The Great Below

The Nasty Habit - Part 1

The following night, Alex ate alone on the late shift in the cafeteria. The one for men who weren't going out on jobs, or men who avoided sleep. Alex had already been sleeping most of the day and he needed to feel like he hadn't abandoned his routine entirely. Some face time with Nick would have cheered him up. It was odd to think that for one moment, he and Octavia had been closer than they'd ever been, and with a few calculated moves, he'd killed any chance of it happening ever again.

The late group got cold sandwiches. The smell of hot food still lingered, lasagna perhaps, but the trays had long since been washed and stacked away in the kitchen racking, so Alex took unenthusiastic bites of ham and cheese on white bread. His jaw ached.

He felt her in his peripheral vision. She had entered the room several minutes after him and left many tables between them, but the pull of her presence felt stronger than gravity. She'd cringed when she sat down, courtesy of the puncture wounds in her abdomen. Alex had done that. He looked down at his hand holding the sandwich, but – though Brian assured him there was no concussion – he couldn't remember firing the taser. In his brain, it was just one in a series of events. Maybe he was confused and had it wrong; maybe Nick had done it. There was a chance, however minute, that he hadn't taken the ugliest idea he'd heard from Victor's mouth and chosen to bring it to life.

Her hair was still wet from a shower. It hung like a curtain, shielding her from the men on either side. It obscured any expression she might have been making.

He'd blown it. There had been a forking path in front of him, family on one side and helping what he hoped was a friend on the other, and he'd just sort of put his hand over his eyes and stumbled down the first available. There was no telling right from wrong because he couldn't judge what kindnesses would harm her, or what cruelties might save her. And just as Alex let his eyes linger a bit too long in her direction, she looked up at him and he forgot. All of it, everything. He forgot the bruises and her drinking, the way she mutilated food more than she ate it. Even now, there wasn't a sandwich on her plate. There were the components of a sandwich: torn chunks of ham and cheese with the mayonnaise scraped away at the edge of her plate. It looked like she'd just eaten bread. He forgot the way her wit sometimes grew sharp and hurt him. He almost forgot to breathe. She was blue eyes, rounded with black eyelashes and underneath, white-washed freckles, and he wanted to kiss her again but it was impossible.

Octavia pressed a fist-tightened napkin onto her plate. There was a clatter as she pushed the dishes away and left the room.

Nick approached from the food line and made himself at home across the table from Alex. He didn't look concerned about whether or not he was invited. His plate had a hot steak on it.

"How come you're not eating a sandwich?" Alex asked.

Nick shrugged, poked a serrated knife into his steak and carved a piece loose. He shoveled it into his mouth but kept talking anyway. "You know what they say, friends in low places."

"Shouldn't it be high places?"

"You would think," Nick replied. "I slipped one of the lifers a fifty."

Alex slid aside the remains of his sandwich. "Should we apologize to her?"

"That depends." He took another bite of steak. "Do you apologize every time you do a good job? 'Dom, I am so sorry about hitting that target on the first try. I understand that when I aim for perfection – literally – I harm the morale of those around me. I mean, come on. Leave something for the rest of us to aspire to, right?' Just give her some time. Also, how in the hell are you doing? You took a sound beating from the frail woman you're so worried about."

"I'm fine," Alex said. "I'm discovering that there might still be love after getting punched in the head with a Berreta."

Nick wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "And that is where you're alone."