Chapter Ten

It's the middle of the night and they've reached the outskirts of Des Moines. And it's so dark and quiet and still that Reid's chin keeps dropping onto his chest as he fights to stay awake, the Camaro humming as the tires drift over the rumble strips at the side of the road.

Eventually, he pulls into a shitty roadside motel and kills the engine.

"We gotta stop before I wrap the damn car around a pole and we're too busy being dead to worry about the mafia any more."

So he checks in as Brian Johnson with a clerk who's too high to even glance up at him, then sweeps the room before he lets Nate come in. It's all dingy walls and questionable stains on the carpet; free of assassins but probably teeming with every STD known to man and beast.

And it gets even more unpleasant when, as soon Reid ushers Nate inside, locking the door behind them and wedging a chair beneath the handle, Nate goes straight to the bathroom and locks himself inside.

There, alone for the first time since they'd left Lansing, he sags against the mildewed door and takes a huge breath. It's shaky as he slowly exhales, his fingers trembling when he reaches out to turn on the water. He takes off clothes that smell like Armor All and fried food before stepping into a shower turned hot enough to leave his skin red and tender, beating into his flesh until it pounds out the thought that there is someone else only a few feet away.

And then he finally lets himself go.

Nate remembers Devon when they were children, playing on the swing set on the manicured lawn of his father's estate. Nate sat on the little rubber seat and gripped the chains tight, squealing ever louder as Devon pushed him higher, only opening his eyes at the top of his flight when all he could see was sunlight and bright blue. Nate almost believed he could fly off the swing and out into that endless sky, floating free of all the thousands of ways that adults try to control children, especially the ones in his family. It was one of the few times he was happy, truly, in his entire childhood.

Devon was the first one to come to his hospital room after the fight that had taken his voice. It hadn't been anything unusual - some rival who'd just gotten in a lucky knife swipe - but Devon had made sure to send a message in response. Nate can remember what he looked like at his bedside, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks as he detailed exactly how many pieces he'd chopped the bastard into before burning him into powdered ash. And Devon was the one who'd given him the first tie to cover the scar - a ridiculous red-and-white polyester thing with lobsters printed all over it - and Nate had ended up wearing it at least once a week for years because it made him happy.

And then he thinks about the last time he saw Devon. The fire flash from the muzzle of the gun as Devon tried to kill them, the way he toppled from the fire escape in seemingly slow motion, the stream of blood from his artery reaching the ground before his body did, a splatter of hot red as he landed.

It was Reid's fault. In the sense where it wasn't, not really, not in all the ways that matter - Reid was defending himself, he was protecting Nathaniel, he had acted fully within the constraints of the law - but was, literally, at the core of it, Reid's finger on the trigger. So Nate hadn't felt like he could complain, couldn't even hint that he had been grieved over the loss. He didn't even let himself fully feel it until now, curled in a sobbing ball under the water, the steam surrounding him, cloaking him like fog.

He'd watched his brother die. He was the reason his brother had died. And, in that second, he's no longer certain that what he's doing is right.

His thoughts swirl like the water down the gunked-up drain, chasing each other in circles until even he can't follow them anymore. He cries so long that his eyes run dry, so hard that he can feel his stomach twisting and heaving in protest.

*******

Reid paces, frustrated, in front of the bathroom door. He wasn't worried at first - God knew they both desperately needed a shower, so maybe this was just Nate's way of calling dibs - but it's just gone on for far too long.

So Reid paces. And paces. And then he can't take it anymore and starts knocking.

No answering knock or thud or anything. Just the continuing sound of the water running.

So he starts pounding. And then he starts freaking out, wondering if he somehow missed something or if someone had come in through the tiny bathroom window, if Nate was being tortured and torn apart and Reid was just standing outside doing nothing like a little bitch because Nate couldn't make a sound to alert him.

Two seconds after that thought flashes through his brain, Reid kicks down the damn door, gun in hand and heart in his throat.

But it's just Nate, small and unresponsive as he sits in the shower, the steam swirling around them both and out the open doorway into the motel room.

He doesn't look up, doesn't try to pull the shower curtain closed and protect the last shreds of his privacy. He just stares straight ahead, idly wondering if the drops of water falling from him eyelashes are from the shower or if he's still crying.

And Reid exhales, his whole body going from tensely alert to something more closely resembling a puppet whose strings have been cut. Because he's not sure what's happening or why, but he can recognize pain in another person, especially one he's come to care about. And he wants to ease it.

So he doesn't leave, doesn't hesitate or try to hide behind some sarcastic remark. He just sets the gun on the counter and peels off his shirt and jeans, pulls his shoes off with his toes and hops around on one foot as he tugs at his socks.

And then he does something that finally shocks Nate out of his despair, blinking up and hugging into himself tighter. Reid steps over the tub's edge and into the shower's spray behind Nate, the cartilage in Reid's knees crackling audibly as he sinks to sit behind him. He keeps distance between their naked bodies but he presses one rough palm against Nate's back, rubbing slow, soothing circles across the taut muscles, over the knobs of his spine.

And he's talking, saying some comforting nonsense in a low tone, but Nate doesn't really understand it.

Because just Reid's presence is enough to crumble his fragile walls again, sending him back into body-wracking sobs.

They sit like that for a long time, their fingers pruning and the pipes rattling in the wall. Reid just keeps talking, keeps rubbing Nate's back until his head drops onto his chest and he slowly goes still, calm. The water pours over them until it finally runs frigid, leaving them both shivering against the chipped porcelain.