With Dauntless Abandon

Chapter 7

“...whatever it is, it haunts him. You have to get him out of here.”

“We will.”

~~~

Tris is sitting on Uriah's work bench, laughing as he gloats about the paintball match. “That shit was awesome,” he sings. “I was definitely a sniper in my other life.” He tosses his towel at her and smiles. “Alright, Little Girl. Your baby is done. Her paint's all nice and shiny, and I just finished waxing her off.”

“I'm not a little girl,” she growls.

“Okay, then I’ll stick with Short Stuff.”

“Fuck you, Uriah.”

“You're welcome, Five-two.”

She glares at him, hoping her gaze will melt him while pulling out her checkbook, and he throws an arm around her shoulder. “Okay, okay. I'm sorry.” He hugs her gently in apology, and she smiles at him.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely. “For everything.”

He smiles back. “Hey, you're always welcome. You know that. Now come on, let's go. I’m hungry.” He grabs her hand and pulls her out the door, quickly setting his alarm and locking up everything.

She laughs at him as his stomach rumbles in agreement with his statement. “You're always hungry, do you know that?”

“I'm a growing boy,” he says innocently, earning another laugh. “I'm happy you're laughing,” he says sincerely. Then he smirks. “If I tell enough jokes, will you feed me?”

She smacks the back of his head, having to jump a little bit to reach. He pokes her and makes fun of her for being short, and then they walk down the street, laughing and joking, until they reach the Thai fast food joint at the end of the block.

She turns to say something to him, but something glints in the city light, catching her attention. She stares, waiting. Then the shadow moves.

Short, blonde hair, piercings everywhere that catch the light around them. Cold, uncaring eyes. Tattoos.

She has seen that man before.

~~~

When her eyes meet his, he flies out of his chair and rushes toward her, stopping abruptly in front of her. He searches her face for a long time, then he grits his teeth and sits down again.

She leans on the bars. Seeing him without touching him is sort of excruciating, actually. But she can't allow him to push her out and pull her in as he pleases. So she crosses her arms and tightens her hands round her biceps so that they don't reach for him instead.

He is still in pain, but she can see that he is getting better. The bruising along his cheekbone and jaw has faded to a dull greenish-yellow, and the knuckles of his left hand that were split are healed. The cut along his eyebrow is now an angry, pink line. “How do you feel?” she asks, even though she's assess his condition for the most part.

“Like I got my ass kicked,” he says with a snort. Then he takes a breath. “Doing better. How, uh... h-how about you?”

She shrugs. “Alright, all things considered,” she says tiredly.

“Good.”

The silence between them is so awkward that it sharpens the pain in his head and in his ribs. He stands anyway, moving toward the door—his door, the one that leads inside the prison. He wraps his fingers around the bars, squeezing tightly. They are painted gray, but rusted iron shows through most of the paint, making them look more red than gray. The rusted metal is rough under his hands, but he doesn't care. He likes it. It gives him something to focus on so that he doesn't have to think about just how far he's pushed her. It is a while before he moves. He's taking off his wifebeater.