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It happened fast. Driver had demanded his cut of the heist money.
(He’d suspected that the men didn’t believe he deserved it, with how they hesitated as they were meant to part ways at the underpass they’d agreed to split up at.)
It was meant to be a standard job, one he’d done dozens of times before.
(It wasn’t uncommon that his clients didn’t want to pay him after the job was done. It happened occasionally. Driver knew how to deal with the stubborn ones.)
He’d been outnumbered and caught off guard.
(He never learned their names, he always made a point to never learn names, just in case.)
The more rowdy of the five had his attention. He was the one Driver had been cautious of.
(He should’ve been wary of the quiet one. He was a quiet one himself, he should’ve known better.)
(He didn’t get his cut.)
After the quiet one lunged and landed a punch square on his face, the other four had joined. The rowdy one had shoved him against the dirty, graffiti’d wall, got him the gut with his fist. Driver hadn’t been able to react fast enough, because a fool he was, and the short one swiped his legs and he’d fallen down, just in time for the fat one to kick him in the side. They’d laughed at him, mocked him for thinking he deserved a cut of the money they had robbed.
(Driver knew how to take hits. He often did. He tried not to fight back, when he was attacked like this, by his clients, because he knew it would escalate. He knew he lost control when he fought, he knew he couldn’t stop once his nerves were set on fire and his heart roaring, mind abuzz.)
But then their leader produced a gun from his jacket pocket, aimed it at his head. Driver just stared up at him from where he was slumped against the cold concrete. He just stared, and the leader lowered the gun to point at his chest. Driver just stared.
(Death didn’t scare him. Driver had long since come to terms with the fact he would die one of these days, driving.)
The man had scoffed at his lack of reaction.
(They often did.)
He lowered the gun further, and pulled the trigger. A loud bang sounded, drowned out by the heavy traffic above them, and pain exploded in Driver’s thigh. The five men made a run for, beelining for their own car that they’d parked hours earlier. They peeled away with the money, leaving Driver right there.
It wasn’t anything new. His clients were criminals. They carried guns. They got angry. They got violent.
(He’d been a victim of them numerous times. He had the scars to prove it.)
(He’d been the violent criminal on the other side.)
Shannon’s doctor always fixed him up as best as possible, but there was only so much a doctor with a revoked licence could do.
(He should go to that doctor. Contact Shannon, get the medical aid he definitely needed.)
He looked down to his thigh, where the heated pain pulsed, blood seeping through his ruined jeans and pooling beneath him. He flexed his thigh and clenched his teeth through the spike of pain shooting down his whole leg.
(He should call Shannon. He should get that doctor to fix him up.)
(He wanted to go home. He’d never had a home before. He’d had Shannon, for a good while. Shannon was the closest thing to family he had. He’d only been alive to be with Shannon, for the longest time.)
(And then there was Irene and Benicio. And then there was also Standard.)
(He wanted to go home. He wanted Irene and Benicio and Standard. He wanted home.)
Driver was used to pain. His scars told enough of a story. He powered through it. He always did. He drove, like he always did, and he went home. He let himself into Irene and Standard’s apartment. He collapsed against the front door the moment it closed behind him.
The entire world pulsed. Everything was a blur. His chest was tight. His ears were ringing.
Irene woke, seemingly unprompted. She blinked awake, and pushed up against the headboard with a yawn, blinking sleep from her eyes. She breathed out, still exhausted, noting it was still dark, and turned to her bedside table to check the time.
It was 2:45 am. It was too early. She slid back down into her sheets, humming contentedly, shuffling herself to lean into Standard’s sleeping body, when a thump sounded down the hall and she startled up. Standard stirred with a grumble,
“‘rene?” He mumbled, deep and rough, just barely under his breath as he began to wake up,
“I’m…” She trailed off, unsure.
Had Benicio woken up? He sometimes woke up in the middle of the night and wanted a midnight snack, but he usually woke her up to ask instead of just taking. It wasn’t like him to rifle around the kitchen on his own,
“What’s goin’ on?” Standard slurred, still quiet. He slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, carefully blinking his eyes open, brows furrowing, “You okay?”
“I…” She trailed off again.
She didn’t know what to say. She sat up and shook her head out, trying to wake herself up more, and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Standard shuffled up, back against the headboard, and leaned over to his side of the bed to flick on his lamp on his bedside table. They both flinched at the light, and then there was a deep groan from down the hall.
They both froze.
That wasn’t Benicio.
Irene was definitely awake, now. Standard, too.
Footsteps approaching. He looked up.
Woman and man.
Their presence was a comfort.
Their presence reminded him of his meagre, failed existence.
He curled in, bringing his knees to his chest.
Pain pulsed across his leg, the meat of his thigh soaked in his own blood, the rough scratch of his jeans against the wound burning as he moved. He hissed through his teeth, bearing the pain.
“Casey?” The woman’s voice.
The world stilled. He stilled.
Everything stilled,
“What the hell happened?” The man’s voice.
The world began to turn again.
His chest was tight.
It felt like he was being compressed, pressed and pulled and squeezed and stretched and tugged and-
“Did you do a job tonight? Is that what this is? Is that what happened?” The man’s voice. Standard.
The blurred world around him focused, just ever so slightly. He was looking up at Irene and Standard. His beloveds, the only ones that cared for him, the ones he lived for, the ones he existed for.
He clenched his fists against his shoulders and hugged himself tighter, gritting his teeth. He wanted them, so so badly, but he didn’t deserve them. He restrained himself. He wouldn’t take them. He wouldn’t be greedy. He knew he didn’t deserve what he wanted.
God, he wanted. He wanted so badly. He’d never craved comfort like this. He never let himself crave it. He’d gotten too soft, too connected, too attached. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted-
He wanted.
“Hey.” Irene’s voice. A gentle hand on his shoulder.
He flinched and scrambled away, gasping desperately for air. He threw his head back violently, banging against the door behind him. An intense throbbing blossomed within his skull, his blood pounding heavy in his head. His laboured breaths burned in his tight chest, his leg pulsed with white hot agony, his mind buzzed, his ears rang, his vision blurred, his world dropped.
“Casey, hey, you’re fine,”
No. He wasn’t Casey, Casey didn’t exist, he wasn’t real. He didn’t. He wasn’t,
“Speak to us, Casey, please,”
“Stop.” He grit out, clenching his jaw tighter. He tasted salt on his lips, “Please.” He insisted.
“You need to tell us how to help. Can Irene try to treat that wound?”
“At least let us look at it?”
He took in a shaky breath, opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
The whole body was shaking. There were tears streaming down the face. The wound in the leg stung. The chest was burning.
“Please, we’re worried,”
The ears heard. The head turned to look at the source. Standard, a friend, a close friend, a beloved. A reason for existence,
“I’ll grab the first aid kit. I…” Irene. It was Irene, now, that was speaking, “I don’t know if anything in there will be enough but-“ She took in a shaky breath, “It’ll be better than nothing. Putting some gauze on it will at least be something,” Her voice was shaky. It was fearful. It was worried.
The mouth made a noise, a noncommittal grumble, a vague acknowledgement. Irene picked herself up. She’d been kneeling over the self, putting herself on eye level with it.
Eyes trailed towards Standard. Standard was doing the same. The self was on the floor. The self was leaning against the door of the Gabriel apartment, knees drawn to its chest, blood seeping into its jeans and onto the carpet below. Hitched breaths caused it to shake violently with every intake of air.
The self felt a gentle touch on its foot and the self recoiled, kicking its leg out. Standard stumbled back, and the self felt a shot of regret and embarrassment and anger and frustration and sadness and-
The self drew in yet another shaky breath. The mouth let it out, just as shaky. The self looked to Standard, and eyes met,
“Casey? You there?”
The head shook. Standard’s mouth turned to a frown,
“Please straighten your leg, Casey,” Gentle, female voice.
Woman.
Irene.
Eyes looked to her. She held a small red pack in one hand.
She crouched down to the eye level of the self, and placed the pack on the ground, and she unzipped and she flipped it open and she pulled a small stack of white square pads and she separated a few of the squares and she lifted them in front of her and she looked to the self and she looked expectantly-
“Your leg,” Standard tapped the leg again. Teeth grit as the mind worked to not react to the unwanted and violent touch. The leg jittered as the mind held it still. The leg slowly lowered from the chest and straightened. The pain spread throughout the body. The body felt it. The mind did not,
“We need to cut his pants,”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Irene turned back to the opened red pack and pulled out a pair of scissors. She held them up, showing them to the eyes, and then slowly brought them down to the leg, resting them gently just below the source of the pain.
She slid one blade under the fabric just above the wound, and cut. She used her other hand to hold under the knee and lift the leg so she could bring the scissors underneath.
The leg allowed it.
She came back around with the scissors, and closed the cut. Standard reached forward and pulled down the newly cut loose piece of fabric,
“Antiseptic wipes first,” Standard pointed out. Irene nodded and reached for a small packet from the red pack. She ripped open the packet and pulled out a thin, white sheet. She pressed it to the wound.
The world fell out from under him.
He hissed through his teeth, feeling the tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He clenched his fists at his sides, his whole leg burning with pain, shaking even as he tried so desperately to hold it still so Irene could do her first aid.
He threw his head back, gasping for air, and Irene kept pressing with the antiseptic, kept wiping the surface of the bullet wound and cleaning him up from his mess that was only his own fault and not her problem,
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Irene said gently. So, so, gently. So gently. Irene was always gentle.
Her gentle touch pulled away and then it was back, dabbing along the wound with gauze to wipe the still flowing blood,
“What the hell happened?”
“Standard.” Irene grit out, glaring over to her husband. God, her husband. Her beloved husband. Who was he to love them? He didn’t need this. He didn’t deserve this.
He wanted this. He hated this. He wanted this.
“Job,” It was all he could manage to say. The traitorous lips of his didn’t want to cooperate with that traitorous mind of his.
No, no, no, no, no. They weren’t his. Never his. Not his. Never his. No, no, no-
“Tell us later. Just let us patch you up for now,” Standard or Irene? He couldn’t tell. His mind was too loud, he couldn’t parse the sound, he just heard the words but nothing else.
He grumbled, wanting to say something, anything, but nothing coherent came out.
This was pathetic. He didn’t need to be doing this. He was making them use their first aid kit on him. He woke them up at almost 3am. He intruded in their home. He made them worry. He needed to apologize, he needed them to know that he was sorry, he needed them to know that he knew he was being burden,
“‘m sorry,” He slurred weakly, his tongue and lips barely cooperating enough to get the sounds out. The pressure on the wound paused as Irene halted her treatment of the wound,
“No, no, Casey, you don’t need to apologize-“
“No,” He choked out, not letting Irene finish,
“No, you,” Standard sassed, “You don’t apologize for this. We’re glad you came here for help. We’re happy to help you, Casey-“
“No. Stop.” That wasn’t him. He wasn’t Casey. He didn’t deserve a name. He didn’t have a name. He didn’t want one. He wasn’t Casey. He never was, and he never would be.
He brought his knees back to his chest, ignoring the searing pain in his thigh as he did so, and putting his face into the palm of his bloodied hands. He curled his fingers, gripping his face, scratching his nails against his forehead and tear stained cheeks,
“Please, don’t,” He begged. A moment of silence, filled only by his own hiccuped breaths,
“Don’t what, Casey? You need-“
He dragged a hand down his face and slammed it into the door behind him, a loud thud echoing down the hallway. The bang shut Standard up before he could finish his sentence,
“Not Casey.”
He didn’t want to say the name. He hated that name. It wasn’t his. It wasn’t him. But he forced it out, choked on it as he said it, but he said it. He managed to say it, “Not…” He failed to repeat it.
“Okay, yeah, sure,” Standard’s voice was too soft. It was too gentle. It was too kind. It was too remorseful. It was too much. His clenched fist at the door shook, “Not Casey. Not Casey.”
“Can you put your leg back down, Ca- Please, put your leg down,,“ Irene cut herself short, correcting herself.
He did as Casey was asked. Casey straightened its leg and rested it against the floor and he let Casey hold it there for Irene as she began to press the gauze back into the wound. It watched with Casey as she turned and grabbed a spool of medical tape from the medical kit and Casey watched as she pressed new gauze over the wound and then wrapped tape around Casey’s leg to hold it in place.
The blood seeped through in seconds. Irene frowned and grabbed more gauze, layering it on top with a grumble and wrapped it again. It felt Casey’s leg twitch with the pain and sensation of her soft hands against Casey’s leg.
She gave Casey’s thigh a gentle pat and he took that as his cue to bring Casey’s leg back up to Casey’s chest. He used Casey’s arms to hug Casey’s legs close to Casey’s chest. He lowered Casey’s head, rested it on Casey’s knees, biting back the flinch as pain coursed Casey’s entire being.
Silence.
Ringing in Casey’s ears, Casey’s vision blurred, tears pricking Casey’s eyes, Casey’s body shuddering and shaking with wracked sobs, Casey’s whole body on fire with pain, Casey's chest constricting itself, Casey’s lungs stuttering.
Casey’s body failing.
Casey’s useless, worthless, good for nothing, body dropping into nothingness.
Casey’s self going numb and turning empty, becoming nothing.
He blinked.
He was breathing heavy. Everything hurt,
“Sorry…” He mumbled into himself, too ashamed to properly look at either Irene or Standard across from him. He knew they were looking at him, worried and afraid. Gentle. Caring. Kind.
He shied away from their stare. It burned in the best way and he hated it. He hated it. He wanted it. He hated-
“Hey, hey, Case- No, hey, it’s okay,” Irene’s voice was so soft, just like her. Kind, just like her. Gentle, just like her. Her voice was hers. It fit her. It accompanied her. It was real, it was hers,
“I think he’s just, uh… What do they say? Having a mental break?”
“Standard!”
Standard, yes. His rough, accented voice, deep and rumbling, but still so impossibly sweet, in its own way. It was unique, it was his. It fit him. It accompanied him. It was real, it was his.
He hugged himself tighter. He gripped tighter and buried his face into his knees, trying to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. Part of it was probably smeared blood. Part of it was definitely tears.
A sob cracked him. It was bubbled out of his throat, rising from his chest and out his lips, and he choked on it, having failed to keep it down. And barked out another. And another. He tried and he tried to hold them back, but they kept coming, one after another.
He heard the shuffle of feet and clothes, just barely through the sound of his own voice breaking on every sob, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t dare.
He heard the voices converse, but he didn’t dare tune into it to understand their conversation.
He wanted to be home. Home was safe. Home was where his three beloveds lived. Happily and peacefully, they lived without him, but allowed his presence so consistently and lovingly that he was practically one with the household.
He’d never wanted before. He’d never wanted a home before, he’d never wanted a family before, he’d never wanted to love before, he’d never wanted to be loved before.
Oh, how he wanted. It hurt. He wanted. He wanted home. He wanted home. He wanted to be home. He wanted to have a home. He wanted a home.
A gentle weight landed over him. He stirred, tilting his head up, and saw Irene and Standard crouching over him. They both smiled at him,
“Got you some water, I put it in a water bottle so it won’t spill if you accidentally knock it over,” Standard pointed just to his left.
Driver didn’t look, but he watched the two of them intently, refusing to pull his gaze away. Driver took in a shaky breath,
“Take your time. You’ve been through a lot,” Irene smiled. Driver tugged on the blanket.
Oh. The blanket. He had a blanket. That was the weight they’d placed on him. He gripped the blanket tighter, refusing to let it go or let it be taken from him. Anything to keep it, he wanted to keep it,
“We’ll just be on the other side of the hall, okay? We’ll give you some alone time, now. Please try to rest,”
Driver grumbled and put his face back into his knees.
His thigh shot with pain but he ignored it.
It was only pain.
The world slipped away from him, everything darkened, and he faded.