Page 117 of Shrapnel

“Seriously? There’s a door.”

Jamie laughed, ducking into the third story window. He looked around the room, sniffing. “Smells like new paint.”

Owen rolled his eyes. “Yeah, pretty sure I’m the first person to stay here.”

Weaver Syndicate had been rebuilt after the Vega attack that had decimated the estate. They lost a lot of good people and a lot of history. In typical Wallace fashion, he had rebuilt the place to exact specifications. Even having the paintings recommissioned.

Jamie pulled the window closed, testing the locks while Owen got a good look at him. He looked ragged. Almost worse than when he showed up at the hospital. His skin was smudged with ash and his hair was slick with something. White patches of…flour? Clung to his skin and clothes.

He turned back to Owen and looked at him. They were only a few inches apart, but he seemed to loom over him, eyes dark but his lips crooked in a genuine smile.

“Where have you been?” Owen asked tentatively, not sure if he should. Not because he didn’t want to know, or was afraid, but because he didn’t want Jamie to have to share.

Jamie looked at him, a softened edge to the hard planes of his face. “Killing my father.”

Owen clamped down on his muscles to keep the shock from showing on his face. He forced himself to breath shallowly, like he was afraid of startling an animal. Swallowing, he took a moment to school his thoughts.

“Uhhh…”

Which was not what he wanted to say.

Jamie seemed to get it, stepping into his space to drop his forehead to Owen’s shoulder. Even touching like this, there was space between them. Their chests weren’t touching, Jamie leaving room for Owen’s doubt.

“I don’t understand,” Jamie mumbled. “I was looking at him and I thought I would have something to say. Some big conversation like they do in movies. But all I really wanted was for him to die.”

Owen thought that he sounded like the type of guy who deserved to die but he wasn’t sure he should say that.

“Then I killed him and…it was like I could breathe again. Like relocating a dislocated joint.”

“Totally a relatable experience.”

Jamie stood up, scrutinizing Owen. Really looking at him with something so soft that Owen didn’t know what it was.

“I just killed my father and all I really wanted was to see your face.”

Owen inhaled sharply, taking a moment to look back at Jamie. He looked tired. Really tired. Not the after a long day of work tired, but the emotional exhaustion that comes from having to battle something he couldn’t see.

Jamie was a giver. Slicing off big pieces of himself for other to have without thinking of the cost. Because he didn’t think he deserved to take anything in return. Didn’t think he was worth asking for simple things like love, friendship, or self-worth.

And he thought he was the monster.

Owen wrapped him in a hug, standing on his tiptoes so he could rest his chin on Jamie’s shoulder. After a moment Jamie returned the hug, arms snaking around Owen loosely.

“Tighter,” Owen commanded.

Jamie obeyed, hugging Owen so tight his ribs squeaked. But that was ok. Because Owen was going to teach Jamie how to take what he needs. That he deserves it. That he’s worth it.

Owen shifted, pulling back to look down at the gun in Jamie’s shoulder holster. “Your gun was poking me.”

Jamie’s grin turned salacious. “That’s not my gu—”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Owen warned, fighting a laugh. “I will kick you out the window, so help me.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Think you could?”

To illustrate his point, Jamie scooped up a shocked Owen. Two strong hands lifted Owen by the back of his thighs, carrying him to the bed. He clung to Jamie, legs tightening on his side and cast thumping his back.

“Jesus,” he muttered.