( word blows into town. it's all very old west — sam has his fingers in more pies than just chicago pd. he hears something from a local jaguar that, like him, did too many tours overseas that a member of anvil is in town. enough to make something clench unpleasantly in his gut, but not yet defcon fuck-it-all.
he does his own surveillance, because who better suited than a crow? and it's perched on a railing, looking at the guy through a shitty set of motel blinds that he realizes he's seen him before.
(not the one that put a knife through his hand. the one he shot, who'd been pissing on jefferson's body while it was still fucking bloody and warm—)
the one who'd stood over him and murmured something about shame.
it's been a long time since iraq. a long time since europe. but old habits are habitual because there's safety in them, the ease of experience. sam drops off the grid. a terse e-mail to his team-lead, a text to bill, and then he's in the wind. he doesn't go to his father's house, just fucks off clean to saskatchewan.
he splits wood until his hands are bloody, blisters raised across his skin. it's methodical. there's a rhythm to it. there's no one in this old house to have need of the warmth wood provides, but he and the pack come here often enough someone will make use of it.
the haft of the axe has a bear's head carved into its end. unfinished, but he knows his grandfather's hand.
he doesn't eat anything he can't catch as a crow. doesn't really sleep. honestly, if anyone were to ask him later what he did in that week he probably couldn't give them a clear answer — time just passes. he pays it no mind.
and then, because responsibility is the one thing he can't ever fully shirk, he slinks back to civilization one bright, crisp morning. he fully intends to just pick up where he left off with no sign he was ever gone, but he hadn't counted on flora.
he probably should have. she's like that.
his expression shutters when he sees her — not angry, not hurt, just blank guarded nothingness. she drops a kiss against the corner of his mouth and wow, he really feels like an asshole now, huh? his hand goes to the curve of her hip automatically, though he's mindful of the places still healing on his hands. )
no subject
he does his own surveillance, because who better suited than a crow? and it's perched on a railing, looking at the guy through a shitty set of motel blinds that he realizes he's seen him before.
(not the one that put a knife through his hand. the one he shot, who'd been pissing on jefferson's body while it was still fucking bloody and warm—)
the one who'd stood over him and murmured something about shame.
it's been a long time since iraq. a long time since europe. but old habits are habitual because there's safety in them, the ease of experience. sam drops off the grid. a terse e-mail to his team-lead, a text to bill, and then he's in the wind. he doesn't go to his father's house, just fucks off clean to saskatchewan.
he splits wood until his hands are bloody, blisters raised across his skin. it's methodical. there's a rhythm to it. there's no one in this old house to have need of the warmth wood provides, but he and the pack come here often enough someone will make use of it.
the haft of the axe has a bear's head carved into its end. unfinished, but he knows his grandfather's hand.
he doesn't eat anything he can't catch as a crow. doesn't really sleep. honestly, if anyone were to ask him later what he did in that week he probably couldn't give them a clear answer — time just passes. he pays it no mind.
and then, because responsibility is the one thing he can't ever fully shirk, he slinks back to civilization one bright, crisp morning. he fully intends to just pick up where he left off with no sign he was ever gone, but he hadn't counted on flora.
he probably should have. she's like that.
his expression shutters when he sees her — not angry, not hurt, just blank guarded nothingness. she drops a kiss against the corner of his mouth and wow, he really feels like an asshole now, huh? his hand goes to the curve of her hip automatically, though he's mindful of the places still healing on his hands. )
Sure. I could eat a horse.