Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Blake set his mug down on the Formica table and bent over, inhaling the metallic-smelling steam from his coffee.
It felt good. Refreshing against his swollen eyes and sore body.
He felt like he’d been hit by a car, which wasn’t too far off.
Even after Gabriel had undressed and bathed him, he still found gravel in his hair and a smear of blood behind his right ear.
His palms stung where he held the ceramic mug. Road rash from the multiple times he’d been thrown onto the street. The tips of his fingers were even burned from the Molotov cocktail he’d thought was such a good idea at the time.
And that was just his physical ailments. His nose was stuffy from all the crying, and his eyes were swollen and tender. Even his face was red from crying so hard he’d burst the tiny capillaries around his eyes. He’d be embarrassed if he had any energy at all.
Gabriel had woken him when he got up that morning.
He’d apologized, told him to go back to sleep.
But without his warmth and his anchoring presence, Blake found sleep fitful at best. He kept having vivid dreams that felt so real, he woke with his heart pounding in his chest and his temples slick with sweat.
He tried to remember what he’d dreamt, but all he could recall were flashes.
Images he couldn’t place and the bloodied back of Sara’s mother as she disappeared around a corner.
He didn’t see her die. In some ways, he thought that might be worse.
More than once, he’d convinced himself that she might have lived. That the FUD might not have seen her or been called away by a Handler. After all, she was just one injured woman. Hardly a threat.
But it was a thin thread of hope. One that wouldn’t bear weight.
Before the night’s frost had burned off, Blake had been up. First, he saw to Emily, making sure she got her insulin and discussing her symptoms with her. Her family wasn’t sure they’d stay with them at the motel long-term, but Blake was committed to helping her for as long as she needed.
He wanted her pink skin to be healthy, and the doses of insulin to matter. To ease the knot of guilt that squeezed his chest.
Maybe someday it would.
Now he was sitting in the lobby sipping shitty coffee that tasted like ash and tin, hoping the heat would relax him enough to eat something.
“Mind if we sit?”
Blake looked up to see Judd, Victoria, and Sara looking down at him.
Judd had his hands full with two plates he set down the moment Blake nodded.
Sara was clinging to his jacket, her face half hidden behind his arm.
He wished they’d find seats with Tommy and Phin on the other side of the canteen, but they were already sitting across from him.
She looked different in the light of day. Or maybe it was the bath. Someone, probably Victoria, had brushed her hair out, too. It was honey blonde and pin-straight, hanging just past her shoulders. She didn’t move from Judd’s side.
“Now, I don’t know about you northerners, but where I come from, we enjoy a good breakfast,” Judd said, his voice loud against the tiled lobby. He speared a boiled hotdog with a fork before extending it to Sara.
“Breakfast is a universal concept,” Victoria sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Ah, not like at my momma’s table.” Judd began regaling them with all the things his mother used to fix for breakfast. None of them were particularly unique, but it wasn’t about the food.
Or even the story. It was a distraction.
A flapping red cape to draw Sara’s attention so she didn’t think about eating.
She began picking at the food, taking tiny bites while she warily scanned the lobby.
Behind the curtain of her hair, Blake could see she had brown eyes and a dainty upturned nose.
It was difficult to tell with her malnutrition, but he thought she was probably about six years old.
She had a Band-Aid over her chin but otherwise looked unharmed.
Blake set the coffee down, unable to continue drinking. He should have seen to her last night. Made sure she was comfortable and cleaned. Checked her for wounds. But he hadn’t been able to even look at her. Even now, he could only glance at her, terrified of what he’d see in her eyes.
Pain. Or hatred. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.
“No, I’m saying that milk goes better with pancakes and juice goes better with waffles.” Judd crossed his arms. “I don’t make the rules.”
“It’s not a rule,” Victoria snapped, glaring at him. “It’s a preference. And it’s wrong. You’re an adult. The only milk you should be drinking is in your coffee.”
“I’m sorry you don’t have any whimsy in your life—”
“Whimsy?!” she slammed her hand down on the table. “Milk is for children!”
Sara hid a giggle behind her hand as the two argued. It was common to see Judd and Victoria butting heads—Blake was pretty sure it was their version of foreplay. But he caught Judd glancing down at Sara and understood that this particular argument had been instigated for her benefit.
Maybe it was a good thing Sara had gravitated toward Judd.
There was an innate sort of selflessness in Judd.
Sometimes you had to squint to see it, but it was there.
He was the kind of person who enjoyed giving gifts rather than receiving them.
The kind of person who heard you mention you liked a certain color one time and would remember it for the rest of his life.
Judd and Victoria were opposites. He was proud and self-assured. Someone who knew exactly who he was and was comfortable with it. And that grated on Victoria, who was constantly second-guessing herself and chasing an unattainable level of perfection.
“Don’t worry, Danger Tits. One day I’ll make you a southern breakfast, and I won’t even tell you I told you so.”
Victoria’s cheeks flared pink, and she threw a fork at him.
Maybe Judd was good for Victoria, too.
Watching them, Blake thought he might understand Gabriel a little more.
All of them, really. They went out on countless missions but never brought it home.
They didn’t cry their eyes out or stay in bed.
Blake wasn’t na?ve enough to think they didn’t struggle with the things they saw, the things they did, but it was the way they handled it.
Gabriel came home from the missions with smiles and kisses.
He planned dates and brought him books. He held him upright, wiped his tears, and gave all the pieces of himself without asking for anything in return.
A few days ago, Blake might have thought it was because Gabriel didn’t think he could handle it. Wasn’t strong enough to withstand the burdens he carried with him. But now, Blake knew better. It wasn’t that Blake wasn’t enough; it was that Gabriel wasn’t.
To speak a thing makes it real, and if Gabriel talked about it, it would be real.
It would exist in the spaces between them.
In the pauses between words and every non-smile.
Despite the perpetual dampness and the blocked off windows, their crappy motel room on the second floor was a place where those things couldn’t dwell.
They stayed outside, waiting on the doorstep, ready to jump on Gabriel the moment he stepped out.
If Gabriel was Blake’s strength, then Blake was Gabriel’s reprieve.
For all his failings, for all the blood on his hand and the choking guilt, he was something good for Gabriel. And it was that, more than the insulin or the little girl with a shy smile, which made Blake pick up his coffee and take another sip.
Irving’s office door opening drew Blake’s attention away from the table. Gabriel and Alvarez stepped out, heads bowed as they discussed something. Irving rolled out behind them. His face was placid, but the twitch in his eyebrows indicated he was upset about something.
Gabriel hadn’t mentioned he was going to be speaking to Irving today. Not that it was unusual, but there was something in the set of Gabriel’s shoulders that seemed different. Or maybe it was the way he seemed to be discussing something with Alvarez rather than trading barbed insults.
Blake wasn’t the only one whose attention was drawn. The entire canteen went quiet as they stepped further from the office. Irving was notorious for keeping his meetings and plans private, so to see it spill out into the lobby was somewhat alarming. Even Judd had fallen silent.
“It’s too soon,” Alvarez said, his voice rising high enough to be heard across the lobby.
Gabriel shook his head once, then looked up at Blake. The muted light filtering in from the plate-glass windows cast his hazel eyes in gray and deepened the stubble on his cheeks. It made him look sharper. Like the lines of his face had been chiseled in one smooth stroke.
But it was more than the light. There was something in his eyes. Something new. Something dangerous. Something that sent a chill down Blake’s spine.
Gabriel disengaged from his conversation, crossing the lobby in a few strides. He scanned the room. Almost everyone was present, save a few who were still sleeping or off attending to other duties.
“By now, I know most of you have heard about the events of our last mission,” Gabriel started, pitching his voice high enough to bounce off the tiles. “And I know none of you were surprised by them.”
Chairs creaked as people began looking around, trying to catch their neighbor’s eye to see if they knew what was going on. Beaumont looked like he wanted to race across the room to Alvarez’s side.
“We’re all here because we have similar stories. Because we faced the unimaginable. And it’s easy to believe that the quiet we have found is enough. That surviving is enough.”
“And I could stand up here and give you a bunch of excuses. Tell you that loss is inevitable. Tell you that the intel we are gathering will help us in the long run. But the only thing we’ve realized is that there is no long run. Surviving is no longer enough.”