Prompt: Nate and Sully figure out what to do next.
*SPOILER WARNING* - Since this is a continuation of Chapter 4, the same spoilers apply for UC4. Also, I apologize for any potential butchering of Spanish in this chapter (I only know the bare minimum of the language, unfortunately), and please let me know if I've made any errors!
He woke up alone for the first time in months.
He could hear other people in the adjacent rooms—not cells—moving around, talking softly, but it was quiet in his room. No soft breathing coming from a bunk across from him, no clinking of keys and pistols from the guards, and definitely no smell of steel and old concrete and mould.
It felt wrong, but then again everything did. He added it to the list of changes he wasn't prepared to deal with just yet, even if some of them were pleasant ones. Prison with his brother was a known devil—solitary freedom was a terrible luxury he couldn't make sense of.
Laying there, he took a moment to take stock of every hurt and ache he had. His eyes felt swollen, crusted and bruised; a headache beat in time with his heart, just behind his eyes. His mouth was fuzzy and tasted sour, and he smelled awful—like sea water and sweat and dirt. And just about every muscle in his body felt heavy and sore with fatigue.
Nate forced himself off of the bed—he was still exhausted, but sleep only brought back the sounds of gunfire and the phantom sensation of Sam spitting blood in his face. As much as he didn't want to be awake, it was preferable to dreaming.
The bed sheets had been kicked to the ground, and he tossed them back onto the mattress as he stood up. The room was hot; at least that much hadn't changed. He was used to the humidity by now.
He stumbled over to the bathroom and into the shower, clothes left in a pile on the floor, and stood under the water long enough to feel somewhat clean again. He'd dreamed of a hot, private shower with soap that didn't sting his skin while he was in prison, but the indulgence felt hollow now.
When the water ran cold, he turned the faucet off and stepped out, towelling himself dry. When he saw what he looked like in the mirror, he made sure to wash his face again. He couldn't get rid of the bruises and the cuts, but he could remove the mud and the uneven sheen on his skin from crying. Thieves don't cry, as Sam would say to him whenever he got hurt. Can't steal from a thief, little brother, since none of what he's got is actually his. That hurt ain't yours—it's someone else's, pushed on you, that's all. Let's go give it back, am I right?
But I can't give this back.
There were clothes sitting on the lone dresser for him when he moved back into the main room—they were his clothes, not Rafe's, or bought from some department store. His own. That was nice. Sully must have made sure to have them on hand.
They didn't quite fit—the pants were too loose, and the shirt was roomier than he remembered. He cinched his belt tight, shoved his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and slipped on a pair of sneakers. He tried to stall for a few extra minutes of time and combed his hair again, but he was quickly out of things to do in the rented out bedroom.
Time to go downstairs.
I wonder if Rafe is still around. He wanted to come here to ask Sully for help, after all. Guess I'll find out.
He unlocked the door and stepped out. He could smell roasting plantains, coffee and eggs coming from downstairs, and felt his stomach rumble. Right. He hadn't really eaten supper last night.
Marisola was the first person he saw when he descended the stairs of the tiny inn. She smiled at him from behind the counter. "Buen día, cariño."
"Buenos días," he replied, forcing a smile. She disappeared behind the door to her left and came back a moment later, carrying a large breakfast plate. She handed it to him, smiling kindly. Marisola had always been nice to him—whenever he and Sully and Sam were here on business, she offered them a room and food for a good price, and in turn they would cut her in on some of their less dangerous deals.
"Eat," she said. "You are so skinny I can see your bones."
"Thanks." He grabbed the plate from her, the smell making his mouth water. Then he frowned and patted his jean pockets, realising, of course, that he had no money. "I don't have any—"
She waved her hands, as if to shoo him away. "No, no no no. Invita la casa. Go on, eat, before you fall out of your clothes."
He nodded, thanking her again, then went to sit down at their regular booth. It was still early, and the place was mostly empty, which worked just fine for him.
He worked through his meal quickly—he tried not to fork it all down as fast as he could, but it would take a while to break the habit of guarding his food. The spices stung the cut on his lip and the lacerations on the inside of his mouth, and he forced himself to slow down.
He was halfway finished with his meal when he heard Sully's voice, and then his appetite vanished.
"Mornin', kid. How you feeling?"
He looked up, straight at Sully, who was looking back at him with a rare, soft expression that made his gut churn. He hated sympathy. It just made him think about shit he'd rather forget.
"Um," he began, setting his fork down. "Yeah. I'm—yeah, I'm okay."
Sully nodded, but his expression said he knew Nate was lying. He was holding two cups of coffee, and set one down in front of Nate as he slid into the booth seat opposite of him. "I see Marisola fed you. You look like you could stand to gain twenty pounds."
Nate didn't really hear Sully's words. Last night came flooding back to him, and he felt his face grow hot with shame.
"Might have to buy you some new clothes, too, if y—"
"Sully."
He looked up, a silver brow arched up to his hairline as he sipped his drink. "What is it?"
Nate cleared his throat and looked down at the steam coming from his coffee. "I—I'm sorry, about, about last night—"
Sully waved a hand. "Pfft. Don't you worry about that—"
"No," he said forcefully. "I'm sorry. Really. I don't know what that—I–I didn't mean to—"
"Nate," Sully interrupted, face serious. "You lost your brother. You're allowed to be upset."
He shook his head, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest at Sully's words. "Still, that's no reason t—"
"Looks like there's only sweetener in there," Sully interrupted again, pointing to the small basket of condiments on their table in a weak attempt to change the subject. "I'll go grab some real sugar for you." He stood up, looking towards the front counter, trying to spot a jar of sugar.
"Sully—"
"Kid, like I said, don't worry about it." He gave Nate a hard, don't-argue-with-me look. "I signed up to take care of you two, and that's what I'm doing—it's what I did last night. Don't apologise. Clear?"
Nate sighed and sat back, nodding. "Yeah, clear."
"Good. Eat the rest of that," he replied, jerking his chin to the plate of food. "Then we can figure out where to go from here."
"Wait—where's Rafe?"
Sully rolled his eyes. "Adler? Went across town to another hotel—guess this wasn't fancy enough for him." He made a dismissive gesture and shoved a hand in his front pocket, probably toying with a cigar. "Don't worry about Adler right now—just eat some goddamn food."
