el_criticon (el_criticon) wrote in olympianthreads, @ 2015-01-05 19:28:00 |
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He personally had come out of the encounter unscathed. Or at least he had thought so, until the dream he'd had last night about the man he had killed. He'd finally been able to get a full night's sleep, and all he'd seen was the face he'd put a bullet in only a few days before. It had been over twenty years since he'd killed someone. Funny the way the mind worked... there had been a terrible moment in the dream where he'd looked down at the dead man and seen Max's face, white-eyed and pale. He'd woken up in a cold sweat with a sharp, agonising cramp in his calf muscle. It was Sunday and Max would be going back to classes tomorrow. The boy had stayed at the house since they'd got back, and Diego was glad for Esme's sake as well as his own. They wanted to keep him close as long as they could. The island had always been safe. They'd come here to be safe, and they'd managed it until now. Diego had expected at least another ten years until he had to worry about Max in the field. Diego felt inexplicable aches in all his joints when he thought about how easily it had happened. How he had been able to do nothing to stop it. To protect his own son. True they were adults, not children, but they were all someone's son, someone's daughter. Diego was almost seventy; to him they were all children. He got up and dressed early, as was his habit. He tried to read but the words wouldn't stick in his head. The dream insisted on coming back to him every time his thoughts wandered. In the end he gave up and went to the door of Max's room. He knocked politely. When he was nineteen he'd valued his privacy above a lot of things. "Maxwell, es su padre," he said, low. "Are you up?" |