Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wrapped Hands

His hands ache. They’re littered with gashes and bruises, swellin’ up, and already turning deep shades of purple. Nothin’ that he hasn’t experienced before but he’s lyin’ if he says they don’t hurt. The way the tape feels wrappin’ around the tender flesh and knuckles feels like it’s sewin’ him back together again ‘cept he knows it’s just goin’ to get worse. Sometimes he thinks he’s in it more for the pain than the pleasure, but he scoffs cuz these days they’re feelin’ too much like the same thing.

Has it all lined up. Wants to go pro and spend his days boxin’, stayin’ off the radar and outta the streets. Thinks maybe he found a way to still do what he loves and get that feelin’ without havin’ to run from the flashin’ lights behind him while he’s doin’ it. Maybe this is somethin’ that will make his grandma a lil’ prouder of him while lettin’ him provide for her the way he’s always promised to.

So when he’s wrappin’ his hands up, the last thing he imagines is that it’ll be his last time gettin’ to. Maybe not the last time ever, but the last time he’ll be doin’ it with the chance of somethin’ more for him and more for the life he’s always dreamt of. Feels it all suddenly ripped away from him too when Nick yanks it out from under him, and when he’s sittin’ alone in his cell down in FCI Milan thinkin’ about it, he thinks it’s on him for bein’ so surprised.

The First Gun He Held

The first time he’s holdin’ a gun he’s barely fourteen years old. It goes like this. His grandma’s passed out in her chair, readin’ one of those dusty old books from the shelf in the den and he knows it’s his chance to break out free for the night and hit the streets. Before he knows it, he’s out there, hot wirin’ cars with Mick and Bullet, Bullet who was still just known as David at the time he thinks, chucklin’ to himself and shakin’ his head at just how much has changed. It’s a Tuesday night and they’re three cars deep when they get cocky and try to go for a fourth. Feels the thin, bare wires tangled and twisted in his hands, linkin’ back down to the engine before he yanks them all out of the undercarriage and jumps back from all the sparks. His fingers start tinglin’, just thinkin’ bout the way he burnt the shit out of them that night too, can still feel it all and hell, he can sometimes still see it all if he looks at them hard enough.

The sound of that Honda engine turnin’ over for him is still like a song that plays on repeat in his head. He ain’t even got his license yet but knows the streets of Detroit like the back of his already messed up hands. Drives the twists and the turns like they’re his first memories, because they are. Even feels safe doin’ it but knows he prolly shouldn’t. Thing is, Detroit is his city. He was born here, grew up here, and shit, he’s prolly gonna die here too.

So when he pulls into the chop shop on Eight Mile in the Honda and sees the boss man wavin’ an old glock around at Mick and motionin’ over toward the last car they dropped off, some stupid ass Toyota, he knows he has a choice to make. It’s sometime between that moment and him standin’ in their line of fire with a shitty ass .22 in his hands from underneath that old whip’s seat that he realizes this is it for him. He’s got dues to pay.

The gun is so fuckin’ small, but it ain’t small enough to stop his long ass finger from easily findin’ and fittin’ over the trigger to toggle it back and forth, and the fuck – why’s he feel so ready to pull it right now?

When his boss lurches forward at them he inhales and pulls, watchin’ him fall down to the shop floor in a pool of his blood and he feels a weight lifted off his shoulders.  Exhales like he doesn’t have to fear becomin’ this person anymore because now he finally is and it’s been most of his life comin’.

It’s some stolen piece o’ shit in his hands that’s been passed around the streets of Detroit more times than an east side hooker that changes everything about who he’s ever gonna be and the rest of his story feels finished, all from somethin’ small and stolen sittin’ in the palm of his hand.

Hands Full of Crowbar

Shit, one minute he’s blowin’ out Elizabeth’s back in the bar bathroom and the next he’s got a crowbar lodged in his hands itchin’ to destroy everything her dumbass husband loves. Ironically, he ain’t includin’ her in that list cuz he’s seen enough to know she don’t really seem to be on that list.

Can’t stomach the idea of her bein’ with him or even around him and yeah, knows he’s jealous but he don’t really give a shit. He don’t like to share and especially don’t like to share with that dumbass. He didn’t sign up for this shit when they started bein’ partners. And maybe he could try to stomach it if the dude treats her well enough, or hell even if she wants to be there, but he don’t and she doesn’t so what’s it to him if he gets in the middle of it a lil’ bit more.

And yeah, he finds his idea of poppin’ out of the car and scarin’ the shit out of that dumbass a lil’ bit amusin’ so that’s what he decides to do.

It works.

“You didn’t tell him yet?” he taunts her, pokin’ at her like he likes. He don’t get the hint that she hates it either.  

That dumbass inserts himself again. “Tell me what?”

Man, shut the fuck up he thinks, shakin’ his head. And of course she ain’t tell him yet. Ain’t like he thought she actually would but didn’t stop him from hopin’ for it so he says as much. “You didn’t tell him…huh?”

Her eyes are lasering into him, he feels it. Ain’t sure if she’s tryin’ to figure out if he’ll actually talk or beggin’ him not to but that ain’t why he’s here. At least that’s what he’s gotta tell himself.

Decides him and Elizabeth fuckin’ ain’t none of her husband's business in the end so he keeps it to himself. “We’re partners now.”

Thing is, she don’t even deny it and he’d be lyin’ if he said he didn’t find some bit of joy in that. Dumbass looks more bothered by the word partners than if he did say they were fuckin’. But again, that ain’t why he’s here. This ain’t just their business anymore, they partners now, right? What’s theirs is his and shit.

And when he says he’s takin’ a thirty percent cut of it and that dumbass tells him to go to hell, he has to count to ten in his head. Well, has to try but only makes it to four before he decides to start swingin’ the crowbar anyway just to make his point.

So yea, he takes all that anger out on that ugly ass neon ‘vette and knocks out the side mirror thinkin’ that’ll prove his point and end it. ‘Cept that dumbass turns around to call the cops which is the worst thing he coulda done, so he starts back up countin’ at four where he left off, only makes it to seven again before he’s givin’ up and smashin’ out the driver's window too.

It felt fuckin’ good and if he didn’t know any better he’d say Elizabeth didn’t hate it as much as she was pretendin’ to either. She’s got those rosy cheeks she gets when he knows she’s all hot and bothered. Fuck if that don’t fuel him too.

So he can’t help himself. Knows she loves a good negotiation and shit. “Fifty?”

They scream out and he tells them to take it up with HR, makin’ himself laugh cuz shit if he ain’t funny as hell sometimes despite never gettin’ any credit for it. Especially when Elizabeth’s screamin’ and that dumbass is seriously askin’ him who HR is, and damn what did she ever see in this guy?

It’s when Elizabeth tells him he can have whatever he wants if he just stops and he says sixty percent, which is over half, a fact that ain’t lost on him and is so loud he don’t even think it’s lost on that dumbass standing behind her that he agrees.

He saves the crowbar though, just in case Elizabeth’s dumbass husband needs a lil’ more incentive with somethin’ later on.

Dubby Hands

Fuck, she really went back into that trap house lookin’ for her lil’ girls blanket. When he counts, it takes more than both his hands to capture the amount of times he told her there ain’t no reason to ever go inside one of them houses. Nothin’ but a bunch of unsavory scumbags in those places with guys doin’ any crime it takes just to get their next hit or even worse just to have some fun. Elizabeth and her girls were nothin’ more than fresh prey delivered right to their front door on a silver platter and shit if he didn’t want that visual in his mind at all.

So when she calls him, yellin’ at him to meet her back by the warehouse with an edge to her voice he ain’t never heard before, he knows somethin’s up. Drops his plans and meets her right away, wonderin’ what her and her girls got into this time. Wonders how much it’s gonna cost him cuz shit if they don’t have a pattern already. Doesn’t expect her to admit so easily to goin’ inside lookin’ for an old blanket of all things and comin’ home to a missin’ kid.

Thinks about what could have happened to her just from goin’ back in there and thinks about how sure he is those guys don’t give a damn about her kid cuz their melted brains just worry about their next hit and there ain’t no money in takin’ kids. Then he thinks about the little part of him that thinks what if they did take her kid and his stomach turns. Knows he’s gotta go make sure and he hates her for it.

He's drivin’ over there, thinkin’ about what he would have done if it were Marcus’s ratty ass baby blanket left in the car, the blue one he’s had to make countless late-night trips back to Rhea’s for just to stop his kid's tears and he gets it because he goes to get it every time. Shit, they’re still gonna have to have a lil’ talk later and yea, she’s a gonna be a bit more on the receivin’ end of it this time but he gets it.

Before he knows it, he’s bustin’ down the door of that old shit hole on Monroe and knockin’ out a few dirty ass guys with his just his bare hands, yellin’ about a kid and they don’t know what he’s talkin’ about but they’re throwin’ some pink blanket at him yellin’ back about a dubby or some shit and how he can have it. Figures this must have been the shit Elizabeth went back in for. Some old ass pink blanket pullin’ apart at the seams that ain’t worth it’s weight in pennies.

And he can’t stop himself. He’s feelin’ a rush that he hasn’t felt in awhile and he keeps yellin’, breakin’ shit and showin’ them they work for him and yells about how he don’t even want them takin’ a leak anymore without him knowin’ about it first, cuz apparently he’s gotta micromanage everyone these days. They’re agreein’ to everything and screamin’ that they didn’t know she was his girl and he can’t find it in himself to correct them cuz shit it ain’t like they’re completely wrong, he’s said so himself and he’s been hearin’ it from his guys for weeks.

When he looks down at his hands they’re already swellin’ up and bruisin’, droppin’ blood from the knuckles and it’s somethin’ he’s long used to at this point but it just don’t bother him as much this time around because it was for her. He stops and picks up a manilla envelope and scribbles her name on top so he can drop it off for her on his way home.

The Hands that Touch Her

He couldn’t help it. When she had him followin’ her back to the house because his money was allegedly at her place, he knew she was lyin’. Could see it bulgin’ out of her purse while they were sittin’ at the bar day drinkin’ bourbon.

Thing is, he was lookin’ for any excuse to follow her back and crawl into bed with her. He missed her. Wanted to kiss her. Wanted to hold her. Definitely wanted to get down with her again and in a bed this time. He was quickly realizin’ he’d follow her anywhere she wanted to take him.

It ain’t long after they get there that she offers him a sandwich and he shakes her off because that’s the last thing he wants and he don’t think she’s all that hungry either. Then she’s leading him to her room and blinkin’ those big ol’ eyes at him, pullin’ off her boots and they’re smirkin’ down at her socks. He laughs cuz he ain’t surprised one bit that the last thing Elizabeth seemed to care about was the colors of her socks these days.

She’s standin’ across the room starin’ at him and all he’s thinkin’ about is how badly he wants to push her hair out of her face, because he likes doin’ it. Loves the way her bangs fall and frame her face, loves the way she looks up at him when he does it….so he does.

Right after she makes the first move and leans up to kiss him and he thinks he’s never felt anything as soft as her lips but he waits for her again because there’s just somethin’ about her making the first move like that that makes him feel like she’s right there with him needin’ him just as badly as he needs her.

Then he pulls her in and suddenly he can’t stop kissing her and she can’t either. They’re ripping off clothes and rolling around her bed goin’ from bein’ tender and whatnot to what he knows is makin’ love and shit because that’s how he feels and then they’re bein’ rough. He’s gettin’ her on her hands and knees holdin’ on to her headboard and sheets and his hand is tinglin’ after every bright red hand print he leaves across her lily white ass that are all gonna remind her of him for days and it’s so fuckin’ perfect. She’s so fuckin’ perfect and such a fuckin’ mess and that’s probably his favorite thing about her because all it means is she’s his perfect fuckin’mess and to be honest he don’t really mind cleanin’ this one up.

The Hands that Hold

Thing is, he knows she’s prolly lyin’. Shit, common sense and their rocky history tells him every other word fallin’ out of her mouth is a lie. Always has been, yet no matter the history they got he’s still fallin’ for it, for her, like it’s the first time all over again. Like he’s got some sort of sickness that she’s the cause of and the cure. Ain’t that shit ironic, he sneers.

So when he gets a text from Mick at 2am sayin’ him and Elizabeth are on their way to Lucky’s and she needs to see him he just assumes it’s more of her bullshit. Somethin’ about why their baby and the pregnancy means she needs more time to print. It’s just how the two things are connected that he ain’t quite got figured out yet.

Elizabeth’s always thinkin' she’s playin’ him, but shit, he ain’t that dumb. He seen the way the doc was makin’ that ultrasound up as she went along, when she announced he was gonna be a daddy again cuz Elizabeth was pregnant with his kid. The way Elizabeth was blinkin’ back like it was news to her too. Problem is, he keeps catchin’ himself feelin’ happy about the baby comin’. Loves and hates the idea of Elizabeth motherin’ his kid. He knows she’s the tough kind of mama bear, knows that no matter what, Elizabeth’s always gonna be the first one tryin’ to wipe away the little crocodile tears before she lashes out to hurt whoever causes them. Then suddenly he’s picturin’ it, their kid that’s the perfect lil’ mix of both of them. It’s Elizabeth’s curly hair and his height…her intelligence and unrelenting stubbornness with his strength. It’s the way he knows she’s gonna look just like Marcus did the first time he held him in his hands and the way it's already a been deemed a lil’ girl in his mind, the daughter him and Elizabeth mighta been meant to have. He doesn’t know much else, except when he thinks about Elizabeth’s place in all of this he can’t help but think ‘bout how she’s a known liar, she’s a proven thief…and she’s probably the one.

She’s also sittin’ there poundin’ tequila of all things and every parental instinct he’s got is firin’ off tellin’ him to yank it out of her thirsty lil’ hands.

“I lost it,” Elizabeth lowers her head and admits, entranced by the new shot that somehow found its way into her soft white hands, ashamed and meetin’ his eyes for the first time that night with a mix of sadness and pity. She exhales before drownin’ herself in the booze and he feels it. Feels himself look over at her, sees she looks too sad for someone that’s spent the last few weeks fakin’ a pregnancy and he swallows.

Finds himself noddin’ toward the bartender for that drink of his she tried to order him, lookin’ down at the way hishands clasp together, larger, darker, and so much rougher than hers, danglin’ together across the bar top. His fingers are long and calloused, sportin’ rings he’s earned for this or that over the years and nothin’ much changes with them anymore except the way they soften when they’re around someone he loves. Like when they been entangled with hers, usually when he’s pushin’ into her and breathin’ heavy, moanin’ deep into her neck and inhalin’ her like the air he needs to survive. Or when he’s holdin’ his son, cuz he thinks about the way Marcus looked wrapped in his same hands again, tiny and perfect, a lil’ smile on his newborn face while tryin’ to wrap his entire lil’ hand around his long forefinger. The true meanin’ of wrapped around his finger. Both of them.

Thinks about how he’ll never have that with this baby, never get to hold her in his hands like he did Marcus. Never get to hold her to his chest and rock her to sleep or hold her nervous lil’ hand in his on the first day of school. Real or not, it feels like a part of him is missin’ now and yea, just another thing yanked right out of his torn-up hands.