@gas-stxtion
The Onceler manages a weak laugh in response to Tony’s words because, of course, the guy would say that he’s had worse than this. “I don’t think there’s anything worse than getting shot in the fucking head,” he says, shaking his head, and he pushes some of his tears away from his eyes. “Sorry, but I’m not real convinced.” He knows Tony is trying to make him feel better, but he will have to put in a little more effort than that instead of telling bald-faced lies. Even if there was something he perceived to be worse, the reality of the situation would be much different.
When Tony shifts to try and sit up, the Onceler’s face falls again. He wants to pull away, to leave, to let him rest, but he already promised he would stay, didn’t he? He’s broken promises before, so realistically, it shouldn’t be a problem if he does it here, too, but guilt keeps him locked to his chair, a rare emotion out of him. This isn’t the first time he has experienced such a thing, but this is the only time he can remember that it wasn’t directed at a family member.
Growing up, he knew exactly what their financial situation was like, and he did feel a twinge of guilt shoot through him every time they had to spend more money than they thought they would, or during the rare instances when they allowed themselves to indulge. The adults always tried to say they were fine and would handle it, but he knew the strain something like the holidays would take on them. It kept him up at night, imagining his mother staying up at night because of something he caused, and he would lie awake for hours with his hand pressed against the wall that separated their bedrooms as if he could will her to get a good night’s rest like that.
He swore off feeling like that—he said that he would never let that queasy, sinking feeling overtake him again, not for anybody, and for the most part, he has managed that fine. Mostly he completely disregards others, not caring when he upsets them, not allowing that guilt to settle in the pit of his stomach. Even in the early days of his relationship with Tony, he never would have felt this terrible; he would have gone right on doing whatever he wanted to do. And he thought it would be that way this time, that having the other gone would come as a relief. But that old familiar feeling settled in him again, and he couldn’t let go.
When Tony tries to sit up, the Onceler leans forward to push him back down, but the other beats him to the punch, flopping back down himself. Evidently, he has picked up on how terrible the Onceler looks, and all the Onceler can do is shake his head. “Nothing, I’m okay. Comparatively, anyway.” He’s not about to say that the withdrawals are hitting him hard—he’s fine, he can manage them, he’s managed them before… right? God, for a man who said he could stop any time he wanted, it sure is proving more difficult than he expected.
“I just… don’t like hospitals, I never have. They make me nervous.” That part isn’t even a lie, so he feels comfortable saying it, not like he is using it to cover anything up. “I hate going to the doctor, I don’t—” He almost says that he is scared that they will find something wrong with him, that he doesn’t like being told to take better care of himself, that he ought to know his body better than anybody. But he shuts himself up and shakes his head again, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “I just need you to get better so we can get out of here. I don’t like sitting in this place longer than I have to.”
The Onceler has no idea what mi cielito means, just that it must be something positive if Tony is saying it in that tone, and it makes him ache, thinking how terribly he treated the man a couple days ago. He shakes his head again, wanting to say that he should have been there, anyway, that he should have been the one who got hurt. But he knows that that would only draw more concern from Tony, which is the last thing the man needs right now. He should be resting, not fretting over the Onceler, and again, he considers leaving, but fear keeps him rooted to his seat, fear over what might happen to both of them if he tries leaving.
“No, I shouldn’t have told you to leave, I—” He almost says that he could protect Tony from whatever threats would come, but he knows that’s not true. He understands that Tony is the fighter out of the two of them, and while the Onceler is by no means a weak man, he does not have the combat expertise that the other does. The only thing he has ever used his own strength for is physical labor, like cutting down trees. He would have no idea what to do if someone with a gun entered his office.
“Well, I have security,” he points out. “They could’ve helped. You would’ve been safer with me than out there on your own. I-I’ve got… cameras and men and—” He trusts his security team. Why would he hire them if he thought they couldn’t handle a gun-wielding maniac? “It would’ve been a lot better if we’d’ve been together, ‘n’ I shouldn’t’ve kicked you out, ‘n’ I’m sorry.” His face screws up as the tears start fresh. “I’m so sorry, honey—I should have let you stay with me.”
