|Will Stutely (sly_stutely) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2021-01-22 16:43:00
|Afterwards, Will couldn’t bring himself to go back home to Clio’s. Not covered in bruises, not again, his battered state more damning evidence of the thug he was.|
He couldn’t bring himself to go back home to Tuck’s, either, where the bruises were like to provoke a different kind of horror, and questions he didn’t trust himself to answer. Where, if any one of them were to look him in the face, right now, he didn’t know what he might be tempted to say.
That left only the Sly Fox, and since the Sly Fox was full of hard liquor, it seemed like a reasonable enough compromise.
And, thank Christ for small mercies, the pub was in darkness when he arrived. Lights switched off, not a soul in sight. Will slouched over to the bar, snatched up the first couple of bottles in reach. Vodka, why not. Whiskey, absolutely. He found a glass, piled in some ice, unscrewed the cap on the whiskey, then changed his mind and took a long draw straight from the bottle. It burned a raw path down his throat, but it wasn’t enough to scour away the afternoon.
He pulled up a stool and slumped over the bar. The right side of his face ached with a sharp pain where it had struck the subway pole. He pressed the glass of ice to his forehead, only to jerk it back with a hiss when it elicited a sting. The glass came away with the condensation stained a watery red. He hadn’t realised he’d been cut. Split lip, too. And god knows how badly he’d fucked up his back.
Fuck. Fuck. Deal with it all later. He took another swig from the bottle, to forestall himself from thinking. It didn’t work.
When he’d returned, none of the others had asked him where he’d been, and he’d been grateful, because it made it easier to hide his shame.
When he’d returned, none of the others had apologised, and he’d been grateful, because they would only have been words of pity, and pity was not a thing he could bear. After all, they had nothing to apologise for: he was the one who’d failed. Who could blame them for going on living their lives after he’d gone and blown his up?
Later, he had learned about the welcome Scarlet had gotten when he’d been let out of the clink in May. Scarlet had fucked up on a job, too, served two and a bit years for it, and they’d been ready to celebrate his homecoming with ale and song.
But that was different.
And it was different when Much had stopped answering his calls and they’d all gone straight to panic stations. And it was different when Tuck hadn’t replied to a couple of measly texts and Scarlet had broken a window trying to find him. And he was a low piece of shit for so much as thinking otherwise, even in he quiet of his own head.
(Eddie’s voice, hard as the edge of a gravedigger’s shovel: Stewart, you piece of shit!)
Would they have come running as fast if he hadn’t made it through those doors?
Another traitor thought, and he took another drink to silence it.
Weak. Stupid. Coward.
He was nothing. What the fuck right did he have to think he was deserving of a rescue?
(When had they decided he wasn’t?)