Damaged at best (Sabra)

[Zephyr]

Waking up in bed alone is not the way Silas would prefer to wake up. It just happens way to often – read: every single day – these days, and the surgeon didn’t even move from his bed until around three in the afternoon. Wherein, he spends the rest of the day working on paperwork and very resolutely not looking at his phone.

It’s the day after Matthias came over to stitch up his arm, and he knows Matthias isn’t going to be texting him. In fact, he won’t be surprised if the other man stays away from him of his own volition for a few days. Now, Silas knows he isn’t too busy to go see the kid; text him and ask him to come over. The thing is, he’s petrified to see Matthias after the rejection last night. He knows he’ll have to confront the other man eventually…it’s impossible to leave confessions like those festering. Part of Silas is just afraid of pushing him too far, too fast.

He knows if he does, he could lose him for good. And if it comes down to it, he’d be almost content with how things are, if he can’t have Matthias. Even then, being the one constant in the hunter’s life can hardly be a bad thing for their relationship.

The paperwork is certainly a suitable enough distraction. While it does leave some room for contemplation about certain life problems, there is just so much of it. The hospital seems to think that even though he’s been shot in the arm and still recovering – of course he doesn’t tell them that had the bullet been a normal bullet, he’d be healed already – that he can catch up on all the paperwork that he puts off on a daily basis in favor of actually doing surgery.

Sometimes being head of neurosurgery sucks. Well, most of the time, actually…but it keeps him busy, and that’s the main thing he’s worried about anymore.

By six, he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. Instead of actually being a normal person and rectifying the situation, he pulls out a bottle of bourbon and returns to his work. Before he actually drinks any though, he catches the scent of the alcohol, pulls a face at the bottle…as if it could really care…and recaps it. He isn’t stupid enough not to realize that drinking alone is what caused all his problems before. So, being the responsible adult that he is, he thinks of all the possible drinking buddies he could have.

Which is all of three.

Matthias is out of the question, since Silas is currently so hung up over the kid that he can’t see the fucking ground. Getting drunk and whining at Matthias about…Matthias might count as going too fast too soon and he doesn’t fucking know what to do with that. While there isn’t really anyone else he’s truly rather drink with than his best friend, he’s pretty certain that the hunter is feeling awkward and avoidy about him after last night, and Silas doesn’t blame him. He knows he’s a fucking mess.

Who would ever want that?

That leaves Zander…which again…someone he really wouldn’t mind drinking with, but with his current mindset, it would be super awkward to get drunk with the other werewolf…who Silas is pretty sure likes him to a certain degree. He likes the other man too…he just isn’t sure how much yet. And whining about another man when you’re getting drunk with someone who likes you isn’t socially acceptable at all. Unless you’re a massive dickface…which is debatable in Silas’ case, but he tries to be nice…to his friends at least.

Then he realizes that he might be able to call Sabra. Silas saved her life, and even though he has that tenuous deal with her and the pack, the way he sees it, she owes him. He hesitates for a second before he shoots a text to the other werewolf.

/Drink with me tonight? Meet me at that bar on bromfield street at eight./

Of course he doesn’t give her any chance to reply and tell him she’s busy before he shoots out another text.

/This is Silas by the way. You fucking owe me./

He’s a demanding motherfucker, but he totally accepts this. Along with the fact that he saved her life and paid to get the seats of her truck cleaned before he had it returned to James’ the same night. The least she can do is humor him over a few drinks and, as a biased third party, listen to his woes about a certain hunter that he’s sure he’s going to be spouting out after he gets enough booze in him. Which likely won’t be much at all.

[Sabra]

She's been stuck under the belly of the beast for the past hour, wrestling with a rusted out bolt in the ancient engine of mud encrusted Jeep. People's refusal to wash their god damned cars never ceased to amaze her. After a while, things were beginning to ache, a slow, steady hurt that built up in her shoulders and crawled all the way down to her toes.

Somewhere in the background, she could hear the snickers of a co-worker. More often than not, she was stuck with the hardest jobs, a man's hands being too large to fit into the tight crevices of an engine and her pride being too large to turn down any challenge. They didn't pay her enough for this crap. With a curse she yanks the wrench hard and the bolt snaps off, spraying rust and mud onto her shirt. Werewolf strength didn't contribute a thing to finesse.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket and begrudgingly Sabra abandons her efforts and rolls out from under the Jeep. The number is unfamiliar, and she racks her brain for the last time she so willingly gave out her number. Aside from the occasional game of pool, bars weren't usually her scene. Too many people in one place had a way of making her feel claustrophobic and the wolf down right tense. The next text clears up the mystery and Sabra makes an effort to wipe her grimy hands on her jeans before answering.

/Needy, much?/

Did Silas make all his patients into drinking buddies, or was she just special? It was probably a good thing she couldn't recall everything from that night, Sabra didn't like the thought of what could have slipped past her lips, inhibited and more than a little woozy from the loss of blood.

/Fine. U pay./ Call it abusing someone's generosity, but Sabra knew a few drinks would hardly make a dent in a doctor's paycheck. Besides, he had asked her, not the other way around. There was little she did for free in the world, even lending an ear and company.

When eight finally rolls around Sabra drags herself out from under the old Jeep again, having made a little progress, but mostly succeeding only in frustrating the hell out of herself and further abusing her body. At her own apartment she showers, dresses and lets James know he'll be eating dinner alone tonight. Knowing free drinks await her arrival keeps her from being too bitter and Sabra even makes the effort to look half decent in a pair of clean jeans and a button up shirt. It seemed strange that a doctor wouldn't have any better friends to drink with than a blue-collar dog like herself, but people were strange creatures.

She's a little late and Sabra scouts out the bar, finding him hidden away in a back booth. It isn't like Bridges, but neither is it filled with college kids or yuppies, and that's good enough for her. "Silas?" She queries, sliding into the seat across from him. "When I told ya I owed you, I meant..." Not this, whatever this was. "People needin' the pants scared off them? Bodies hid, that sorta thing." A smile works at her and she fixes the doctor with an amused look. "But I have to say, sharin' a few drinks is a sight easier." And less dangerous to her health.

The waitress comes around and Sabra orders brown ale without pause, waiting for the woman to disappear before asking.

"So, tell me, what's troublin' you?"

[Zephyr]

By the time Sabra arrives, Silas already has a glass of bourbon gripped so tightly in his hands, that his knuckles have long since bled white. He’s staring at the leather of the seat in front of him, startled out of his silent revere by the woman saying his name. To his credit, Silas doesn’t jump. He just jerks his gaze over sharply when Sabra speaks, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brow in confusion as he sits with his shoulders bunched up, his expression like a deterrent against human interaction.

“Must be such a hardship for you then, drinking with me.” His voice is utterly unamused, but he doesn’t mean anything by the words. If Sabra really didn’t want to be there, they both know she wouldn’t be. While Silas is used to some people who seem to like to humor him, he knows that Sabra is not one of these people. She doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want and if she didn’t want to drink with Silas, she’d be halfway across the fucking city right now.

He knew that when he sent her the text, and he knew that he was taking the chance of ending up drinking alone tonight.

Not that that seemed like an entirely awful idea. There were several times since he’d sent the text that he felt like changing his mind. Sending her something like ‘nevermind’ or ‘lol jk’ never seemed so appealing. For how demanding he is, Silas doesn’t like to be seen as needy, or whiney. He doesn’t like to complain to people…so he doesn’t. But, he’s never wanted advice from another person more in his life, and he’s willing to sacrifice every ounce of pride he has to get it.

The surgeon hasn’t taken a drink of his bourbon yet, but at Sabra’s question, he takes a gulp, completely forgetting to make fun of the other werewolf’s taste in alcohol in favor of the burn of his own. He doesn’t actually answer her for a while, but when he finally does, it’s with a growl and a snort in his voice. “Guys.” The word is bitter and disdainful, as if it sums up every single thing that’s wrong with him…and it really does. Every problem he’s had in the last five months have been because of a man

Makes him wish sometimes that he’d just stayed celibate.

He feels like such a girl, complaining about men, and maybe Sabra can relate. It’s the only thing that keeps him talking. And he does talk, when he realizes that he should probably build on what he’d told her. He doesn’t look at her as he speaks, just stares at the alcohol he’s placed back on the table as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, thumb tracing the rim of the glass absently. “I’m in love with someone who’s sleeping with somebody else.” And that thought still fucking guts him, alone with the idea that he could be in love with someone.

Not that it matters. Matthias doesn’t fucking take him seriously anyway. It’s like the goddamn kid just selectively hears what he wants to hear and completely dismisses the fact that Silas is well and truly head over heels in fucking love with him, and that it isn’t a phase, or anything that’s going to go away anytime soon or anything that he can just forget.

Fuck.

[Sabra]

She blinks owl-like at the man, taken by surprise. Before Silas, she had only heard teenage girls speak the word with such utter disgust. Of all the things she had expected the doctor to want to get drunk over, relationship troubles hadn't really occurred to her.

Sabra mulls this over for a moment, taking a long drag from the rich beer before setting it back down and licking the foam off her lips. "Love, huh?" Well, hell. Lycanthropy was understandable, cars and guns and the things that went bump in the night and occasionally tried to rend people limb from limb were, for the most part, understandable, but love was a whole other ball game. A bit sheepishly she rubs the back of her neck, trying to find away to approach the prickly subject. Her own experience on the matter was lacking and already she could feel embarrassment welling up at the thought of discussing feelings.

Complicated, personal, and well beyond her range of comfort.

"Can't say I know much about that one, Doc." It's a cheap excuse and she shifts in her booth, casting her gaze out over the bar, bustling with clientele. "He know you love him?" Bluntness helped, it was best to get things out in the open, to be honest, as James said. Although she'd found it easier to avoid the truth than to be honest, it usually ended up being far more trouble than it was worth. At least in the long run. "And the sleepin' with part, it's just screwin'? Nothin' more?" She meets Silas' eye, trying to gauge the poor bastard's reaction.

Talk about a fish out of water, she may as well have been trying to start a lecture on inter-galactic travel for all the good she'd be doing him.

It wasn't often she found herself thinking about the other aspects of her life down South, the beds she had shared to be safe, the men and women alike who colored those early days that breached the gap between adolescence and adulthood. Who had shaped her and worn their grips into her skin, taken away and given to who she was. Sabra knew people, she knew wolves, but it didn't mean she understood them. "Explain. Love ain't my forte, darlin'." She smiles and takes another drink to try to push back the ache in her chest.

The topic at hand deserves something a little harder than ale to wash down, and Sabra catches the attention of their waitress, a cute blond thing who looked like she needed a break. "Whiskey neat, please."

With that remedied, Sabra feels a bit more prepared to voyage into the turbulent seas Silas was likely drowning in. "If it's just sex, it ain't nothin' but a waitin' game." She waves away the seriousness of the situation, "Besides, if this feller knows how you...feel," Jesus Christ, she was turning into an after school special. Soon enough she'd be spouting crap like follow your heart and true love conquers all. Which was some serious bullshit if she'd ever heard it.

For a long time, love had been however well she had proven her loyalty. It didn't seem all that different today, except James didn't ask her to do the things they had.

"Well, I doubt there a many men who'd take a cheap fuck over love."

[Zephyr]

The discomfort coming from the woman is almost palpable, and Silas inwardly curses himself for his lack of judgment. He’s already feeling like too much of a girl for his tastes…he doesn’t need an actual girl thinking he’s acting like a girl. He, of all people should have realized that just because Sabra has breasts doesn’t mean that she’s an expert on love and all that touchy feely shit. The doctor is thoroughly regretting dragging Sabra into this…and is realizing the merits of keeping his goddamn feelings to himself.

They’re stupid most of the time anyway.

By now, Silas is reluctant to talk about the matter further, and is fully prepared to switch to a topic that Sabra will find more palatable…like murder, or guns. Instead, she’s asking him questions and he can see she’s at least trying. The surgeon blinks his eyes in surprise at her for a moment. The question of why she’s trying preoccupies his mind, and he can’t bring himself to change the subject now…not when she’s so fucking uncomfortable, but still trying. Swiping his tongue over his lips, Silas gives a bitter snort.

“‘Course he knows.” He might not be in touch with his feelings most of the time, but he sure as fucking hell is when it matters the most. “Guy doesn’t give a flying fuck, though. That or he jus’ doesn’t feel the same way back.” The regret settles heavily in his stomach, and he downs the rest of his bourbon to try and quell it, but it just gets heavier. The empty glass hits the table. “I’d understan’ that.” Mostly. “If he’d jus’ fuckin’ talk to me once in a while. Fuckin’ jus’ friends don’t kiss ya one moment and then tell ya that they can’t do this.”

He rolls his shoulders, not realizing that he’s letting his accent slip as the anxiety builds in his gut. He doesn’t like thinking about this, especially about Cesan…which is the direction Sabra’s questions are veering. He isn’t fucking drunk enough to think about that goddamn asshole and he orders another bourbon, hoping to get as drunk as possible within the next hour so that he can possibly forget about what a fool he’s making of himself. Once he has his drink and has downed a good half of the glass, he finally feels like he can answer her question. “No goddamn idea.” He lifts his gaze to her’s, fingers drumming nervously against the side of the glass. “I haven’t asked him about the bastard. It fuckin’ hurts too much. As much as I’d like ta believe that it’s jus’ the sex, I doubt it. Sex is nothin’ new to Matthias…he’d still be livin’ with me if it was jus’ sex. I find it hard to believe that he can like the guy as much as I love him, though.”

God fucking dammit. He’s got it bad. He lowers his gaze, pressing fingertips hard into his forehead and letting the rest of the bourbon run down his throat. The haze in his head is welcome. It dulls the bitterness and regret. “Sorry for draggin’ ya into this. I jus’…it’s too fuckin’ much, and I fuckin’ hate feeling like this. So fuckin’ out of control.”

Another bourbon later, Silas drops his gaze to his hands wrapped loosely around his glass. A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips and he lets out a dry, humorless laugh that seems extremely out of place at the moment. “You’d think that when you find someone who can accept you for who you are, wolf n’ all, that it’s someone you’re meant ta be with for the long haul.” He hasn’t realized that he’s let it slip that Matthias knows he’s a werewolf, but it’s just become so customary to think of his wolf and Matthias in the same vein since the brat’s been coming over every single full moon to make sure that he doesn’t have to be alone.

Long fingers rake restlessly through his hair, and he really fucking wants another drink, but he’s so goddamn antsy. “I know he cares about me, and that’s probably the worse fuckin’ part of the whole thing. That he cares and he won’t leave me alone, let me forget, and he still acts like the way I feel doesn’t matter at all…like it’s just some crush that’ll go away in time and not full-fledged love.” Weary now, he shrugs, his shoulders drooping soon after. “I jus’ can’t be without him. How sad is that?”

He lets his eyelids slip shut as the alcohol makes its way to his head, but he orders another drink because he needs to be drunk to deal with this.

[Sabra]

"Sounds like he feels something back." There were many types of kissing, but the sort friends did was hardly the kind that lacked emotion. Maybe the man in question just didn't feel as much as Silas would have liked. "Gets complicated with three people though," A wary smile tugs at her lips. "It's complicated enough with just two." She had always preferred to keep her own counsel, and warm her own bed. Having to look out for one person was enough for Sabra, and yet here she was, a man waiting for her back home and a child that called her momma. Irony had a strange taste, and Sabra often couldn't help but think that it was a life meant for another.

Someone who didn't have to pull the trigger as much as she did.

Her line of inquiry has Silas stirred up, worse than when she first saw him open the door to her Plymouth, or even reaching to ring the doorbell to James' apartment. His voice echoes with bitterness and Sabra finds herself suddenly grateful that she wasn't in a similar position.

God, it had been a long while since she had felt better off than someone, but for all his money and status she wouldn't trade places with the doctor. She nudges her knee against Silas', managing a smile. "Hey, don't worry 'bout that. You're probably doin' my less than stellar karma a world of good right now." As uncomfortable as the subject was, Sabra held true to her sense of honor, and with that, her sense of obligation. It was an impractical thing and burdensome at the worst at times, but she knows well that without his help, she would have become just another article in the papers. Local woman found dead in her car. Or something like that.

Still, Sabra doesn't know how to answer his questions. Her first time was in the bed of a pickup truck on an old quilt, seventeen, rebellion fueled on moonshine and a pretty boy's smile. A year later she was begging her brother to tie the chains tighter, to not tell mom and dad about the monster she turned into. It was a strange old world and Sabra felt like she had muddied her way through most of it. From Louisville to Boston, she'd simply gritted her teeth and hung on with white knuckles.

It had taken her a long time to realize that there were other ways to live.

"It's not sad." There's softness in her voice, a gentleness she's used with Izzy and tries to convey here, to a grown man nursing the sorrows of the heart. "Ya got more courage than I do, to hang on to something like that with no guarantees." Sabra shuts up after that, takes a drink of her bourbon, feeling she's said too much, revealed too much of herself. That was the dangerous nature of talking. Tracing a figure in the condensation on her glass, full of teeth and big eyes, she tries again. "I could kill him for ya? Just tell me he committed some awful crime. Murder, child molester, bein' a philistine."

Sabra was good at math and the way she thought 3-1= 2 equaled a great deal of relief for the young werewolf.