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“Fucking stay put, Adam,” Nigel had said. “We can’t take you now – but we’ll be fucking back, okay, Adam?” He hadn’t used petnames, nor had he looked very happy saying it. In fact, Nigel had looked (to put it in Nigel’s terms, which was something Adam does a lot nowadays) fucking enraged. Adam wasn’t particularly great at reading people, but those tells from Nigel specifically usually meant he was unprepared, surprised, and angry about it.
Adam has replayed the scenario in his head hundreds of times since Nigel first hopped the window with everybody else and left him chained to the table in their living room seven months ago. Could Adam had done something differently? He hadn’t moved from beneath the table where Nigel had shoved him off of his chair in the middle of a card game after loud, explosive bangs at the door. Adam’s ears still rang sometimes from the volume of it. Maybe he had misheard Nigel? Maybe he misinterpreted what he meant? Adam had remained beneath that table (huddled in a ball, rocking back and forth as he repeated Nigel’s words like a mantra: stay put, stay put...) until the police officers had identified him from his year-old missing posters and had to drag him out kicking and screaming.
They had used bolt cutters on the chain, and at the time it felt like true severance. Nigel had chained him because those were the rules – and had always been the rules, for as long as Adam had been with Nigel. And they were broken – not even by his own volition that time. The idea of Nigel being disappointed in him still brings tears to his eyes, but Adam supposes that’s an improvement from when he was first put in witness protection (which, really, felt like a much more awful version of his original kidnapping) and every time a government-mandated therapist (or even Beth – but she’d stopped visiting after Adam showed no signs of talking about Nigel and his gang to her) mentioned his name, or affiliations, or even the events that led Adam to be sat in the itchy armchair in his home-cum-prison cell, he had a meltdown. He didn’t panic any more, though – not like how he used to. Now he just felt a caving emptiness in his chest that only grew as every day passed without Nigel. He felt numb.
All Adam did was doze, and he was still tired in his few waking hours as his true sleep was fitful with nightmares. If he was lucky, sometimes he’d dream of Nigel, although by now the details were getting fuzzy. Adam had never had the best memory, and it became more and more difficult to accurately pinpoint Nigel’s accent when he tried to recreate it in his head.
At the beginning of month five, because Adam can’t live without being beaten down constantly, it all got suddenly and horrifically worse.
Nigel had been shot in the head, they said. No body recovered, but surely dead, they said. No ‘Nigel’ coming up in any hospital records. Now Adam can live without fear, his therapist had said.
Adam had gone completely unresponsive, and his therapist eventually gave a sigh and gave up.
That night, Adam had tried to kill himself. He had failed, and was put on around the clock watch (because it was apparently too risky to put him somewhere like a mental hospital; too public - Nigel's men were still on the run, he had overheard) and he lost any semblance of privacy he had once had. He still slept most of the day, though. He was just chastised for it more now.
And now, two months later, Adam’s witness protection had turned into less “protection” and more “for his own good” – apparently. The one person in his life who had accepted him, desired him entirely as himself, was dead. Could anything be for his own good anymore with Nigel gone?
His guard for the night was sat a good four feet away from him on the sofa, as Adam blankly stared at the TV screen, not entirely aware of what was playing as it was on more so for the guard than him. Adam would probably fall asleep soon – he’d been up and awake for longer than he usually had, as today had been a rare day off from his probing therapist since she was ill, and Adam had wanted to savour it. Now he was just overtired-
Adam had to stop that train of thought before he began to cry. Nigel had always teased him for being overtired, or sleepy, or...
Adam was vaguely aware of loud rustling then – banging. Adam closed his eyes tight at the sound. No, it was different, it wasn’t back then – he wasn’t about to lose himself to memories he couldn’t even remember properly now. Not before bed. Adam was not having nightmares again.
“Fucking – I’m gonna go check that out,” The guard said. “Stay put.” Adam bit his lips between his teeth and drew up his legs to tuck his face between his knees. The banging was getting louder, and he should stay put, or-
The front door unlocked, and with a final, deafening bang (followed by a much softer thud) the noise came to a halt. Adam kept his face hidden, rocking back and forth on the sofa and keeping his breathing deep and even like Nigel had taught him to do every time Adam had gotten overstimulated and Nigel hadn’t wanted to stop. It worked surprisingly well, and Adam was all too distracted by his own inner monologue to hear a familiar voice call his name. Too distracted to hear how the voice tutted, before yanking Adam’s legs down before hiking him up into a fireman’s carry. Adam almost screeched at the contact on his legs, but calmed almost immediately at the familiar man.
However, Adam was still confused. “Darko?” He queried, voice rough from general disuse. The air outside the house was cold and harsh against his skin, only dressed in a t-shirt and joggers, yet after months of being inside Adam was glad for it. If he twisted up, he could catch glimpses of the stars, but the angle was awkward at best and painful at worst, so Adam gave up and slumped back across Darko’s back.
“Took a while to find you, and then Nigel got fucking shot – so we couldn’t pick you up for a while. Couldn't make contact either unless they moved you, and that would be hell.” Was all Darko was willing to divulge, yet Adam was frozen on the first mention of Nigel's name: Darko was all too casual to be talking about a dead man like that. Hadn’t they’d been, what had Nigel described it as – “closer than brothers”?
But, Adam remained quiet. He was used to being quiet, and the cold was enough to distract his mind from thoughts of Nigel. If he thought to hard about it now, he might start crying, and Darko was always the worst to him when he cried. Nigel was dead, he has been dead for two months and three days, and Nigel was sat next to him in Darko’s car.
If Adam was frozen before, now he was too shocked to even do up his seatbelt. There was someone else in the passenger seat that Adam couldn’t be bothered to identify. Nigel was slumped against the car door, barely awake, thick bandages surrounding his skill and a blanket draped on his legs. “Adam?” He slurred, and really it sounded more like “ah-um?” but Adam got the message loud and clear. Nigel was alive.
Adam practically screamed: “Nigel!” as he flung towards the other man, careful of his head wound as he buried into Nigel’s neck. Nigel’s hands were a little uncoordinated on his back, yet they held with the same strength that they had months before. Adam was a blubbering mess on Nigel’s skin. “Nigel, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stay, they wouldn’t let me, Nigel - I’m so sorry.”
Adam was speaking around gasping breaths and sobs, sounding almost as incoherent as Nigel had. Nigel simply held him tighter in silent apology for leaving Adam for so long. And by god was Adam angry at that - he thought Nigel had fucking died – but all of that was temporarily overtaken by rapturous relief by the fact that Nigel was (mostly) okay, and alive, and-
Adam couldn’t help but separate momentarily to sloppily kiss at Nigel’s mouth, crying into his lips as his arms clutched around Nigel’s midsection. “Adam.” Nigel repeated, tone deep and thick with emotion and Adam could almost see the relief in Nigel's wet eyes. His word was much clearer and coherent than before, and every sound Nigel made flooded Adam with a new sense of relief. For the first time in a long time, Adam felt something other than deep hopelessness: everything was going to be okay, now that he had Nigel again.