@foradnama / jessica watson
cont from x
THERE IS NO THOUGHT that graces her brain the minute she sees Nathan at the other side of the parking lot. Nothing is difficult when she sees him, smells him, feels him; somehow the world is a clear path, narrowed and paved, even when they’ve both lived their entire lives in the shadows of thorns and potholes. He’s made such a fucking mistake getting into that argument, maybe even a fight -- among the rare few times she wasn’t there to see the whole conundrum.
Nate wouldn’t have drugs on him, at least Jess knows that.
“Baby?” she breathes under an exhale, rushing past a security guard trailing to their car at the end of their shift to get to him faster. Jessica takes off into a sprint, quickening just before launching herself around his body like a shaken plastic bag in a thunderstorm. Arms and legs wrapped around him tight, she buries her head in the crook of his neck to kiss the tattoo -- their tattoo -- to reassure herself that they were okay. They were both okay.
“What the hell happened? I got a call from Nina, she said something about an altercation-- a cop?” Nina also said he could’ve dabbled. Jess calls bullshit. “They let you out, that’s a good sign, right? Are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?”
three weeks ago, he would have been neck deep in shit of his own making right now. three weeks ago, his parole officer would have been staring at him from the other side of the holding cell bars pissed the fuck off that three weeks from absolute fucking freedom nathan had to get into a bar fight. there would have been a lecture about how he shouldn’t have even been in the bar in the first place. another one for losing his shit on who? a cop, joe. yeah a fucking cop you fucking bonehead. he started it. and he finished it.
the conversation plays out in nathan’s head the entire time he’s sitting in the cell - leg jiggling because, jesus fuck, he forgot how much he hated being inside. forgot how cramped everything felt and how it set him on edge. but it’s not three weeks ago. his parole is up. he doesn’t have to worry about that being revoked. he’s sober. they can’t keep him in the drunk tank. the heroin they found is bullshit. he’s never even done heroin. he hates needles.
cops never care about shit like that when it’s one of their own.
the other shoe never drops though. a lady cop lets him out and gives him his shit back without saying much of anything. or maybe she does, but he’s too busy shoving his belongings into his pockets to notice because he’s certain someone goofed on the paperwork and if he gets out the door before they realize then it’s a problem for another day. the only words he catches are ‘no charges’. good enough for him.
cold night air blasts him in the face when he steps outside and he grimaces, splitting his lip back open. it’s the quick patter of footsteps that catches his attention and he’s only got a few heartbeats to prepare himself. jess rocks him back a step when they collide. his arms secure her to him, holding tight as the realization that he could have lost the privilege of holding her tonight. not happening, he promises himself.
“it’s bullshit. i’m fine.” his knuckles sting, his face aches. he’s had worse. “everything’s fine. it’s bullshit, promise. some dickhead cop was talking shit ‘bout you to nina. everything else is bullshit. the, uh, the lady cop - maria? said he wasn’t pressing charges. i’m good. s’all good.” his forehead presses to hers. “promise.”