Chapter Text
Abram and Mary were out of time. They had been reckless coming back to the US. Though, to be fair, Abram's father was supposed to be in bloody Baltimore, Maryland, 4458 kilometres away from Seattle, Washington. Their contact was rotten, they were told that he would be directing business at home (Abram and Mary could put down the henchmen without taking too much damage), except he wasn't. Abram's father was on a business trip in Seattle. Abram and Mary were the business in question. Worst of all ? They weren't even planning to stay for the weekend. They were supposed to grab new papers from another contact and to go in hiding somewhere in South America. Abram's Spanish was rusty at best, but it wouldn't stay that way for long. And his father had less power in the South of the continent than he had in Europe. There were still crime organisations down there, but Mary could wiggle their way to safety. Somehow. Either through velvet words or ruthless bloodshed. Been there, done that. Russia had not been a fun experience.
Abram couldn't hear anything but his laboured breathing, the blood rushing in his ears and the phantom voice of Mary creeping up his eardrums : run, Abram ! He wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop. Abram hadn't survived Mary for seven years to die now, by the hand of his other parent. Abram didn't endure seven years to end like this, in bloody Seattle above all else ! If he had to die by his father's hand, it would be in Baltimore where it all started, or he would never kill him. And if Abram was good at one thing beside running and enduring, it was keeping promises.
His duffle bag was slamming against his hip at every desperate stride. Faster, faster, FASTER ! Abram took a sharp turn down the street, and relief washed over him as he noticed Mary hot on his heels in his peripheral vision. The car was just down the street, in the narrow alley. Almost there, almost there, almost— The car was gone. His legs locked where he stood, as if stuck in the concrete. Mary crashed into him. They both went down. She was yelling. She started yanking at him. He followed. The chances to find a car with enough juice, in a good spot to steal it and quick to hot-wire were almost to zero. Who was he kidding ? They would be gutted long before they even find it, if there is one to find at all. But Abram had to keep running. His legs were failing him.
Mary was slowing down, too, a hand desperately clutching at her side. Abram could make out blood on her shirt. This was bad. They didn't have the time to make a stop and patch it up. This really was the end, wasn't it...? Abram could feel a rush of dizziness overcoming him. They were going to die. Painfully. Despite everything they had done to survive during all those years. Abram had endured for nothing in the end. For once, Abram couldn't choke back the laugh bubbling at his lips, the manic smile disfiguring his face. Junior hadn't assisted to a family reunion since London. A sharp scream from his mother brought Abram back to himself. He smothered the laugher and smile right off his face. Mary forbade him long ago to do such things : Abram and his father shared the same everything according to Mary. While Abram and Mary had nothing in common but the name Hatford, the lies, and medical skills. Maybe their predisposition to endure and being ruthless in their quest of survival, too.
They needed to take a breather or they were going down, after zigzagging through a maze of narrow alleys they came to a slow stroll. Abram could feel his heart pounding aggressively behind his ribs, his blood was rushing with adrenaline, making his entire body hum, his lungs were protesting against the abuse that they just endured. Mary looked worse for wear; she started staggering before collapsing to the ground. Abram was moving before he knew it and eased her fall with shaking hands. What was happening ? Abram tried to process it but his mind came out blank. His mind was shutting down, his sigh narrowing, his breath catching in his laboured lungs. Mary's voice was blurred in his ears as if underwater. A shrieking laugh pierced his bubble, sending his senses back on the edge of fight or flight. His head snapped to the left. Lola.
Lola Malcolm was standing in the alley, face flushed and panting, a twisted gleam in her eyes. The cat who caught the mice, and the cream as a dip. And where Lola was, her brother Romero wasn't far behind. Jackson always tagged along with him. And DiMaccio who acted like Abram's father's shadow. His father's whole inner circle was going to be here soon. At least Abram and Mary were going to die to the big deal, and not to some low-life thug, or an infected injury, or from the many lows of the life on-the-run. At least they were going down with a boom. Abram found himself instinctively shielding Mary's body with his own. She kept him alive for seven years, she wasn't kind when doing so, but she did it anyway. Abram owed it to her.
"Oh... Look like Junior is a mama's boy!" Lola cooed, tilting her head as she approached, a hand over the gun at her waist.
Oh no. That wasn't good. Abram and Junior weren't supposed to mix. Abram was Mary's. Junior was Nathan's. They didn't mix. Mary made sure of it through heavy blows and entire locks of hairs yanked over the years. (Lola, too. It all started with a hot iron after all.) Sometimes bones were bruised (once broken). Abram could feel phantom pain adding to the current one as Junior brushed over the surface of his consciousness. Abram could feel a laugh building up, a smile fighting its way. Panic filled his lungs, his sanity hanging by a thread. Laughers spilling in his head. Compartmentalisation might not be enough this time. Almost a decade of it, and now that he actually needed it, it was failing him. He was going to die as nothing, because he couldn't have an identity to die as. That was ironically fitting.
But as fitting as it was, he didn't want to die as nothing. He had been nothing, a nobody, merely a shadow in the passing for seven years. He didn't want to die as Abram either, nor as Junior, both creations not of his own making but his parents', who did nothing but play a fucked game of cats and mice for almost a bloody decade. It was time for him to put back on scene the boy he left in the West Tower of Castle Evermore seven years ago. Mary always referred to him as if he was the same as Junior, but she couldn't have been more wrong. Yes, the two were closer than Junior and Abram were (not like it was difficult), but they weren't the same. He had never been genuinely referred as such by either of his parents. The first time his name was called as it was (not hitting at someone else), it had been during that day. The first and last day he had been allowed to exist as nothing else but him. Not Abram. Not Junior.
"Shut your prickhole!" Nathaniel snarled.
Lola howled in laughers. Predictable. She could be called a whore to her face and she'd laugh it off, too. Nathaniel (Junior) had to admit (begrudgingly) that it was impressive. Her undying self-confidence was her only quality. And even that managed to be infuriating.
"Seems like that she-runaway hasn't been able to completely beat that attitude out of you. Your father will be proud."
Romero Malcolm. Right on time. Great. Blocking another exit. Fucking great. Flacked by Jackson Plank. Bloody hell. Three out of five, and Mary just fainted behind Nathaniel. He backed closer to her.
"Junior."
Nathaniel didn't know how a word that he heard so many times before from the same man could freeze his blood on the spot. Nathan had arrived. His father was finally here. Nathaniel turned his head slowly and his breath caught in his throat when he was met with his carbon copy but older.
Nathan Wesninski was not an affectionate man. Crippling haphephobia. Sometime Nathaniel asked himself how Nathan got Mary knocked up in the first place. (His best bet was through a sheet, bonus if he tied her up to be sure not to be touched.) He wasn't one for overly kind words either. Not much different from Mary on that point. Simply put, Nathaniel could count on one hand the number of times his father had hugged him, still have fingers left, and each one of them had been tainted in agony and grief.
The first one had been after the Hot Iron Accident. A fed had shown up at the house asking questions. Nathaniel was anxious around strangers, a side effect of being secluded in the house almost 24/7. (He was still anxious now but for different reasons. Seven years on the run did that to someone.) He had tried to stay still, but it hadn't been enough. Nathan had made Lola babysat him, not trusting Mary alone with him (they had argued the night before, again). It had been a mistake. See, Lola hated him, more specifically she hated how he was a "mama's boy" since she loathed Mary. (The feeling was mutual.) And as soon as Nathan had walked the fed back to door, shooting a black stare at Nathaniel on the way, and locked behind, Lola snapped. Very predictably. Thinking back, he probably should have seen it coming. She had interpreted Nathan furious gaze as a permission to go haywire on Nathaniel. Maybe in another life, one where she hadn't been in the room, things would have play out differently, for better or for worse, but as it had played out, Lola had yanked the hot iron from Mary's hand and slammed it on Nathaniel's shoulder. Except she had misinterpreted Nathan's intention. And all the anger he had for Nathaniel turned on Lola for her out-step, and he gave her a matching scar. How sweet. Nathaniel had been seven. When he was done, he had turned to his son and Nathaniel swore he had saw something akin to worry mixed with softness for a split second. The next thing he knew, strong arms were pulling him into a vice-like embrace. The third degree burn and the added pressure had him almost puking and fainting, and seared the memory in his brain. He remembered the whispered "Junior" in his ear. Its shakiness had been jarring, it still was. After that day, Lola hadn't been allowed to be around Nathaniel without Nathan present, and Nathan had taken in personal hands Nathaniel's training.
Which naturally lead to the second one. Funnily enough, it happened because Nathan overestimated him. Nathan's biggest disappointment (his son) had shown remarkable progress in the past weeks and had proved himself not to be a disappointment. It still found a way to bit Nathaniel in the ass. To put it mildly, his father had half-gutted him because Nathaniel had been too slow to dodge the slash. He should have been able to dodge, it wouldn't have been the first time that he dodged something of this calibre in the past week. But he had frozen up. Nathaniel had been eight, after all. Forty-two stitches had been needed. Nathaniel could still remember the flash of shock and the faintest trace of guilt in Nathan's expression as he had bolted forward, knife discarded, to grab Nathaniel before he hit the ground. The desperation of this hug had seemed like a mirage (still seemed now), but the pain had been nothing but fake. His father had stitched him up himself that night. And every night after. (Instead of handing Nathaniel to Mary to get it done.) It probably was the best display of affection that Nathan Wesninski (and Mary Hatford) could muster. (And Nathaniel would be a liar if he denied appreciating the change of tone and the coddling.)
The third time had been the proof that Nathaniel's luck was rotten. Mary had gotten him a dog; Nathan had agreed on it. Un caniche. (Nathaniel forgot the English word.) Nathaniel had particularly liked its shiny black and curled fur. He had wanted to call it Stuart; Mary had immediately vetoed it; Nathan had started chuckling. (A rare and precious occurrence.) It had also been the day that Nathaniel was told that he had an uncle called Stuart. An uncle Mary had never mentioned before, and that Nathan did not like since he had seemed to enjoy his accidental association to a dog. (He had apparently seen the man once, but he had been too young to remember.) They had eventually settled on the name Gabriel since it matched Nathaniel. Two months later, the dog had gone crazy (they would learn later it had got rabies, courtoisie of sleeping in the garden) and had taken a bit at Nathaniel thigh. Nathaniel had had to be sent to the hospital for that one, plus the rabies shot. Not pleasant. But not before Nathan had grabbed the gun from Mary's hand before she could take her shot, and had put down the raging pet himself. Nathaniel had been a witness to it. Nathaniel had been nine, or almost ? Needless to say, after that, Nathaniel was no longer a dog person. Nathan had given back the gun to Mary before throwing himself at his son. He had checked the damage made to his leg, and had given him a vice-like hug with shaky arms. Intense grief and physical agony weren't a good mix. His father had even been the one to carry him to the car, an old Cadillac, and had drove like a madman to the hospital. Outside of Exy Little League, it had been the only time he had been outside of the house that year.
So, yeah, Nathan Wesninski wasn't an affectionate man. Not in the traditional sense at least. Nathan loved like a cat; he licked your wounds when hurt; he got rid of the pest in the house (and neighbourhood); and left a corpse at your door once in a while as a show of good will. Nathaniel wasn't a dog person (anymore) anyway.
The ride through memory lane was brutal and dangerous. Mary had told once him he spaced out during those. But when he came back, nobody had moved but Nathan who had his arms around him. Holding him. Oh. Guess this was the fourth one. Nathaniel braced himself for the pain that was about to kick in. It didn't. Somehow, that was even worse.