Chapter Text
“The sun’s going down,” he said, looking out into the darkening sky mostly hidden behind the rundown apartment buildings and car parks that dominated the view from the window. “Looks like it’s gonna be a clear night. I think it’s supposed to be a full moon in like two days.”
He forced on a smile, but it froze on his lips and he scrubbed his face and groaned; he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. It wasn’t like his brother needed to hear him chit-chatting about the weather.
It was just that Agron couldn’t stand a second of silence in this place. And when there was no radio or TV on to make noise it was all up to him. Because if he wasn’t speaking, then the only thing to hear was the insidious, insistent beeping of the heart monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
In a never-ending loop.
And if he had to listen to that for a minute longer, it would be two people that wouldn’t be getting out of this room alive.
He raised his hand to his neck and cleared his throat then tried to swallow around the tightness. It was getting hard to breath.
“They drove down to Riverside yesterday,” he continued abruptly, changing the topic to something he hoped his brother might find more interesting, “apparently Crixus got a tip about one of the clubs there.”
Agron shook his head; it was no secret how he felt about Crixus’ latest adventure. “So, now he’s on this wild goose chase along Santa Ana like some fucking cowboy on a mission, thinking he’s gonna ride into town and save the girl. And of course he had to drag Spartacus along, as if the club didn’t have more important shit to deal with.”
It wasn’t that Agron didn’t agree on principle. Being loyal to the bone was one of the few redeeming qualities he had, and hurting one of the family was the same as hurting a Brother and that shit always carried a punishment – he had been known to deal those himself once or twice. But there were priorities to consider. With the future of the club hanging in the balance, this wasn’t the time to be chasing after ghosts. And if they were going to be avenging deaths, surely they wouldn’t start with Crixus’ special of the day but with Sura, or Varro, or Aurelia.
Or...
Agron caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and took in the dark circles under bloodshot eyes and the three-day-stubble, the worry line now forever etched between his brows. Twenty-something going on forty-five, it wasn’t a great look.
He vowed to himself that he would at least shave before going back to the shop tomorrow.
“So, anyway...all that has left me and Donar spinning the wheels back here on our own. Which is great, because it’s not like I had enough shoes to fill as it is.” The laugh that escaped was more like a huff of sarcastic air as he slowly turned away from the window to face the room again.
He looked over to the bed and did his best to ignore the tubes and iv-lines and monitors and machines and only concentrate on the man lying there.
“You know they’ve shaved your hair again, right?” He looked at his brother’s face and smiled abruptly; he could almost hear the man’s voice in his head even now. “Yeah, yeah...it looks better on you. I didn’t have the face to pull off all that skin, did I? But I’m working this buzz cut now, thank you very much.”
He kept staring at the other man for what seemed like forever, and then the view started to became blurry and he was forced to blink and then blink again to try and keep his vision clear. And then his legs nearly gave out from under him and he sat down heavily on the nearest flimsy plastic chair that almost toppled over under his weight.
“That bullet was meant for me, and you know it,” he said, voice so raw it was barely audible, “It’s me who should be lying there, not you.” Never you.
He reached out his hand but then left it hovering over his brother’s pale one. The remaining nerve function meant that Duro could still on occasion have automatic reactions to touch and sound – or at least his body would. Once his brother had even opened his eyes, succeeding to scare the living shit out of him in the process. And it was selfish, he knew, but Agron couldn’t bear it. He was barely coping as it was.
Eventually, he ended up grasping the edge of the bedding instead, holding on so tight that his knuckles turned white.
“Look, I promise I will fucking see this thing with Batiatus through, okay? You hear me, Duro? With or without Spartacus, it’s been long enough. I’ll see you right, I promise. And you know you can trust your big brother.”
There was a soft rap on the door and he quickly looked up from the bed. The woman walking in was wearing pale blue scrubs, a white coat and a tight smile. Agron scrambled up from the chair, doing his best to wipe his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“Hey, Doc.”
She gave a quick nod and raked her fingers through her long dark hair, looking like she was fighting a sigh. “Still here, huh?”
Agron shrugged. It wasn’t like he had somewhere else to be.
“So, how’s he doing?”
“You’re the doctor, Mira. You tell me.”
She walked over and picked up the folder hanging on the end of the bed, while Agron leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. He recognized the look on her face and knew he wouldn’t like what was coming. He fought the irrational urge to just run out of the room or cover his ears like a petulant three-year-old.
“I think it’s time we discussed your options again,” she started, as she kept idly flipping back and forth through the pages.
“Options for what?”
She glanced up from the chart and gave him a tired look. “You’re not a stupid man, Agron, so stop acting like one.”
Silence fell for a moment and the heart monitor beeped again.
“He’s going to wake up,” Agron said, already hating the desperation in his voice.
Mira shook her head slowly. “I know you want to believe that, but the reality is that in the vast majority of cases any expected recovery will happen in the first two weeks...”
For Duro, the first two weeks had passed a long time ago.
“...And in your brother’s case the extensive neuronal necrosis and the trauma to the cerebral cortex means that any meaningful recovery is no longer possible. Agron, you really need to start thinking about this as a question of quality of life, not life and death. He’s never going to wake up, he’s never going to be able to function, be himself again.”
“He could.”
Agron’s eyes fell on his brother on the bed, and it looked like he was just sleeping, nothing more. His heart was bumping, his lungs were pushing out air, he was still growing stubble. He wasn’t dead.
“He could,” Agron repeated, quickly feeling the familiar heat of anger stirring under his skin, “shit like that happens all the time.”
Her eyes could have cut glass. “No, it doesn’t. Not in a state like this, I have told you. The damage is irreversible. And the sooner you force yourself to accept that the better for everyone.”
“Everyone?” How could his brother being dead be better for anyone?
“Yes, everyone,” she answered calmly. “You can finally start mourning properly like you should, Duro’s body will no longer be forced to artificially function against his wishes, and some very grateful people on the waiting list will get another chance to life.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what your brother thought about donating.”
Of course Agron knew that, he had been on the receiving end of his brother’s passionate speeches on that subject as well as various other causes more times than he could count. But that was different. That was Duro being Duro; and this was Agron, being asked to kill him in cold blood and offer out his organs to the highest bidder like his brother was nothing more than a rotting carcass at a meat auction.
“So, not only do you want to pull the plug, but now you’re gonna cut him up as well?”
“It’s what he would have wanted.”
“Is it now?”
There was bile rising in his throat. How would you know? Have you asked him?
“You’d rather keep him hooked up to a machine indefinitely just so you can feel a little less alone in the world? Is that what he would have wanted?”
Agron flexed his fingers. He had a general code about never kicking dogs or hitting women, but then again, no rules were unbreakable. He had no interest in being mauled to death either.
“The nurse will need to come in to take some tests, so I think it’s better if you come back some other time,” Mira said, looking completely unaffected by the storm brewing on the horizon.
When Agron didn’t move at once, she gave a sharp nod of her head towards the door.
“Later, Agron.” It wasn’t a request.
He peeled himself off the wall with a frustrated groan and grabbed his jacket from the bed, pushing past the woman with a little more force than necessary on his way out the door.
“How’s Spartacus?” she asked suddenly behind his back, making him stop on his feet and then reluctantly turn around. “I’ve been trying to reach him, but his phone’s been cut off since Wednesday.”
“Too busy flattening out whorehouses in Riverside with Crixus to check his voicemail, I’m guessing,” he answered with a sneer.
It may not have been the only reason the man was ducking her calls at the moment, but Agron had no inclination to get involved in any more relationship drama if he could avoid it. Crixus’ drama was enough.
“Any luck?”
Agron scoffed. “As far as I’m concerned, the woman’s already dead or skipped continents, either way, they’ll never find her. They’re just refusing to see sense.”
“Still...” Mira sighed and Agron could see that the ice behind her eyes was starting to melt, if only a fraction. “It’s hard to give up hope, even when you know you should. Isn’t it, Agron?”