You Know What They Say About Warm Hands
T-Bag was used to bad situations. They could go all sorts of ways. Abruzzi had him cornered like an animal. A shepherd to his helpless lamb, talking sweet, leading him to slaughter.
"We can be friends. John," T-Bag added his name softly.
It had been a while since T-Bag had danced with a man like Abruzzi. The technique was a little bit different. Give his usual procedure a twist, and there you go, a whole new thing. It was kind of exciting – the point of a knife hanging down over his head dripping aphrodisiac off the tip.
"John." Such a simple name, but said just right, it holds a world of possibilities, like a dark room and a locked door.
"I can be saved, John. Show me how to find the light that you found." T-Bag turned his face up to Abruzzi, his eyes hard with determined sincerity.
"You have to see what I've seen," Abruzzi told him. He pointed up and behind T-bag. T-Bag didn't dare turn and let him out of his sight. Why was it that every word coming from a man whose throat you sliced sounded so sinister?
"I am repentant. A moment of panic and the Devil got in me," T-Bag explained. There had been a slip up. A mistake was made. There was proof right there alive in front of him.
"You welcome the Devil," Abruzzi reminded him.
"No. No. He overtook me in my weakness. But I prayed, John. I prayed that my moment of panic could be reversed. That I could atone. I prayed for you." The earnest, striving words slid out as if greased. T-Bag inched closer to his John. The danger of proximity was putting real passion in his voice. Real passion. Don't Abruzzi heave real pretty eyes. The prattle just kept flowing.
"John. I prayed and you recovered. And you gave me your hand. I don't doubt you. I don't doubt His power. Not no more."
He was right in the danger zone now, right under the big knife. T-Bag spread his arms. Hadn't there been an embrace? It ended badly, but it held such possibilities. Why is it that you couldn't kill me, John?
"Show me what to do," T-Bag demanded, breathless now that he couldn't get any closer to the man. T-Bag's hands clutched at Abruzzi's clothes. His fingers crept around but found nothing sharp yet. Abruzzi's arms gripped his arms painfully – not pushing him away, not holding him close. Just hurting.
"You know what to do," Abruzzi told him, his words thick and hard. He put a heavy hand on T-Bag's shoulder.
"Pray."
T-Bag kneeled - Abruzzi's hand insisted on it.
The End