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He arrived when life was leaving.
Miguel didn't see Father Ray very often anymore. One of them was avoiding the other. Miguel was pretty fucking sure he would be forced to realize that he was the one steering clear of the priest, if he let himself think about it. He tried not to. The Father had always made him do that. Think. Feel. Actually want to live again. Have any kind of life.
Couldn't afford that shit anymore. It was better just to float. Detach. Let go of everything, good and bad. High and unthinking, following the Club King with the new stranglehold on the tit trade. Let that flamboyant motherfucker do Miguel's living for him, so it wouldn't tear him up anymore. Torquemada could have the thrill. He could have the consequences. He could have it all, as long as Miguel didn't have to fight to hold on anymore. He was too worn out. All that energy spent fighting never got him anywhere. Just had to fight all the more. The fight was fixed, and there was no reason to get in the ring.
Miguel shuffled through the ward, quiet. After a life spent cockily soaking up attention, he didn't want to come to the notice of anyone ever again. Especially not the priest who had always made him try. Struggle.
If he just let himself blend away...
Prisoner #97A413. Become that in everyone's eyes, instead of a soul that stood out to Father Mukada for saving. 97A413. That's all he could ever be. Alvarez knew that know. He couldn't afford the hope, the strength it took to be anything else.
Miguel couldn't avoid Father Ray completely forever though. The priest came to deliver last rites. Miguel would see him then, and he knew --fucking knew-- those eyes would be staring at him with pity and compassion for a life lost when his final days came. Maybe he'd get lucky and drop dead before anyone could reach him.
A tiny bit of what was left inside of him twinged at that thought. Old habit. A need to be absolved, seen, at the end. Maybe it would be worth looking into those eyes --bitterly seeing all those chances that had been stolen from him-- and feeling a little like he'd failed.
Miguel would run into him a thousand little times before then, though. As long as he worked in the infirmary, anyway. Another part of his world that he ghosted through. He'd used to like it, in a strange way. Now he just lost himself in the routine.
Sometimes he took a helpful little D-tab during. It depended who was on duty. Dr. Nathan might catch his ass. (Would that even matter to him anymore?)
He'd taken the pill today when he'd noticed that Ex-Nazi fuck from the HIV unit come in, looking worse for wear. You started to get a read on it, who was on their way out. Alvarez had a feeling that the Father would be making a visit today.
Robson had laughed, ragged and alive, when he'd coughed up blood, and there had been something about that which Miguel had almost understood. Or he would have, long ago.
The little green tablet let Miguel hide from it all now. Blur and warp the edges of reality enough that he didn't have to really see anything, or let any of it touch him.
It was wearing off a little by the time Father Ray showed up, swooping in in quiet black, those solemn concerned eyes all for someone else. Someone dying, fighting, and not already a ghost.
Miguel knew the fucking Destiny had to be wearing off because he felt something like jealousy spark under his skin. He slipped though a swinging door, out of the ward, needing to get away from the living and dying. Both too real and bright. If nothing else, those parts of him that were left, even muted and tired, made him respect a dying man's privacy with his God.
He was always running now. He never stood up and stayed for anything.
Duties that he had taken seriously before, Miguel just let slide now. He'd let his high ebb away in a private room, resting his slow heavy limbs on a cot. Closed his eyes and saw...nothing. Felt the last crest of false light that barely picked him up at all anymore. Like being displaced in a funhouse mirror. He just felt sick on cotton candy, knowing none of it was real.
Maybe he could sleep.
He slept all the time he could now, leaving him feeling itchy and restless. That restlessness didn't last long, though. The dull grey walls weighed him down and dulled everything inside of him too. As long as he finally gave in and let it.
It was bright in the infirmary. He could see it behind his closed lids. Smell the astringent scent. Clean and sharp.
He didn't sleep, but he went numb and blank. Good enough.
Time passed without his noticing its journey, and that was as close to a blessing as he would ever get again.
A noise finally crept past the gauze wrapping around his senses.
Maybe if he stayed still, it would go the fuck away. (This was his new answer to everything.) Still as the grave. Still as stone. He was stone. Worn down by strong currents and sand. Smoothed over and inconsequential.
"Miguel."
His name, unattached from Torquemada who wanted to own it. Not his issued number. Not his family name. His. In Father Ray's voice. Sad and cautious and wanting him to respond. Always. It was Miguel's name alone again for a second. He couldn't give it away to someone else here.
Had to pull himself up, muster the energy. His arm went over his eyes, shielding him for one last second, before he rubbed his hand over his face and sat up, swaying with the tiniest creak of the hospital bed.
He didn't want to look. Didn't want to engage. It was something like fighting. A ghost, like everything else. Fighting to be left alone to the false peace of numbness and distraction.
"Yeah, Father?" Miguel cleared his throat roughly. Habit.
He looked straight into that face. Those eyes. His last challenge. (Let me go. Lost cause.)
Father Ray did that pursed mouth, silent distress and sorrow thing he did. The one that dredged up guilt. Because he looked like he didn't know what to do or say, but he wanted to do something. And he would try.
Because that's what Ray did. Always would, not letting himself get beaten down. The Padre had a fucking place to go, though. He got the sky and hope as soon as he left these walls. He got to leave.
A tiny bit of irrational anger followed the dull spark of things better left buried. Miguel stood up. Just this one last time. He moved towards something, instead of gliding along on currents and coattails. He didn't want to hear what Father Ray had to say. Couldn't take it. Wouldn't be able to laugh it off.
He strode close and the Father didn't flinch. Ray always stood his ground when he was alone with him, Miguel had respected that.
He was warm and real and alive, and Miguel could fucking feel it as soon as he got close. Like never before.
This was too much like really feeling, waking up…but Miguel couldn't let it go. Close to those eyes that were focused on him, just trying to see him and keep him company, not like the mismatched set that raked over him and wanted to own his identity. Alonzo saw Miguel as a new drug or a power trip. Father Ray just saw him and didn't take anything for himself.
Should hide.
Couldn't.
Everything he'd tried so hard to bury clawed to the surface, restless, dirty, and desperate from being ignored and shoved down.
Look at me. See me.
There was something on that face that made Miguel remember being a person. He remembered having a chance. The reminder hurt so fucking much.
Needed to drown in it. Or burn it out. Raze.
He didn't stop moving forward, and he was no longer looking to see if Ray was moving away. Miguel's hands slipping over stiff clean cloth, it didn't feel like that body was retreating.
Miguel didn't feel much at night with Torquemada. Ghosts of this. Ghosts of reality, as hands slid over him, covetous and smooth. Alonzo kissed him lightly, like he couldn't handle any more. Miguel didn't care then either. Not enough to stop him, not enough to feel.
This he could feel. Startled and shy, against his mouth. Wasn't even touching Miguel. They didn't look at him the same way. They didn't feel the same. And that was all that mattered in this instant.
He remembered being alive and liking it, even as he stole something he never should have taken. Broke someone else's vow. If there was a protest, he swallowed it whole.
He'd always been a thief.
Torquemada and his little green tabs couldn't have this. This was Miguel's. One last thing for himself.
Felt it, for just a second. Ray not running, not being still. The stumbling return of a kiss that burned. This was his blessing. One he took for himself.
He let go before he could be condemned. That hurt too. But it was enough.
Father Ray would leave Oz tonight, and he would take a bit of Miguel with him.
***
End