#blackshucks

Now, he turned to Nevio, and offered a slight smile. The other man stood, staring at him with an intensity that put off others, but Paolo simple understood as the way Nevio processed what it was he had to say, or think. "It won't be long, you know." Paolo offered softly.

Nevio made a sound in the back of his throat, his body moving with the sound as if the words that Paolo had offered offended him and his sensibilities. "Don't comfort me like some wife who's sending her husband over seas. It'll be as long as it takes to get the journalist back. Long enough." He grunted back.

Long enough, Paolo considered the words. Let them sit heavy on his tongue and in his mind. Long enough for what? Long enough to worry? To miss him? To wonder if he'd survive?

Paolo shifted the weight on his pack again, and traced the profile of Nevio's face against the darkening blue of he sky. He let himself wonder how it would press against his face in a kiss, but only for a moment because those thoughts were dangerous and whenever he let himself turn sweet in his head, Nevio grew distant like he could sense it.

He looked away from the face and offered a shrug. "Long enough, then." He decided. Nevio didn't want comfort or assurances, because they were empty. When there was no reply after a few moments, Paolo extended his hand and Nevio's rose immediately to grip it.

Tight and unyielding, Paolo would have winced had he not been prepared for the way his knuckles ground together while they acted out this strange hand shake, hand hold between themselves. "Be safe." Nevio gritted out, like it was painful to request it.

Paolo chuckled softly and squeezed Nevio's fingers as they let their hands retreat to their sides. "I'll do what I can." And then he walked away, and climbed into his Range Rover, and peeled away into the desert. 

Nevio was never sure if he'd see him again. Sometimes he wondered if maybe it wouldn't be easier if he disappeared for good.

- - -

There had been a plan, Paolo thought as he stared at the wall and ignored he pain radiating from everything. Two days ago had been the last time he'd managed to check in. On route to this shit hole to find the journalist who had been captured.

Well, he certainly found them. One hand missing, they travelled in and out of lucidity but they seemed to trust Paolo. He had held the young man's face in his hands and swore on his life that he would get both of them out of the small, concrete room.

Then he had been stabbed, in an effort to overtake a guard. Now he lay still. So still, because even the slightest of movements hurt, and he regretted swearing both of them would get out. The shuddering way he breathed made him doubt the validity of the promise.

He wavered, in and out of consciousness, each time he woke the journalist sounded a little more shrill with worry, and Paolo's ability to assure him that everything was fine waned.

The next time he woke, it was to the sound of shouting. He knew not to struggle to sit up, though he did lift his head to look at the steel door that had kept him from escape. When it opened, and the face that was revealed was Nevio, wild eyed and enraged Paolo let himself close his eyes. Maybe this time for good.

- - -

When he woke again, Nevio was at his side, hard gaze on him. Paolo smiled softly. "Hey." He croaked, throat dry and mind hazy.

"Hey yourself." Nevio growled. "You been out for a day."

"Long enough, then." Paolo nodded and rested his head back against the pillow. He wasn't tired but his eyes needed to close. Nevio's grip on his hand tightened.

"He's alright." 

"Hmm?" Paolo turned his head to the source of the sound, showing he was listening.

"Your journalist. He's alright." Nevio sounded annoyd that he had to repeat it. 

"Good." Paolo hummed slightly. "And me?"

Nevio exhaled through his nose sharply. "Not dead. Not out of action." He responded.

"Good." Paolo nodded a little, and stayed very still and quiet when Nevio's thumb trailed over his hand. "Should be back at it in a few days."

Nevio only answered with a non-verbal snort of derision. Not that Paolo wouldn't be, just that he shouldn't be. But he'd never tell Paolo that. It was one of those things he'd learned to glean from his quiet Nevio. Paolo continued to ask him simple questions until Nevio's thumb stopped stroking his hand, as if he had allowed himself 50 movements and now he had run out of allotted time to touch.

"Sleep." Was the only response he got to his last question.