#whitelics

He doesn’t get nightmares often anymore. They plagued him infinitely for many, many years, all the way from teenage to adulthood but, at some point, they stopped. Santiago always thought that to be a bad sign— A sign he’d finally lost his soul or his hope or his humanity but, every-so-often, a bad memory escapes through the carefully concocted mental box he keeps them in. 

It has never happened in front of anyone before. He gasps and seizes, waking up with a jolt, the imagery already escaping him — someone, somewhere, bloody and unmoving underneath his cruel hands — but the anxiety that courses through his body doesn’t go away even as he sits up on the bed, the sheets pooling around his hips, skin clammy as he rubs a hand over his chest. Self-soothing, or at least trying to, but all Santiago can focus on is how much pain and misery they’ve brought to the world. 

To his own family. 

He doesn’t notice Angel stir awake — does he dream of electric sheep?, Santi always wants to ask but never gathers the courage to — until it’s too late for him to mask his panic, Angel’s arms snaking underneath Santi’s armpits, his big hands sprawling across his chest. Santi’s breathing, already erratic, becomes even more ragged. 

“Your heart is trying to climb out of your throat.” Angel mumbles behind him, cold lips pressing to his feverish shoulder. He’s been getting better at that, allegories and metaphors, the longer he hangs around Santiago and his — their — friends. “Nightmare?”

“ ‘M alright.” Santiago mumbles, but he leans back against Angel’s narrow chest anyway; his body is cold, colder than usual, but the temperature is so soothing in the stifling heat that Santi wonders if Angel’s doing it on purpose. “It’s gone already.” 

“You’re safe.” Angel mumbles into his ear and Santi really, really wishes he could tell him how much that doesn’t help. “I’m safe. Céline’s safe. We’ll be okay.” 

“I know.” Santiago twists his head, dry lips pressing to the corner of Angel’s mouth. He still feels sick to his stomach, but the way Angel scratches at the hairs on his chest makes his muscles loosen. “I know.” 

And he’ll lay down his life to make sure that stays true.

santiago allowed his head to tilt back, the familiar red lines of his own gun glimmering in the low light of his bedroom, the cold metal pressing against the underside of his chin. he was used to raising his eyes upwards when looking at angel, but never this much, never with his knees on the ground and hands tied behind his back— properly tied, not handcuffed, because angel had broken the fucking fuzzy handcuffs they’d first put him in like the asshole he was. santi let the silence stew between them, blood rushing from his brain, his dark pants uncomfortably tight. if anyone asked, santi would’ve sworn that the only reason he wasn’t concerned about the gun on his face was because of the fingerprint-locked trigger, but that wasn’t necessarily true, not when angel’s pupils were so blown his eyes turned back, not when santi could see the tent on angel’s own pants nearly at eye level. “what’s it gonna be, little robot?” his voice echoed through the room, even though he had barely whispered. “are you gonna shoot me, or fuck me?”

santiago really needed to stop underestimating the younger man. between the skinny arms and the stupid fucking mullet that santiago couldn't help but want to run his fingers through, angel didn’t look at all like a threat— santi knew better, however. should have known better, at least. it wasn't the first time angel got the best of him since they had snatched him from the street, not even considering the first time they met. that fateful one santi figured shouldn't count, considering that the sole reason angel had gotten the upper hand was because santiago had been too busy thinking with his dick. this time, when angel somehow jumps away from the radiator he’s been handcuffed to and plows his fist straight against santiago’s jaw, he wouldn’t admit that it was the second time santi was punched because he was busy thinking with his dick. ripley barked out a laugh from her beanbag, but made no move to help as santiago staggered back, the blood gushing from his nose fueling the anger as he launched himself on top of angel, the other man’s head hitting the corner of the radiator with a sickening thud. angel was unconscious before the two of them even properly hit the ground, but santiago didn’t trust that one bit, considering he’d been stabbed the last time angel played dead. “rip, be useful for fucking once and get me some rope or handcuffs or anything. you and céline gotta have some kinky shit laying around.” “can’t believe you got jumped by C-3PO's underfed cousin.” ripley snorted, but started rummaging through the top drawer of her dresser nonetheless. “cél's going to love hearing about it.” “bastard's stronger than he looks.” santiago couldn’t fucking believe it either. he shuffled around, angel's limp body far heavier than he expected it to be, as if even while unconscious he was still doing his damned best to be as difficult as possible. “fuck you. and fuck him too.”

“wanna make it a little more interesting?” a wild smile bloomed across santiago’s face. he closed the two steps of distance between them, nose barely brushing against angel’s. “run, little robot.” he taunted. “i’ll give you a thirty second head start, because i’m just that nice and then i’m going to catch you, because we both know i will.” santi tilted his head, his lips grazing the corner of angel’s mouth before he stepped back, once again placing the distance between them. he felt just a little insane, the adrenaline desire and frustration that had been bubbling inside him finally ready to burst. “and then i’ll get what i want.”

“i’ve done it before.” santiago kept the gun trained on angel. it would’ve been so easy to simply pull the trigger— he knew he’d hit the other man right in the forehead, his aim near perfection with the years of training. years of pulling a trigger without hesitation, years of taking lives without a second thought. that first time, the night he met the angel he murdered, santiago had hesitated too. just a second, a brief moment that wondered what life could be like if he gave in into the desire he felt, if he simply finished taking off his clothes and laying in bed and finally taking something for himself. it had ended with him almost dying, a ferocious fight for his own life. angel’s blood and broken bones beneath his knuckles. “i’ve killed you before without a fucking second of hesitation, angel.” he lied. “busted your damned head in with my bare fucking hands. don’t think i wouldn’t do it again.”