#; start

“Here is that data pad you asked for. Your brother spares no expense.” Terms you will never hear Ori use: little brother. It was two minutes, what’s so little about that? His side aches even when he lifts his arm to hand off the data pad, but he does his best to keep himself from wincing. One of the--many--hard lessons their father daughter them: how to be in constant pain and keep smiling. 

Things Jack Samuels is not good at: respecting Meadow’s space. Honoring Harrison’s marriage. Being quiet while he’s getting fucked. 

He practically lives at Harrison’s place these days. He’s not Harrison’s boyfriend--he’d die before he used that word. But they snuggle while they watch TV, sext when they’re bored, and complain about the general state of the world. He’s even let Harrison show him every Nicole Kidman movie in existence and, he has to admit, she’s got talent. 

But not boyfriends. Definitely not that. 

Meadow is like a ghost, constantly floating quietly around the house. She left for the day, Samuels thinks, but it’s hard to tell, the way she creeps around. Doesn’t stop him from backing up against Harrison and teasing the other man until he throws him against the bed, pins his arms back, and fucks the shit out of him.

Jack likes being helpless. Likes it when Harrison pounds him so hard he forgets his own goddamn name. They finish, unromantically, and Harrison goes to clean himself up. Jack pulls up his pants and goes downstairs. Considers making lunch or something--he’s feeling reinvigorated, alive, and famished. When he hits the bottom of the stairs, however, his feet come to a quick stop. 

Great. Audrey. Sitting in one of the living room armchairs. How long had she been here? She might as well have been Meadow’s lawyer, for how often the woman hung around here. 

This is fucked. 

Samuels knows that. Which is why he has a couple bent tin cans already clanking around under the empty passenger seat of his car. Drinking while driving. It’s enough for them to take his badge. 

But...y’know. Fuck it.

He kills the last beer, crushes it, and tosses it to the side with a clatter. His brain has been scrambled for weeks. He can’t get it out of his head...he was just a kid. Just a goddamn, stupid kid. 

Samuels has never killed a kid before. Especially not one he saw so much of himself in. 

This is his attempt to peel off the bandaid. Maybe if he talks to her. Steps through that door for a second time. Maybe he can quiet the noise in his skull. 

Samuels gets out of his car, slams the door behind him, and walks to the front door of the cottage-like house. His heels click sharply on the pavement as thoughts pound through his head. What the hell is he going to say? Hello, Mrs. Langdon. You may remember me from a couple weeks ago, when I knocked down your door with the rest of the SWAT team, invaded your home, aimed my gun at your homicidal son and pulled the trigger...