Warnings: references to gang rape, beatings, psychological trauma, broken fingers, heavy injuries, dissociation, dehumanization, extremely negative self-talk.
He wasn't far from home. The thought sickened him, but it was also a relief. Just a little bit longer Jamie. Just a little bit further Jamie.
He didn't even want to be moving, but he kept stumbling forward. Stumbling and hopping and sometimes just crawling, but moving forward all the same.
The air was chilled and nipped at his bare skin. Licked at the wet and open parts of it. He hadn't worn a shirt since he was a kid, but right now he'd straight up murder for one.
He didn't know where all the shame came from. He didn't even know he had any to begin with, but something about being bloodied and sticky and bare in the cold, the sun threatening to creep up on the horizon at any minute, someone sure to spot him any second...something in that made him find some. He didn't like it. He could do without it.
The wind dug its fingers into his skin, lashing at his wounds, and he braced himself against it, resisting the urge to retch; it felt too much like the touch of cold hands. Of cold, careless, calloused hands that scraped across his flesh and did what they wanted with it. Dizziness swept over him.
He kept going.
Just a little further. Just a little further for a whole lot longer.
He looked up, expecting to see more darkness, but the sun was peeling back the night sky bit by bit and he saw it in front of him, the massive metal building risen in front of him like the gates to the divine.
He was home, he was home , he'd made it, he'd made it home...just a little closer and he would be safe again. They couldn't get him in there...they wouldn't dare risk it, that's why they picked him off by himself all alone out in the wastes like fucking cowards, like the bloody fucking cowards they were…
He brushed thoughts of them aside, their hoarse choking laughter and the slick, slapping sounds of...no...no...no no he couldn't banish them from his head quite but he could distance them and he could choose the context, so he thought of revenge, of the sounds of their screams and their bloodied entrails slick and slapping against the ground. And then he thought of a warm bed. And he thought of sleep. And safety. And Mako.
He dug his nails into the gravel and kept pulling himself forward.
He didn't want Roadhog waking up. He'd decided that a long while back. He wanted almost nothing more than to curl into bed with him and feel warm and safe again, but foremost he didn't want to have to explain; to have anyone, even Roadhog, see; to even fucking remember himself.
It was hard. Being quiet wasn't in his nature.
It wasn't in their home's nature either. It creaked and moaned under every gust of wind, or change of weather, or even the lightest touch on its frame. Even as he pulled himself up to those steps it shook, as if it knew he was there.
He summoned a bit more strength and stood, stumbling a few more steps only to lean against that chilled, worn steel, trying to resist the urge to cry. He wasn't doing a great job of it, the tears clawing their way from his eyes. He had barely any left to shed, so exhausted and dehydrated he didn't think he'd be able to produce any more, but his eyes kept wringing them out all the same. He slid down the door, his hand pressed into its dirt-encrusted, pockmarked surface, and pulled his body flush with it, even though it hurt, even though the slightest movement hurt. He curled into himself, just letting those smothered, bitter sobs roll out of his chest.
He'd cried several times on the way, out of pain and exhaustion and just pure, heavy despair. He'd tripped over rocks and other debris, cutting open his foot and hand more than once. But he didn't dare wail before, too afraid he'd be caught crawling around in the dirt and dragged back for more.
And he didn't dare wail now, as much as he wanted to, his body quaking under the strain of holding itself up. Just seeing the place his home stood far in the distance had made him bawl like an infant, but touching it, actually touching it and knowing it was real and he was home and he was safe and alive and he would wake up tomorrow in Mako's arms and maybe he could pretend it was all a horrible dream...
Still, he couldn't quite summon the strength to stand again, much less undo the locks and get through the door. And then cleaning himself up. Oh what a task that was set to be. He could barely keep himself bloody conscious.
He tried to get up, but slipped and fell back down, biting his tongue to stop from yelping. His aching, fatigued body shuddered under the impact. He started to cry again, leaning his head against the door. He could swear he heard engines roaring in the distance. He curled into a ball, sliding into a corner in the threshold, trying not to shiver.
No, no...he was safe here...they wouldn't dare grab him here...Roadhog would kill 'em. Kill 'em all.
They would, they would kill 'em all...he'd get better and they'd kill 'em all right up nice and pretty just like they oughta be those bastards those monsters those, those...
He was running out of tears, the stuff being torn from his sockets something like brine, more salt than water, and it gnashed at his wounds, especially that blackened, swollen eye. He focused on the pain, trying to muster up just an ounce more of adrenaline.
He needed to get through that fucking door.
Because there was the chance that they would grab him. That Roadhog was out. That he might just die here because he was naked and fucked up and exhausted and exposed to the elements and maybe had underestimated his wounds. Better to lose consciousness inside, just a couple of meters in front of him. Just a couple of meters...he could do it...
He focused on the pain and the fear and the desperation to feel safe and warm and loved and protected again just a little just for a little it was right there in his reach just...just a little bit further Jamie...
Just a little bit further Jamie...
He heard the sound of a bike coming on quick, and he didn't think, he couldn't think, there was nothing in his head except terror and recollections of mocking laughter and pain and violation and he was shrieking and scrambling for the door, slipping on his own blood and trying to get his useless panicked brain full of holes to remember the combination, trying to get his bleeding, broken hand to press down on the fucking buttons.
A shadow came up behind him and he couldn't think he couldn't think there was nothing but terror and mantras he could barely understand like this is the end Jamie and you got yourself caught you stupid rat and you're their fucktoy now Jamie snatched right from in front of your own house after crawling back like a bloody animal because you COULDN'T GET YOURSELF THROUGH THE FUCKING DOOR YOU STUPID CUNT and nowhe wailed as he collapsed on the ground, begging...
"No no no god I'm sorry...I'll be good I'll be good don't don't hurt me no more please please..." He wasn't sure why he was saying it or who he was saying it to, his mind was somewhere else, already separating itself from the pain about to be had.
Someone touched him and he whimpered, but it didn't hurt...it didn't hurt...no one was cutting him up or driving fists and other things into him...someone was picking him up but the touch was gentle and familiar and...and...
He was in such a haze he couldn't seem to make much sense of anything for a while, but he fought through it as best he could and heard his name spoken by a voice he knew. And loved.
"Mako?..." He muttered. "Mako..." He started up his sobbing again. This time there weren't really any tears he was just sobbing and grabbing at the person holding him with his fucked up hand. He buried his bloodied, bruised, grimy face into Mako's chest and chanted his name with his swollen, briney tongue and cried and cried and cried.
He felt a hand comb through his sticky, greasy hair and gently pull his head closer and he wailed, broken and bitter and despairing, like the dead.