Shoot 005: Everybody Hurts

"They look like strong hands, don't they?"

He chuckles softly and the darkness in the video fades away to reveal Lex himself. He leans forward to show his hands and the soiled cloth wraps that cover them.

"These've been my best weapons for the last ten years runnin'. They got me through a hell of a lot more scrapes'n my mouth ever has."

Those battle-scarred hands lift to scrub over his face, avoiding the bruises.

"I drew the short stick this week – no real shocker there, I guess, is it? Wonder who made the call on this. Master of puppets, pullin' the strings. But hey, least I'm still employed. Could be worse, right?"

He starts to unravel the wrap on his left hand, his eyes never leaving the camera.

"Hurts like hell t'make a fist – teed off too hard on Wolfe, I guess. Left the tape on too long. Didn't let them breathe after. But shit happens, right? Walk it off like professionals – adapt an' regroup. That's what we do, right, Trix? Make a new plan. Played through the pain today. Pushed my body to the limits 'til I was fuckin' dry-heavin', kept goin' past that point of no return 'til it was nothin'... 'til the stiffness fucked off an' gave me a little respite. Ain't no way I can beg off on this. Ain't no way I would, neither. See, pride's a fickle catalyst: it can drive you to achieve greatness or it can bring 'bout certain doom an' most times that choice ain't yours... least not really. My hands are hurtin'. They're shakin' an' I'm starin' down at the scars across the knuckles thinkin' how these are a definition. These're the hands of a brawler, of a fighter by circumstance more'n trade. My middle finger's," he wiggled the left one, "all crooked 'cause it's been broken a few too many times. Calcium buildup... bone spurs... whatever you wanna call it amounts to the same damn thing – I ain't soft."

He shakes his head.

"I know, Trix. Everybody hurts. Sometimes. I know you're just as tired as me with all those double-ended candles you got burnin'. How many companies you work for now? Seventeen? Talk about chasin' the spotlight. A damned two-year old's not as grabby-handed as you."

He's back to looking at his hands, turning them over.

"These ain't the hands of a pampered little shit. These're hands that know hard work an' failure intimately. These fingers're always gonna be reachin' for the stars. Touched 'em once." He sighs. "Telegraph with every brick I throw out there: I wanna go back," he breaks off with a rueful chuckle and a shake of his head, the picture growing grainier as the camera tries to compensate, failing in the low light. He drops the soiled wrap to the floor at his feet, flexing his knuckles as the blood flows through the cracks, bright red and glittering in the sketchy light.

"These're my weapons. Not layin' them aside for anyone. I'm still here, Wolfe. Still. Fuckin'. Here. That rankles, don't it?"

If he moved, the ache would come back – he knew that. Especially now that he'd been slumped in the Adirondack chair on the porch for the last hour hours. He'd watched the sun come up after giving up on sleep two hours in – he'd managed to creep out of the room without waking Jana up. The waves kept rolling in, breaking over the sand. He'd meant to go down there, meant to walk in the surf. Fear kept his ass in the chair with that nearly full bottle of Bud Lime dangling from his fingers. The place was starting to feel like it could be home, reminding him of nights so long ago he'd almost forgotten. Right now, he could hear the waves, that sibilant whisper of the Atlantic in his ears begging him to finish what he'd started. He could resist that indefinitely. Maybe someday he'd tell Jana the story of how he'd almost drowned himself. She might understand now that he was actually able to admit the truth to himself. He'd still wanted to die.

He'd just told himself that there were reasons he needed to stay. His daughter wasn't one of them – she had a stable home, parents who'd make sure she never ended up broken. Being with Claire hadn't changed the truth. She'd promised a tag team he knew would never happen. He knew better than to cross the streams.

"So many lies," he murmured, letting his eyes close for a few seconds. The breeze kicked up, ruffling his hair, making him shiver even though the air was starting to warm up.

"So many what?" Jana's soft voice was barely heard over the crashing waves as she walked out of the house, wearing Lex's shirt from the night before. "I couldn't hear what you said, baby."

He didn't open his eyes, letting the sound of the waves and the breeze mix with her voice and the moment her hand rested on his shoulder, he set the beer bottle down and laced his fingers with hers. "Lies." He finally answered, "told myself so many – forgot what the truth sounded like for a while."

"I'm sure they were better than the truth at the time." She leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Truth is.... I love you, and this view is perfect." She turned and sat in his lap, looking out at the ocean, fingers still laced with his.

The silence stretched out and for once he didn't feel pushed to fill it with clumsy thoughts. He broke it after a while, his voice as soft as the breeze, tickling her ear. "Pushed so hard, so long. All these wrong places. Wrong times. Wrong me," he kissed the top of her head, smelling her shampoo mixing with the ocean air – smelled like coming home after too much time away. "This' where I belong. Right here. With you."