martyr

Puck fidgeted in the passenger seat, biting his lips until they shone red, and not from gloss.

Typically, he'd rest his hand on the Driver's while he minded the manual transmission, feel the back of his hand siphon heat from his palm, know that he was listening--over the soft din of the radio, over the quiet clinking from the Associate's guns. But instead of intertwining his fingers with the Driver's, Puck knotted his hands in his lap, clear eyes downcast.

The Driver had made sure that Puck knew what he was getting into when he fell in love with a member of Cosa Nostra. Sacrifices had to be made--the Driver had told him that several times, he remembered.

Once when Puck witnessed the first kill, murmured before the gunshot and followed with a kiss and a long drive. He'd lent Puck his dark jacket that day. He hadn't gotten it back yet. That was okay. Sacrifices had to be made.

Once when the Associate handed him a gun, and the Driver nodded toward a hapless cop. He'd steadied Puck's shaking hands with his own, guiding him into a position to shoot. He pulled the trigger. Sacrifices had to be made.

Once again, now, as the Driver parked near the lighthouse.

Between them lay the Associate's gun, loaded. Puck reached for it with trembling hands: the Driver had gotten his own gun, yesterday, and first-generation custom indicated that he shouldn't get another yet. That reasoning left Puck the fairest recipient, and yet...

"P-please," he said quietly, his fingertips on the grip of the gun but his hands somehow unable to take it. "I made a promise... the Prophet, he deserves this too..."

The Driver sighed. The boy was compassionate--he blithely offered his word, and yet insisted upon keeping his promises. He loved the Prophet as a brother-in-arms and, for all the paths the Driver knew, he couldn't think of one that would make this easier for him.

"They'll starve, Puck," he reminded, taking his hands first by the wrist and then the palm, curling their fingers together. Puck was reminded of how small he was in comparison, and he stared intently at his sleeves, tearing up. "Sacrifices have to be made."

He did not respond, and the Driver didn't seem surprised. He looked between the boy's face and the lighthouse, then released one hand to run his through Puck's hair, curving around the back of his head to bring him closer. A kiss, warm and bittersweet, and there he lingered, for a moment, ultimately pressing another, more chaste kiss to his lips and squeezing his hand before pulling away. "You'll be okay," he said, again, as if that was ever in doubt, and pressed the gun into his waistband, leaving the car.

Puck felt his heart flutter with something that wasn't quite love and wasn't quite pain, but left a deep ache in the pit of his belly just like pain did, and left him anxious to see the Driver again, like love had. He knotted his hands together once more, his breath coming in hiccuping stints.

Outside, gunshots.

He drew himself inward and sobbed.