|Seven has never been (favoured) wrote in repose,|
@ 2019-10-05 21:21:00
It would have been so much fucking easier if he could rage. If he could choke on fury, hot, thick between his temples so that they pulsed outward with blood pumping.
Seven was good at rage.
He’d felt it when he’d opened the door to that motel room with a shim and slipped inside, black leather gloves and a long, cylindrical suppressor on the muzzle of his Sig Sauer. He’d used that rage when he put the gun to the temple of the guy who’d kicked her out, half-naked into the parking lot when she’d called him. It helped his finger on the trigger not to hesitate, not to shake when he dialled the number of his cleanup crew to come out for the body and make it look like the guy had run out on paying his weekly bill.
Rage would have been useful. Tears had done nothing except make him contemplate how fucking much he would have preferred the rage. Tears were useless. They’d come when Sawyer was sick, every night when he slept on a cot in the Capital’s children’s hospital and the oncology nurses looked on with sympathetic twists to their mouths when they didn’t think he’d notice. They’d come when Marta was bleeding out on a table with her organs piled up on her abdomen while the surgeons cut Sawyer out of her. When he found out how Liam died, yeah, they’d fucking come. But those had been - things. Things that happened to people he loved, yeah, but not anything that they’d done to him. It was the universe, the sick fucking ambivalence of a god he didn’t believe in.
Seven couldn’t remember the last time that someone else had hurt him enough for the tears to come. And it really fucked him off, not that he couldn’t remember, but that it’d fucking happened at all when he had known for years how this was gonna play out. His mom, Marta’s. Not exactly fonts of fucking inspiration for getting his hopes up that it’d end up different this time. Definitely not just because Sawyer had a leg up on either of them, with a dad who gave a shit in the picture.
He was good at rage. But hanging up that phone with Marta on the other end of the line, screaming at him that she loved him and he was the selfish one, it hadn’t made him rage. Hadn’t made him sad.
It’d set him free.
Maybe not dramatically, maybe there hadn’t been fanfare, but he felt that a cord he’d been pretending didn’t exist for years had finally been cut. Frayed ends cauterized and gaps in gossamer tissue stitched up with something less porous, so that he wasn’t just a sieve with strength and spirit running through endlessly. He hired people to help out at The Bar, and he came home and made dinner with Sawyer sitting on the kitchen counter directing his every move with a wooden spoon for a baton, and he slept in a bed that didn’t feel too fucking big anymore. He drove into the Capital for meetings with investors and location surveys and he sank into the soft, buttery leather of his Jag at the end of another one of those days and he felt like every muscle fibre was stretched out and pulled tight at the same time.
The sound of Tommy’s phone ringing echoed through the Bluetooth as Seven waited for him to pick up, pulling out into the street and turning in the opposite direction of the highway.
“‘lo?” Tommy’s voice was the usual, clipped and businesslike even through the accent that was vaguely midwestern.
“Hey,” he said, like his bodyguard was sitting in the passenger seat instead of somewhere in Seven’s house by the lake after putting Sawyer to sleep. “I’m fuckin’ dead on my feet here, man. Gonna crash here and come back first thing. I’ll be there to take her to school, yeah?”
It wasn’t really a question, because this was an occasional part of the routine. It was either get stuck in gridlock on the way out of the city or grab a room at one of the hotels he’d built, wake up early enough to beat morning rush hour. So he wasn’t expecting much more than acknowledgement on Tommy’s end. What he got instead was a pause, long enough to make him wonder if the connection had dropped.
“This is about that kid, huh? You know you can just tell me, right boss? Think I give two shits? Y’know I got Bean, no sweat. We’ll see you in the morning. Have fun.”
Seven’s mouth was halfway opened to retort, his brow creased heavy, when Tommy’s end went silent with a click.
“Hey Google, remind me to fuckin’ fire Tommy in the morning.”
His phone beeped a confirmation that a reminder had been set as Seven pulled off onto a side street that made a shortcut towards the hotel. Now he was pissed off, sorta, because the mention of Jamie just made him want to see the goddamn guy. Yeah, right. See.
It wasn’t rage. So annoyance at the implication, the one that that maybe hit a little close to home, that would have to do. For now.