sinfxlâ:
noah-etkin¡:
etkins  cares  about  everything,  that  next  to  a  woman  who  struggles  to  care  at  allâ  sheâs  still  not  always  sure  how  to  handle  how  much  everything  can  matter  to  one  person.  the  way  he  carries  the  world  on  his  shouldersâ  a  burden  no  one  can  truly  carry,  but  still  ;  he  lets  it  burry  him.  maybe  the  sand  room  wasnât  his  firm  time  suffocating  under  a  weight  he  cannot  escape. Â
the  back  of  her  head  is  resting  agains  the  headboard  as  he  takes  the  bottle.  arms  wrapped  lazily  around  her  center  as  heâs  tipping  the  bottle  back.  head  rolling  against  the  backboard  as  sheâs  looking  at  him  now.  of  course,  it  wouldnât  exactly  be  a  night  with  noah  if  he  wasnât  apologizing  for  something  he  didnât  do.  sheâs  grown  used  to  his  incessant  need  to  apologize  for  everything,  even  when  itâs  not  needed.  she  doesnât  agree  with  it,  likely  never  will,  but  she  gets  it  now,  itâs  him. Â
her  mouth  opens  to  say  something  and  falls  short  as  the  apology  starts  pouring  out.  heâs  pushing  his  phone  and  sheâs  obliging.  eyes  scanning  the  screen  as  sheâs  taking  it  from  his  hands.  she  knows  heâs  saying  something  because  she  can  hear  his  voice,  registering  every  couple  of  words.  sheâs  not  sure  how  many  times  sheâs  read  the  message  now,  three,  four  times  ?    sheâs  only  looking  back  at  him  as  the  bottle  is  meeting  his  lips  again,  a  heavy  sigh  parting  way  with  her  lips.  â  noah.  .  .  â  head  shaking  softly  as  she  sets  the  phone  down  between  them.  her  mind  is  raking  with  what  the  fuck  sheâs  supposed  to  say.  sheâs  anything  but  sure  herself. Â
brows  are  twisting  together  even  though  a  smile  nearly  breaks  way.  â  youâre  apologizing  for  not  hurting  me  ?  â  no,  that  doesnât  seem  right.  seems  like  exactly  something  noah  would  do.  she  canât  imagine  ever  wanting  to  hurt  another.  her  eyes  seem  to  be  mindlessly  scanning  the  hands  sheâs  dropped  into  her  lap  because  it  doesnât  make  sense.  even  withâ  of  course.  suddenly  itâs  like  all  her  thoughts  connected  and  she  thought  maybe  she  understood  why  he  was  so  adamant  on  apologizing.  â  you  think  this  is  all  your  fault.  .  .  â  itâs  nearly  said  under  her  breath  as  sheâs  looking  back  up  at  him  now.  sheâs  pulling  the  bottle  from  his  grasp  before  she  even  realizes  it  really,  tipping  it  back  and  letting  the  liquor  burn  its  way  down  her  throat.  a  sensation  sheâs  most  used  to  now. Â
sheâs  releasing  a  breath  that  feels  like  tons  lifting  off  her  chest.  â  itâs  not.  â  there  was  no  question  about.  â  you  didnât  choose  to  hurt  all  those  people  in  that  room.  you  simply  chose  to  not  hurt  me,  and  iâm  sorry  but  if  you  think  thatâs  something  i  need  to  forgive  you  for?  your  wrong.  â  her  head  shaking  softly  as  their  eyes  meet.  â  this  is  selfishâ  â  she  almost  stops  herself,  a  soft  laugh  slipping  from  her  lips.  â  i  wouldnât  of  wanted  you  to  hurt  me.  â Â
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Sometimes â in these moments, he questions what heâs doing; where he is now; how he got her; why he let it become this. A kind of saddening thought that he isnât where he really wants to be â a bottle grasped between his hands on a Faustâs bed, in their home; near enough headquarters to a third of Chicagoâs most organised crime. A once do-gooder cop who wanted to make the world a better place as if it could possibly be as easy as just that. Noah can barely look a Blair, unaware for if itâs fear, concern or a mix of the both. The copâs handed the phone over, allowed the Faust to read it for herself. An overwhelming sense of dread consumes him and heâs choking it down with liquor like if he doesnât stop for long enough, it might drown him.
Isnât that a dark thought, Noah? It burns with a kind of agony that the officerâs believing he deserves, hears his name â so soft, escape her from beside him and itâs another second before the bottles pulled away from his lips, back of his other hand to his mouth like itâs the only thing preventing him from vomiting it back up.
Anywhere else; any other situation thatâs away from Faust shit, he can be a better man â he can try do his job right. Blurring lines has never been his forte, heâs trying to do it, so hard. Etkinâs futily since becoming a pawn in the Italianâs mafia tried to play both sides to the best of his ability. But then things like halloween happen.
And it splits him in two â right, wrong, lines colliding that sandwich him in an iron vice and if he buries himself enough in such other vices; maybe he wonât feel the pain when it inevitably crushes him.
He expects it will, imagines the expression when heâs ready to look at the woman next to him with the same sorry gaze he wears a lot lately. A changing thing inside him thatâs beyond its ordinary apologies; more personal; more involved with this. And the way she words it, almost makes him laugh, almost.
Like heâs still a good person in all this. Because he didnât hurt Blair.
But I thought about it B, for a second, I considered it.
âIt is my fault,â right? Firm, like he has to hear it from her; makes it all real then. Not just for considering it, but he finds that thereâs some evidence in the way it had all played out; planned; selected like some puzzle piece in a twisted game and pitted him against Blair, Stefano and the other that had been trapped beneath the weight of dirt with them.
Because Noah didnât want to hurt even a criminal; as heâs just the same.
The bottles left his fingers and made it back into Blairâs.
âItâs â itâs more than that, it was you, Stefano, that kid, they were â â I donât even know what Iâm saying. âI didnât want to hurt you either,â he admits, quiet; shakes himself out of the fumbling â words a little slurred as alcohol finds crevasses around his body to nestle. âI couldnât trace then Blair â thatâs my job,â beyond this. Heâs finding anything to say now, feeding into the stresses of how they got here; the number the text unknown; the officer; intelligence, and nothing. âI â fuck,â fists tighten and he lets out what heâs thinking; as catastrophic as it might be to himself â to her. âI almost did Blair, nearly â â but I couldnât. Itâs not Noah; he canât do the cold blood like them (not like that.).
An image of himself standing over a grave is so fleeting he forces it back down, leans over the woman to steal that bottle back, emptying between them â might need more, hand knocking against her with some shake he canât prevent.
Heâs not innocent â neither is she, heâs worse.
Because Etkin knows heâs trying his best to pretend he fucking is; wears a badge like it still means anything.
And, the drink keeps going down.
He doesnât know if thatâll kill him first, or the Fausts will.Â











