“Did I pass?” Nick asks as he kicks the door closes behind him.

“Pass what?” Jack asks.

“You were seeing if I was going to make a run for it,” Nick says, like it’s obvious, and maybe it is, but Jack’s so tired that he's lost the ability to care what Nick thinks about that particular issue. The past couple days have taken more out of him than he’d like to admit. Maybe it really is exhausting, or maybe he’s just getting old.

Nick takes off the white baseball cap he’d had on, tosses it on the pathetic little table in the room, and sets the bag of food on Jack’s legs before sitting down next to him. He’s so close that their shoulders almost touch.

“No,” Jack admits. “I was just tired.”

“You haven’t moved since I left,” Nick says. He turns sideways, toward Jack, and starts untying the top of the bag. After he gets it open, he grabs Jack’s gun, stares him down for a second. “Eat, you’ll feel better.”

Jack grabs a container out of the bag, looks at it. Indian food. He must look at it, without doing anything, for a solid ten seconds before Nick takes matters into his own hands and shoves a styrofoam container and a fork into Jack’s hands.

Jack stares down at it.

“Jesus,” Nick says. “What is wrong with you?” He pops the styrofoam box open, reveals bread and something with chicken in it. “Do I need to feed you?” He takes the rest of the food and sets it on the wobbly little side table they’re been provided, and then grabs something for himself from the bag. At least he’s eating.

Jack couldn’t be less hungry. He knows he needs to eat, but he’s sick to his stomach, such to his chest from worry, and he just can’t make himself lift the fork.

“Jack.” Nick snaps his fingers in front of Jack’s face.

“Yeah?”

Nick just sighs. He takes Jack’s fork, stabs it into the chicken.

“Not eating is my thing. Stop stealing my shit.”

Fuck you, Jack thinks, but he eats anyway. He does it methodically, without tasting much. Nick watches him the whole time.

Not so fun to be on the flip side of that situation.

***

Jack hardly sleeps that night. He spends most of it tossing and turning, or watching Nick, who seems like he’s sleeping without any difficulty. His head is tipped back, his mouth is open, and Jack can see the white glint of Nick’s teeth in the light filtering in from outside. He does have nice teeth, like he'd said.

He watches Nick’s chest rise and fall, matches his breath with Nick’s, and tries his best not to imagine how it would feel to put his arm around Nick’s waist. It’s all futile anyway——thoughts that go nowhere. Jack’s never looked at a man like that anyway, and he’s certain that Nick hasn’t either. It’s just the proximity——that and the loneliness——that’s doing things to him, and he’s so lonely that he aches.

He’s always been good at being alone. Never needed much of anyone or anything, but now he can’t help but want. It’s made his chest hurt, woken something up inside of him that he thought he’d killed a long time ago. It’s something he should try and kill again now, but he’s worried that he’s grown too soft.

Another minute, and he makes himself roll over to stare at the wall. At a certain point, it’s just too hard to stare at something he knows he can’t, and shouldn’t, have.

Whether he can or not, there’s no point in doing anything. Both of them will likely be dead inside a week.

***

They’re on the street the next day, late afternoon, and Jack’s so nervous that he’s been clenching his jaw since this morning. He doesn’t like the idea of trusting people, or even pretending to do so, but Nick is insistent that he knows a guy who knows a thing or two that could help them. Insider stuff. Better yet, he’s willing to meet to exchange it.

Nick had wanted to go alone, but Jack hadn’t let him. The way he’d put it, either Nick let him tag along, or Jack followed him in secret. Eventually, Nick had relented, which leads them to the street.

“How do you know you can trust this guy?” Jack asks.

“I’ve gone through him for a lot of things,” Nick says. “He likes me too much to turn on me.”

“And how much is this costing you?”

“A favor,” Nick says.

“A favor?”

“He’s lonely,” Nick says. “I’m good at keeping people company,” he continues. “It’s not that much worse than playing a honeypot.”

Jack does a double take. “You’re selling yourself?” That’s——that can’t be right.

“It’s not a big deal.” Nick shrugs. “I’ve sucked someone off for less.”

There’s a lot of responses that Jack could have to that. Some good, some bad, and he’s not sure which one is correct. As far as he knows, there’s no rules in the book for what to do when you figure out your friend——partner in crime——whatever Nick is——is selling himself for information.

“You——what?” Jack finds himself asking.

Nick looks at him, wary. “I don’t mind,” he says after a second. “Got plenty of experience with it.”

“You’re gay?” Jack asks, stopped in his tracks. And maybe Nick’s not, definitely that’s the wrong thing to say, but it’s the only really coherent thought that Jack can pull out of his head.

Suddenly, Nick looks mortified. He curses under his breath. It looks almost like some of the color has gone out of his face——like he’s scared or something, but he’s got no reason to be.

“You didn’t know?”

“Obviously not,” Jack says. He feels shocked, it’s a strange, dull kind of feeling. Somehow, this is affecting him more than being shot at would.

“I thought I was pretty fucking up front about it,” Nick says in a flat tone.

“I had no idea.” Jack shakes his head. “You didn’t say anything, you don’t look——“

“I don’t look gay?” Nick scoffs. “You’re one to talk, in that goddamn turtleneck.”

Jack can’t stop himself from glaring. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Nick just looks at him, up and down, and raises an eyebrow. Really?

“I’m not gay,” Jack snaps.

“I don’t care,” Nick says in return. “As long as you don’t deck me for sucking dick.”

“You thought I was homophobic?”

“You stare at me like you want to kill me,” Nick says. “I’m good at reading people——if you’re not homophobic, you definitely hate me.”

“You’re terrible at reading people,” Jack replies. He’s not staring at Nick like he wants to kill him. Really, he’s not sure what he wants to do with Nick, but he certainly doesn’t want to get rid of him in any capacity. He’d sooner kiss the man than kill him. As it is, he’s starting to think he’d like to kiss Nick regardless. The thought is unsettling, but Jack can’t say he’d be adverse to it. Nick’s got nice lips, and Jack would be more than willing to——

He has to keep himself composed. It’s probably nothing like that. Jack’s just lonely is all, he’s been lonely for a long time without realizing it, and now anyone he spends too much time around is starting to look appealing. That has to be it. He’s never been attracted to a man before.

He’s pretty sure, anyway. If he is or isn’t, that doesn’t really matter, because this isn’t the time or place for a crisis of self. Their lives could be in danger——they are danger——this is the last thing that should be on his mind.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Jack says after a second. “Jesus Christ. Nick, I——“ He stops himself. It must be too abrupt, because Nick gives him a look. A shade of confusion rather than the pissed off one one he’s been wearing for the past few minutes.

“What?” Nick asks. He almost looks like he’s bracing himself. For what, Jack doesn’t know, but Nick seems like a kicked dog right now.

“I like you,” Jack admits. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” He asks. He doesn’t want to sound pleading, and he’s not——he’s really not——but he’d like to hear Nick say it back to him.

Nick nods after a second. He seems stiff, but Jack can’t tell if that’s because he’s still on edge, or because he’s hurting. “Sure,” he says. “Friends.”

“Partners,” Jack says, remembering the kid’s words from so many weeks ago.

“Don’t push your luck.” Nick glances around the street, keeps them hustling forward. Jack hasn’t noticed anyone tailing them yet——but it’s going to happen eventually. When they do notice, it better be in a public place. The more witnesses around, the less likely anyone is to die. Those are odds that Jack likes a lot more than ducking into some back alley or empty side street and hoping to come out on top in a shootout.

He’s still looking when Nick grabs his elbow and pulls him into a somewhat busy bar. It’s good cover, so long as they leave before the place gets too empty. They can stay for a minute though, regroup and get a move on before anyone has a chance to tag them. Neither of them have been hit yet, which is almost a miracle. They’re not bad at what they do——sure, Jack’s finally let himself be worn down enough that he can admit Nick is good at his job——but the people after them aren’t anything to sneeze at either.

Fixer-on-fixer violence never ends well. Whether it’s simultaneous destruction or a fucking train derailing, it’s never pretty, and almost always ends bad for all parties involved. Statistics like that make Jack wonder if he and Nick are doing anything by running, or if they’re only prolonging the inevitable. If they want to live through this, they’ve got a host of enemies to dispatch, probably some former co-workers to kill as well.

Jack’s thinking on this as Nick guides him to a shadowed corner in the back of the bar and finds a table that is empty and has a good vantage point. They both sit, and Nick’s eyes lock on the doorway. Jack finds himself watching Nick, who eventually seems the bar safe——safe enough——and relaxes. Only after some of the tension has left his shoulders does he turn to look at Jack.

“We need a plan,” Jack says after Nick’s eyes are on him.

“What?”

“We need a plan of attack.”

“Don’t we have one?”

Jack resists the urge to roll his eyes. “‘Kill everyone who wants us dead’ isn’t a plan.”

Now it’s Nick’s turn to cast Jack a look. “Hey, give us some credit. We made a list.”

They had made a list, a physical one. Nick had taken the motel notepad and a mostly-empty pen, and scribbled down every name that both of them could think of in nearly illegible left-handed scrawl. His handwriting had been worse on account of the fact that he’d taken two more pain pills than he was supposed to, and because he’d developed a tendency to laugh at things he shouldn’t in his impaired state. That had only made his writing worse, but the sound of his laugh had been borderline intoxicating, and Jack hadn’t wanted to calm Nick down in the slightest.

“Who’s on the list?”

“You don’t remember?” Nick asks.

“Not the whole thing,” Jack says.

Nick shrugs in response. “The usual suspects.”

“Dimitri,” Jack says. He definitely remembers that one, written in capital letters and underlined twice. Dimitri’s been an issue for longer than Jack would care to admit. Both of them have done jobs at Dimitri’s behest over the years, but Jack’s only worked for him unwillingly the past two years, on account of leverage Dimitri is holding over his head. Files, video tapes where he was caught disposing of a man still classified as missing, the kind of things that could easily get him locked up.

Not to mention he’s the reason they’re in this whole mess to begin with. Jack wouldn’t be here right now if Dimitri hadn’t grabbed Nick, broken his arm, and cut up the rest of him, in an effort to figure out Jack and the kid’s whereabouts. He’s the man who wants them dead the most, so it’s only logical for them to get rid of him as soon as possible. That, and Jack wants some kind of revenge for what that fucker did to Nick.

“That’s all?” Nick asks.

“I’m thinking,” Jack replies.

“Ziegler,” Nick says after a second, and Jack nods.

Sean Ziegler——their former employer. He’s about 20 years younger than they are, inherited this whole line of work from his mother——who Jack had worked for before she’d passed away——and is almost incompetent at running it. But the thing is, no matter how incompetent he is, a man in Ziegler’s position has power, and that’s more than enough to make him dangerous. Near-lethal. He can be as weak as he wants, but he knows just about anyone in the city who would be willing to kill for money——and he has the ability to pay.

If he goes down, Jack has a feeling that half of their problems will be solved in a near-instant. Almost anyone working for him won’t hold a grudge against Nick and Jack if they take him out, Jack’s sure they’ve all thought of it over the years——but Dimitri is a whole different story. He wants them dead, his people are loyal to the end, and there’s a list of them nearly a mile long.

“Lagrange,” Jack says, and then his brain stutters out. The fog isn’t as bad as it was yesterday, but it’s still there. He’s not built for this kind of living; he’s too old and too worried and too tired for everything going on here.

Nick frowns, pulls a folded sheet of notepaper, and passes it to Jack. “Here’s the rest of it,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to think of their names.” He pats Jack on the shoulder, and stands. “I’m getting a drink.”

“That's not a good idea,” Jack says.

“I said I’m getting a drink,” Nick replies. “Not getting drunk, huge difference. You want anything?”

Jack shakes his head, waves Nick away and watches as he walks to the bar. Then Jack unfolds the paper, and looks down at it. A slew of scribbled names greet him, all various levels of incomprehensible. Under Ziegler, there are three names. Under Dimitri, there’s so many that Nick had almost run out of room at the bottom of the page. Plenty of Dimitri’s people had died on that night in December, but his operation is almost uncomfortably big, and just looking at the number of people they’re going to have to drop is somewhat intimidating.

Jack can kill people, but he’s worried about that many people having eyes out to kill him. He’s still looking at the list, trying to match faces with names and vague descriptions scribbled next to them, when Nick comes back with two glasses of amber liquid. He sets them both down, then wordlessly slides one over toward Jack before sitting next to him. He leans in so that their shoulders brush, and Jack feels himself tense up. Jesus, no wonder Nick thought Jack hated him.

“Who are we taking out first?” Nick asks, then takes a sip of his drink.

“Dimitri,” Jack says. He has the feeling that it’s going to be harder to get rid of Dimitri and his cronies than he’d like, and, if they’re going to die, he’d rather just get it over with. Anyway, Dimitri is more organized than Ziegler. It’ll take more time for him to recruit people and work out contracts than it will for Dimitri to sick his hounds on them.

Nick grimaces. “You’re sure we can’t talk it out with him?”

“Do you want to try?” Jack asks, raises his eyebrows.

“No, but——“ Nick takes another sip of his drink. “These are a lot of people we’ve got to take out.”

Jack’s hand finds its way to his drink. “You picked now to grow a conscience?”

“No,” Nick says quickly. “I’m worried,” he continues, “that we’re too old for this.”

Jack takes a drink.

“You’re worried too.” Nick glances at him. “That we’re too slow, that we’ve gotten sloppy.”

“I’m not worried,” Jack insists.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying——“

“Then drop the tough-guy shit,” Nick snaps. “How many ways do we walk out of this mess alive?”

Jack tightens his grip on the glass. “Not enough.”

He’s run the scenario over in his mind what must be over a dozen times at this point, and it never solves itself well. One of them always gets hurt worse than Jack wants to consider——sometimes both of them. Even more often, they die. Even if they leave New York, they die.

“But we make it out?” Nick asks.

“One of us,” Jack replies. “Sometimes.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nick says. “It’s not that bad. You’re just——“

“I’m not pessimistic.”

“Fucking paranoid,” Nick corrects. “We’re both getting out of this alive,” he insists.

Jack sips his drink, and wishes he could agree. Finally, he makes himself nod.

Nick downs the rest of his drink in one go. “Give me half an hour,” he tells Jack. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back soon.”

“Where are you going?” Jack asks. It comes out too quickly, maybe a little needy, but it’s better than please don’t leave me, which is his second thought.

“Taking care of business,” Nick replies, and makes an obscene gesture with his left hand.

Jack grimaces.

“Don’t look so jealous,” Nick says, and then turns and walks his way out of the bar, just like that. Jack doesn’t follow him——he didn’t want to start anything——but he does watch Nick like a hawk until he’s gone.

***

It takes forty five minutes for Nick to get back. When he does, he has an accomplished smile on his face, and something in his hands. The information, probably. In file form, it looks like. That’s a good thing, because they’re running mostly analogue.

“You’re late,” Jack says when Nick comes over to the table.

“You’re drunk,” Nick replies. His eyes dart down to the table, where Jack has accumulated another glass. There was a third one, but they’d come and taken it away.

“Tipsy,” Jack says. “Maybe.” It’s kind of nice, he hasn’t really been drunk in a while. Hasn’t felt safe enough to drink more than a few sips of any kind of alcohol. He still doesn’t feel safe, but he’s so exhausted that he can’t bother caring.

“Hypocrite,” Nick says. “We’re going back to the motel.” He grabs Jack’s arm and pulls him up.

“You’re gonna have to pay the tab,” Jack tells Nick after he’s balanced himself. Maybe he’s more intoxicated than he thought.

“I’ve got it,” Nick tells him, and drags the both of them to pay. “Jesus,” he says to Jack as they’re walking. “You lightweight.”

“I could drink you under a table,” Jack says.

“Bullshit,” Nick replies, and sets about paying——all cash. He leaves the change, pulls Jack along and toward the door. “Just try and stay on your feet.”

“I’m not that intoxicated,” Jack says, rolls his eyes, and——

Trips as he exits the bar.

Nick laughs at him for half the walk back to the motel.

***

The cold has sobered Jack up a little more by the time they make it back to the motel. He’s still not quite right, but he hasn’t been right all week, and Nick’s got a hand on his arm, which——it helps. It’s a little pathetic, but it helps, and he suddenly feels cold when Nick removes his hand to open the door to their motel room. It’s only a little warmer inside than it is outside, but it’s better than nothing. Most importantly, it’s low profile.

That’s been one of the only things keeping them alive so far, but all it’s done is buy them time. Sooner or later, their numbers will be up, and Jack can only hope they’ll figure out exactly what they have to do before then.

“How long ‘till that’s off?” Jack asks, and tips his head at Nick’s cast as he shuts and double-locks the door. He wants Nick back in real fighting form sooner rather than later. It doesn’t help their current situation that he can barely use one of his hands.

“A few weeks,” Nick says. “I think we can cut it off sooner, I feel fine——“

“I’m not cutting your cast off,” Jack says. “You’ll just break your arm again.”

“I was offering a solution,” Nick says curtly.

“Shit solution,” Jack says. “And I don’t want to go back to June’s and tell her you broke your arm again.”

“I’ll just make you set it for me,” Nick says.

“I’m not doing that,” Jack replies.

“Then I’m shooting left handed,” Nick says. “And we’re fucked, according to you.”

“At least I don’t have to hear you complain about your broken arm all over again.”

“Have it your way,” Nick says. “But we’re both definitely dying now.” He tsks. “All that work for nothing.”

He’s sarcastic——he has to be, with the look on his face. Doesn’t mean that Jack’s taking the statement any less seriously.

“Don’t look so worried,” Nick tells him. He strips off his jacket, throws it over the motel room chair. “We’ll be fine.” He kicks off his shoes and turns back to face Jack.

“We’re not making it through this,” Jack mumbles, mostly to himself.

Nick smacks Jack on the back of the head. It doesn’t hurt, but it surprises him, makes him flinch.

“Ow!” He snaps. “Fucker.”

“Keep that shit to yourself,” Nick says, and then pitches backward, onto the bed that isn’t covered in guns, clothes——the contents of their entire lives as of now. Nick stretches like a cat, arches his back and winces. “I’m going to sleep. Don’t do anything stupid.”

With that, he fumbles his way under the covers, rolls over and throws an arm over his face. As he does, Jack fumbles with his own jacket and shoes. The amount that he struggles leads him to believe he’s a little more intoxicated than he’d thought——or maybe he’s just that damn tired. That being tired in any and every sense of the word.

Jack folds his jacket halfheartedly, throws it on the bed not housing Nick——technically Jack’s bed, but he doesn’t want to sleep in it. It’s easier, and more comfortable, for him to sleep next to Nick.

But Nick is on Jack’s side of the bed. He’s probably happy to have some space to himself for once, and Jack’s an adult——64 fucking years old, he can sleep by himself.

“I can feel you staring at me,” Nick says. “Clear your shit off the other bed if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Not uncomfortable,” Jack responds. “Just cold.” Cold, and sick of sleeping poorly every night. He thinks——he’s worried——that sleeping next to Nick has made him almost reliant on company to actually be able to rest. Even if he wanted to be uncomfortable about sharing a bed with Nick, he’s more displeased by the idea of not sleeping next to Nick. Funny how things work like that.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Move over,” Jack says. It’s half a question, half a request. Either way, Nick obeys, he scoots himself to the side, rolls onto his back, and flips up the covers to make room for Jack. He’s never felt nearly so nervous laying down in bed as he does right now, but he goes through with it anyway. Nick has a soft expression on his face that Jack wants to kiss into a smile.

That’s what the feeling is then, officially. Attraction. He likes Nick, which means he likes men, and something about that realization is unsettling. It makes his stomach turn a little, the idea that he could be——that he is——attracted to men. He’d gotten over his issues with the idea of other people being gay a long time ago, but never paused long enough to consider he might have to do the same thing with himself.

He shouldn’t, really. Fixers don’t do well in relationships of any kind, much less the kind of partnership that Jack is thinking of right now. Being with someone is nothing more than a weakness, a liability, regardless of who that person is. Knowing that makes it all to easy to stay inside, keep his head down, and not so much as talk to anyone for the fear of getting an idea of what he’s been missing.

But now, in bed, with Nick watching him, a soft and searching expression on his face, Jack has the horrible realization that he thinks he knows exactly what he’s been missing out on, and he wants it. He wants it so badly that his chest aches when he lets himself consider the idea, and he’s doing nothing but hurting himself by letting himself lean into the idea.

He’s feeding a delusion, feeding a want, and it’s all going to crash down sooner or later. More likely than not, it’s going to hurt him, and he hates being hurt.

It’s won’t be Nick’s fault. It’s Jack’s, through and through, it’s his own damn fault that he had to go fall in——in something——with the first person he spent more than a couple hours with in god knows how many years. Not Nick’s fault that Jack’s so damn susceptible to the idea of kindness.

He could kiss Nick right now, reach over, cup his cheek, and gently press their lips together like he’s been wanting to. Just the thought makes his mouth dry, makes something starved for love and affection rear its head.

“Nick?”

Nick raises his eyebrows. “I’m listening.”

What Jack wants to stay, what he wants to do, sticks in his throat. Part of him doesn’t even know what he wants, just that he does.

“Roll over,” is what he eventually says.

Nick does, rolls away from Jack without a word, grabs one of the pillows on the bed and holds it against his chest. He sighs, heavy, like a dog, and there’s a rustling as he draws his legs halfway up to his chest. After a second, Jack rolls onto his side, close to Nick, and——with hesitation——lays his arm over Nick, over his chest, pulls Nick back flush against him.

“Oh,” Nick says. “Hello.”

“I can move——“

“No,” Nick interrupts. “It’s okay. You’re warm.” He leans back against Jack, and sighs contentedly. He’s solid enough, which is reassuring, but he’s not really warm at all, and feels thin.

Jack can feel him breathe, and it’s strange. Unfamiliar, but kind of comforting. He’s gotten too used to sleeping next to someone in the time Nick has been with him, but not used to being nearly this close. He can feel Nick’s heart beating against his hand, steady and strong.

“That’s nice,” Nick mumbles. “You’re soft.” He tips his head back a bit, and Jack can smell cheap motel shampoo on him.

“Thanks a lot.”

“It’s a good thing,” Nick says. “A lot more comfortable than being bones,” he adds after a second. He straightens out one of his legs, hooks it back so it tangles with Jack’s legs. “Sure I’m helping you warm up?”

“No,” Jack says. Jesus, Nick’s legs are cold.

“Do you want to move?” Nick asks.

“No,” Jack repeats, after a second’s hesitation.

“Your loss,” Nick responds. “Goodnight, Jack.”

It’s the best night of rest Jack has had in a long time.

Chapter Text

They start with Dimitri.

That’s actually something of a lie. They start in bed. Jack had rolled almost on top of Nick at some point in the middle of the night, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed about it. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to——not without waking up Nick——because Nick’s grabbing him like he doesn’t want to let go, and Jack can’t help but feel a sense of——relief. Something like it, at the idea that Nick wants him here. Of course, it’s just an idea, but Jack will take what he can get. He’s spent most of his life grasping at straws anyway.

He’s more than happy to take Nick where Nick is willing to meet him, because at least it's something. He's significantly less happy to be the one to wake Nick up and detach the other man from him, but they have work to do, no matter what the endearingly groggy expression on Nick’s face seems to want to suggest.

Nick’s been waking up more slowly recently. It’s just been the past few days, but Jack has noticed. Usually, Nick would be up in a flash, no matter how slow and careful Jack’s movement was. The last couple days, he’s been difficult to wake up and worse to drag out of bed. Maybe he’s finally starting to relax around Jack, or maybe the exhaustion of everything they’ve been through is hitting him again, wearing him down. At this point, it could easily be either.

Jack braces himself above Nick, lifts himself up and rolls onto his back, off Nick, who mumbles something in his sleep and reaches out feel for Jack. He ends up grabbing the blanket, and then sighs heavily. Eyes still closed, Nick reaches out again, and ends up grabbing Jack’s forearm, and squeezes.

Jack feels the tips of his ears go hot, and irritatedly thinks he's too old to be having reactions like that. Wordlessly, he shakes off Nick’s hand, and hauls himself out of bed. His body crackles as he stands. It doesn’t exactly hurt, but he feels stiff all over. Those are the consequences of sleeping on something——someone——hard and bony, he supposes.

“Get up,” he tells Nick, with little politeness in his voice.

“Come back,” Nick counters. “I’m cold.” He draws one of his legs up to his chest, curls into himself.

In response, Jack yanks the covers off of Nick. It’s juvenile, but so is Nick. They both are, to an extent. Maybe that’s because Jack was never the best at communication, never did much talking with other people after he graduated high school, and never really learned to act like an adult about it.

“I’ll buy you coffee if you get up,” Jack says.

“How about breakfast?” Nick replies, eyes barely open.

Jack pauses. “You’re eating?” He asks, which might be exactly the wrong thing to say, but Nick doesn’t seem disturbed. All he does is squint at Jack with an exasperated expression.

“If I’m going to die——“

“You’re not going to die.”

Nick glares. “If I’m going to die today,” he repeats. “I want to do it on a full stomach.”

I’m not going to let you die, Jack thinks. He doesn’t say it, because he knows the words will mean next to nothing to Nick——promises like that always ring hollow to Jack, anyway. You can only try to control so much of the situation——you can only trust yourself to do so much.

He doesn’t like making promises like the one he wants to make now, too many of them have gone poorly in the past. Besides, even if he did want to tell Nick that things were going to shake out just fine, Nick’s smart enough to know when Jack’s bullshitting.

“Fine,” Jack says. “I’ll get you breakfast.”

Nick winks at him. “That’s sweet,” he responds. “A final meal.” His tone is light, almost joking, but the sentence makes Jack’s body tense up, makes him worry.

“You’re just bait,” Jack says, though there’s hardly anything just about the situation——in any sense of the word. “It’s not——you’re not going to die.”

Nick yawns so hard that his jaw cracks. “Why do I have to be the bait?”

“I’m not the one with a broken arm,” Jack says. “Stop worrying, you’re not going to get hurt. I’ll be right there.”

“And you think I trust you?”

Jack shrugs. “Yes.” He picks Nick’s discarded jacket up and tosses it at Nick. “I know you do. Now get up.”

Nick groans, but other than that he doesn’t protest again.

***

Nick is bait. It had been finalized, begrudgingly, over pancakes, and now he’s standing in a disused, dead-end street right outside of the bulk of the city——the only place that Dimitri would agree to meet, in order to, as he had cryptically put it, resolve their differences. That means killing Nick, Jack would assume. Not before they get Jack’s whereabouts out of him though, which gives them time and leverage to work with–-though admittedly it's not much.

They have to be efficient, and they have to be unexpected, hence why Jack has squirreled himself away in a mostly disused former-office building. Has a good view of the area, a gun, and enough bullets to more than take out the two other men that Dimitri had agreed to limit himself to. Hopefully, soon enough, all three of them will be dead. Hopefully Dimitri will agree to the terms and conditions that had been set. Otherwise. they're almost certainly dead.

The whole thing is going to sick Dimitri’s men on them worse than they already have been——which is saying something——and Jack can’t say he’s looking forward to that, but it does mean that they’re just that much closer to not having to deal with this shit ever again. Two weeks or less and they’ll be done. Able to finally take a rest.

They’ll part ways. They have to, don’t they? No matter how much Jack would like to stay with Nick, that’s just not how these things work. That’s never how they’ve worked, and he’s got a feeling that the rules of the game aren’t changing any time soon, certainly not for them. It does more harm than good to stay with someone, and Jack’s sure that won’t change even if most of the people who would want them dead are gone. The world they live in is a dangerous place, having connections makes it more so. All it does is hurt people, and make Jack even more nervous than he usually is.

Jack can’t really remember the last time he felt safe. There have been times where he hasn’t felt in imminent danger, but that’s not the same thing as feeling safe. That’s not the same thing as feeling relaxed. He thinks he’ll always be looking over his shoulder. It’s just his nature, has been since he was twenty. Sure, people have told him that he’s paranoid before, that it’s not a healthy way to live, but they haven’t been in the situations that Jack has. Even other people that have been in his line of work——back when he still talked to people who did what he does——they’ve looked at him like he’s unreasonable.

Jack likes to think that Nick’s like him. Cautious——not paranoid. Though, the way that Nick looks now, the way he’s holding himself——broken arm in a sling, tucked tight against his body——the way he’s pacing——all of it makes him look paranoid. Jack watches as Nick pulls his flip phone out of his pocket, looks at it, and then goes to put it back before stopping himself and flipping it open.

A few seconds later, Jack feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He takes his eyes off of Nick for a split second to answer the call, then lifts the phone to his ear.

“What?”

“I don’t think he’s showing,” Nick says. There’s a tightness to his voice, a kind of nervousness to it that Jack hasn’t heard before. “Can we just get the fuck out of here——“

“Give it a minute,” Jack says. “Calm down——“

“I am calm.”

“You sound scared,” he tells Nick. The first response he gets is a pissed sounding scoff.

“I’m not,” Nick insists. Jack watches him turn on his heel, pace forward five steps, and turn right back around.

“Then why are you pacing?”

Abruptly, Nick stops. Jack hears the crackle of a sigh on the other end of the line.

“You really want to know?”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to sigh——he hadn’t been prepared for the melodrama. This is Nick though, so he should've been. “Sure.”

“I’m not scared of dying,” is the eventual response. “But I don’t want them to get to me before you get to them.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jack says——the same exact thing he’s been repeating since they came up with this plan. The exact same words he’s been repeating to anyone he’s working around since-–Jesus–-the 90s. He needs to get a new line.

“Not if you’re slow,” Nick tells him. “Not if you can’t hit your target. Shit, Jack——“ Jack watches as Nick kicks at the sidewalk in frustration. “I’m hurt,” he says, sounding more calm than he has all day, and perfectly matter-of-fact. “I’m hurt and I’m tired, and if they get their hands on me again it’s only going to be so long before they break me. And it’s going to hurt.”

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

“If you hadn’t gotten me when you did, they were going to start taking fingers,” Nick says, almost snaps. “I like my fingers, Jack. I want to keep them.”

Jack watches as Nick turns on his heel again.

“And if they are coming, they better hurry up.” Nick glances up in the direction of Jack as he speaks. “My back is fucking killing me.”

“Do you always complain this much?”

Jack hears Nick laugh, soft and crackly. It’s a gentle sound. “Whenever I have someone to talk to.”

Nick rocks back on his heels, a big enough movement for Jack to see from a couple floors up. He turns his head until he’s looking right at Jack, zeroed in even though Jack knows he should be all but invisible from where he’s standing now.

“Stop looking at me,” Jack tells him. Not that he really wants Nick to look away; even if he can’t really see Nick’s face clearly, there’s something nice about knowing Nick’s searching him out, trying to find his shadow somewhere in the dilapidated building.

But it’s a good way to give away his location. It’s a better way for Nick to get distracted, and that can only lead to him getting hurt. That’s the last thing Jack wants right now.

“What, are you shy?” Nick asks. “I’m not looking at you, anyway. There’s some birds a couple windows over. They’re much more interesting than you.”

Jack looks to his left, out the window, in an attempt to see what Nick is talking about. The angle is bad, so he can’t see what Nick is talking about, which is all the cause he needs to call bullshit.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“And you’re no fun,” Nick replies. Then he freezes, Jack can see——or at least infer——the sudden tenseness that enter’s Nick’s body as he looks to the right. He laughs, a fake, put-on thing that makes Jack nervous. “Someone’s here. Talk to you later.”

Jack can only hope that will turn out to be true. Dimitri’s guys don’t fuck around, and the only way they’ve survived this long is——as much as Jack hates to admit it——partially due to luck.

They’ve been very, very lucky these past weeks, to the point that Jack is afraid it’s going to run out at any moment. Just to be safe, he sets his phone on the windowsill, then double-checks the mechanisms of his gun, and looks out at the alley just in time to see Nick wave at three of people who want nothing more than to see the both of them dead.

If Jack squints, he can pick out guns at the goons’ sides. Dimitri will have one too, though Jack can’t see it. He knows it’s there, and he knows——twenty or thirty years ago——that Dimitri was a good shot, but there’s a reason he gets other people to do his dirty work now. His eyes aren’t what they used to be, and his aim isn’t as steady as it once was.

It’s not much, but it’s something that Jack can use. Hopefully it’s something that Nick knows how to use too——hopefully it’s something that Nick knows. Jack had just assumed——

They’re talking now. Jack can hear the soft words, crackling a bit from the lack of reception, trickling up to him from his phone. Nick had never hung up. Smart.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” he hears Nick say.

Someone–Dimitri, Jack is pretty sure–laughs. It’s a sound turned fizzy and distorted by static. “And here we thought you would do the same.”

Jack’s been scared of Dimitri for longer than he hasn’t. He’s a powerful man who could probably have anyone he wanted killed dead within an hour or two, but Jack’s never bothered worrying about what Dimitri could do if it didn’t specifically concern him. Maybe it’s just because he hasn’t found it in him to care about anyone since long before he met Dimitri, maybe it’s because Nick isn’t nearly so bad as Jack had initially thought he was, but Jack suddenly finds himself with a knot of nerves in his stomach. He hates it.

“You can’t blame me for thinking about it,” Nick says. “After your guys cut me up like deli meat.”

Again, Dimitri laughs. It makes Jack’s skin crawl. He takes his gun, raises it, and starts to aim. His gut says to go for Dimitri–-cut the head off the snake–-but he knows Dimitri has his people do his dirty work for a reason. He’s gotten slow in his older age, he’s not nearly as handy with a weapon as he had been, and that’s something Jack can use to his advantage.

It makes more sense to take out one of his goons, but Jack doesn’t know which one. Both of them are close enough to Nick that they could hurt him badly or quickly, and Jack wants to trust Nick to take care of himself–he does, to an extent–but he wants to keep Nick safe if he can.

“It was nothing personal,” Dimitri says. “Just business. Now, you tell me where your friend is, and we let you go.” He claps his hands together. “No harm no foul.”

Jack can practically feel Nick’s urge to roll his eyes.

“No harm?” He asks. “I almost died. I don’t feel like doing that again.”

“Then give us your friend’s location,” one of the cronies says.

“He’s not my friend,” Nick says, and laughs. It’s a surprisingly authentic sound that makes something in Jack’s chest sink. “You think I’d be selling him out if we were friends?”

“Yes,” comes the swift reply.

“That stings.” Nick shifts uncomfortably on his feet, takes a small step back. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just put down your guns first.” He pulls his jacket open a bit. “I’m not armed, you shouldn’t be either.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Dimitri says.

“Then good fucking luck finding him,” Nick snaps. He steps farther back into the alley, and Dimitri’s goons follow. Dimitri stands back, hand on what Jack presumes is a gun.

Jack raises his own gun, and shoots the man closest to Nick. It’s a clean shot, one and done, and the man drops like a stone, accompanied by a pretty spray of blood from his skull. Jack can hear the thud of his body from the window–it’s a sickening sound, always has been–but he’s not going to focus on that. He’s got two more people to take down, probably more on the way. Unless he can get both of them before they call in backup.

He takes aim at Dimitri, who has drawn his gun, and fires. It’s not the recoil, so it must be his shaking hands-–damn them-–that take it from a clean death to a hit to the side, the shoulder. Dimitri cries out in pain, and the sound is bad enough to make his remaining goon look back in surprise.

That gives Nick more than enough time to tackle him, use his good hand to take a handful of the man’s hair, and slam it into the concrete and shattered glass bits that make up the ground. Jack can’t focus on that though, not when Dimitri is lifting his gun again, and–

Jack empties his clip; Dimitri goes down in a volley of bullets. He hits the ground with a wet noise, with a sound of pain, and that makes Nick look up. He drops the head of the man he’d been attacking, and scrambles upright, to his feet. He stumbles back a second, good hand propped against his back, where he’d been hurt back in October. He glances up for half a second, in Jack’s direction, and then takes off sprinting, out of the alley, away from the scene of the crime.

After a second’s hesitation, Jack shoves his gun into the inside pocket of his jacket. He grabs his phone, holds it up against his ear, just in case Nick decides to say something, and then takes off in the direction of the stairs. They’ll meet out on the street, probably. Or at the motel room. The sooner the better, Jack doesn’t like not having Nick in his sight, especially since he really doesn’t have a weapon on him. Clearly he doesn’t need one based on the way he’d caved in that other man’s skull, but Jack is going to worry–it’s just in his nature.

At this point, not worrying about Nick would feel strange. It’s become a constant thing, in the back of his mind if not the front. Maybe it’s a product of his anxious tendencies, or maybe this is just what it feels like to care–really care–about someone beyond caring about the job. Jack has a terrible feeling that it’s the latter.

He moves down the stairs quickly, almost trips over his own feet more than once, and crashes into the door to the street outside in order to open it.

“Nick?” He says into his phone. “Where are you?”

“Down a couple streets,” Nick replies after a second. He’s breathing hard, Jack can hear it through the phone. “I took a left–fuck, no–I took a right out of the alley. Keep walking and you’ll find me.”

Jack nods, then realizes Nick would not be able to see that, and says “I’ll be there soon.” He turns in the direction Nick had taken, and starts walking. “Were you hurt?”

“No.”

With that, Nick hangs up. Jack keeps checking over his shoulder as he walks in the direction of his partner, still nervous. That was far easier than Jack had thought it would be–which means the fight isn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. Jack shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, forms fists as he looks around for Nick.

He finds him after a couple minutes, leaning up against the brick wall of a coffee shop. He’s not breathing hard anymore, and walks over to Jack so nonchalantly that one would think he hadn’t just had a brush with death.

“Next time, you’re being the bait,” he tells Jack as he falls in stride with him. “And we’re cutting this cast off the second we’re back at the motel.”

Jack can’t say he has it in him to argue–at least with the first order of business. And, well, he knows he’d lose an argument with the second one. It’s not his arm that’s broken. If Nick wants to fuck it up, that’s his decision. Jack can always say “I told you so” later. Knowing the way Nick’s luck has shaken out lately, he probably will.

***

It’s harder to cut a cast off than Jack had thought it would be. They don’t have anything close to the right equipment for it, so for the better part of half an hour he’s done nothing but sit in the crummy motel chair and watch Nick saw at the cast material with his pocket knife, and then try to make the cast weaker by dousing it in water–which hasn’t worked in the slightest. Apparently they make casts waterproof now–who would have thought? Still, Nick has made headway, but he’s also gotten himself very wet and relatively pissed off in the process. Jack would offer to help, but he’s not sure if he actually wants to, or if Nick would take it as some kind of insult. Clearly he needs help, but Jack knos better than to think he’d accept it.

“How’s that going?” Jack asks.

Nick raises his eyes from his arm, where his knife is sticking out of the cast. “Fine.” He looks down again to saw at the material. “You’re having fun watching this, aren’t you?”

Jack shrugs. “A little.”

“Do you want to help?” Nick suggests firmly. He punctuates each word with a movement of the knife. Little bits of plaster–or whatever they use to make casts, Jack doesn’t know–flake off onto the top cover of Jack’s bed. In that moment, he regrets letting Nick sit there.

“Not particularly.”

“Asshole,” Nick mutters.

“You’re one to talk,” Jack replies, and looks at the growing mess on his bed. Nick follows his sightline, and then finally laughs.

“Really?” He chips a rather large chunk from his cast as he speaks. “It’s not like you’re even going to use this.”

Jack crosses his arms. “Maybe I will.”

“And miss out on my wonderful company?” Nick’s got this smile–more like a shit-eating grin–on his face as he talks. “I don’t think so.” He refocuses on the cast, chips another couple pieces off, and looks back up at Jack. “C’mon, help me out here.” He sticks his arm out, waggles it at Jack.

“Fine.” Jack stands and walks over to Nick, takes the knife when Nick passes it over, and sits on the bed, across from Nick. He takes Nick’s arm, settles it on his leg, and starts sawing at the mess of a cast left on Nick’s arm.

“Be careful,” Nick tells him. “I’m fragile.” He says it with an air of sarcasm.

Jack nods in response, and sets to work. He works faster than Nick, probably because he can actually use his dominant hand. It’s a little difficult to get the hang of exactly what he’s doing at first, but eventually he settles into a pattern of chipping and sawing away at the material. It’s more difficult than he’d expected to avoid stabbing Nick, but he manages.

“You think your arm’s healed enough?” Jack asks after a moment.

“It’s a little late to ask that,” Nick says. “I’ll be fine. I heal fast.”

“Just don’t start whining when you hurt it again.”

“I don’t whine,” Nick says. “I complain.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Complaining is more–fuck!” Nick yelps and jerks his arm away from Jack. “You stabbed me!”

“Is that whining or complaining?”

“Fuck you,” Nick replies, but he lets Jack grab his arm and look it over. It’s a smallish cut on his arm, not a stabbing. Nothing major–especially compared with some of the stuff they’ve been through recently.

“Put a band-aid on it,” Jack tells him. “You’ll be fine.”

“We don't have band-aids.” Nick frowns.

“What?”

“We have gauze,” Nick says. “Suture kit, painkillers. No band-aids.” He looks down at his arm again. “Just keep going. I’ll tape it up later.”

“I’ll try not to cut you again.”

“I don’t care,” Nick says. “As long as we get this off.”

More carefully now, Jack goes back to sawing at the cast. Nick had managed to cut a decently straight line through the middle of it, up along his forearm. This would probably be easier if they had scissors, but they couldn’t be so lucky, and they’re too far through it now to drop everything and go looking for a pair.

“We’re almost there,” Jack tells him, and shaves through some more of the cast. Maybe almost is stretching it, but they’re significantly more than halfway through, and should move faster now that Jack is in control. It turns out, cutting off a cast goes a lot faster if you’re not wearing it. Jesus, it’s a miracle that Nick hadn’t managed to stab himself. It’s a miracle that he wasn’t stabbed, or shot, or something earlier today.

The odds hadn’t been good, but the odds are hardly ever good–even if the whole thing is planned down to seconds. Jack knows this firsthand. No matter how much you plan, no matter how hard you try to protect what matters, sometimes it just doesn’t shake out.

That’s what scares him, now, with Nick to worry about. They’ve got more people out of their corner than in it, and Jack feels better–he thinks–after today, but not enough to feel good. He can already feel himself getting lost in his own head, getting buried under his own thoughts, and that’s no way to act. It’s not good for him, not good for either of them–

Nick’s cast cracks open, a combination of Jack’s knifework and the fact that he’s gripping it so tightly that it hurts his hand.

“Ow,” Nick says, deadpan. “Can I have my arm back?”

“Sorry,” Jack mumbles, and releases Nick’s arm. Remaining pieces of the cast fall onto the ruined bedsheet. The dirtiness of it makes Jack cringe, but it’s not like he was planning on sleeping in that bed tonight anyway.

Nick stands, shakes out his arm, and picks up his gun from where it’s been sitting on the side table with his right hand and spins it around like some old-west gunslinger, a satisfied look on his face.

“How long did it take you to learn how to do that?”

“A couple days.” Nick shrugs. “It’s not hard.” He feels up his arm with his left hand, checking the bones in his arm, making sure everything’s in the right place.

“How bored were you?”

“October,” Nick says, and that’s all Jack needs to hear. He rolls his wrist and scrutinizes his arm. “I can do it laying down too.”

“Can you do it without fucking up your arm?”

“Sure,” Nick says. “I can do a lot of things without fucking up my arm,” he says, a self amused grin on his face. Jack rolls his eyes.

“Keep that to yourself,” Jack tells him.

“You say that now,” Nick says, and then has the audacity to wink. “We’ll-–”

“Cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“When?”

“If,” Jack corrects. “Don’t get too excited.”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” Nick says, and sets his gun back down. “Now, who’re we killing tomorrow?”

Jack finds himself smiling. “I thought you’d never ask.”