"I came home one night and found Ma in the kitchen beat to hell. Bloody, crying, her asshole boyfriend in front of the tv yelling for another beer... his name was Frank. And I guess I'd just had enough of it? When I confronted him he pulled out a switchblade, tried to get me through the eye, but like. He was drunk, as always."
He turns his head to the side slightly, pointing to a deep scar on his right temple. When he'd made the deal with Hope for a new body he'd specifically asked to keep it, because it was an important reminder.
"Thing was even once he went down I couldn't stop. Eighteen years of jerks like him beating on us and I just kept--" Drake cuts himself off, looking back at Jesus. "They did go pretty easy on me, but the judge said I went overboard and he was right. So I pled guilty and swore I'd never let anger control me like that again."
Yeah he can imagine this. Not that he sees Drake as violent, but he does see him as protective.
It's the sort of crime a good lawyer could have got him off of, but good lawyers were never available for people like them. "How long did you have to serve?"
"It wound up being about twenty two months. Model prisoner, early release, blah blah." He shrugs. "Funny thing? I was never popular in school but everybody loved me on the inside. Most friends I've ever had in my life."
"My mom had some bad taste in boyfriends, too. I was taken away from her pretty early... I was never big enough to help her." Though he'd tried, in the flailing, doomed way one would expect from a ten year old child.
"If I'd met someone who did what I'd always wanted to be able to do? I would've liked him, too. A lot of guys in prison had moms with bad taste."
"Well when you put it that way..." It does make sense, but Drake knows how dangerous things could've been for him with all his friends being dealers and gangsters. "Guess it's just lucky I was a good influence on them rather than the other way around. For the most part, anyway."
"Well... since you've already signed the paperwork..." Maybe his skepticism is unnecessary, but still. He's bracing slightly. "I wound up doing undercover work. My last assignment was vice and major crimes, so my handler was a piece of shit, but most of the time I managed to keep their focus on the real monsters."
"My friends being convicts actually had a lot to do with it. A lot of them weren't even what I'd consider criminals, definitely not dangerous. Like Pogo would never hurt a fly after the war, but he just couldn't kick and one night he called me from a dealer's trunk. I listened to his murder."
Drake leans back, settling a bit more of his weight against the counter.
"You hear how people got into this shit versus what the guys at the top are like -- the asshole I was going for when I died was practically a cartoon villain and he was untouchable. Half the cops were on his payroll, anybody he even thought might be a problem was never heard from again. And I got so damn close, Jesus. I was right next to him. Every hit he gave me agreed to witness protection, we almost had enough to move... fucking Blaine. Fucking zombies."
Jesus would have to sit and really think to count up the number of people he's seen die. He can't tell you off the top of his head how many people he's killed. He stopped keeping track of how many walkers he's put down years ago.
But with all the violence in his life, his first response to stories like this is still sympathy. Will always be sympathy.
There's something different about it, to Drake. Somebody dying in an accident or from an illness or in a war or from a zombie attack is, obviously, awful. He's dealt with all those things firsthand, too. But he can't ever accept murder as a thing that happens. He won't. He refuses to. Whether it's his friends or total strangers, he doesn't believe it's ever okay to kill somebody that's not a threat. That's why he went into the work he did -- to protect people who didn't deserve to die on a whim.
But Jesus' actual question is hard to answer.
"It's kind of a long story," he says first, though he's thinking. "Cliff notes? The city's rival crime lord happened to also be a zombie, the one keeping me fed at the time. When I stopped cooperating he sold me out. Blaine's the reason I wound up a lab rat, and once I was dead they couldn't take Mr Boss down."
Perhaps oddly, that response earns Jesus a tiny smile. Drake's eyes are still sad but there's more fondness in them than that at the moment, as he reaches out again to take Jesus' hand.
"I've had over four years to come to terms with it -- I'm okay," he promises the other man, tugging him forward off his stool to come closer. "Everybody's got something. Thank you for caring so much about mine."
He studies him, not because he's looking for signs Drake is just playing this off but because it's a comfort whenever he finds someone who has dealt with their pain and come out healthier for it. It, at least, doesn't seem to haunt Drake the way he worries his own losses will haunt him.
He kisses him lightly, with a playful little smirk when he breaks it again. "You're a good example for me."
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He turns his head to the side slightly, pointing to a deep scar on his right temple. When he'd made the deal with Hope for a new body he'd specifically asked to keep it, because it was an important reminder.
"Thing was even once he went down I couldn't stop. Eighteen years of jerks like him beating on us and I just kept--" Drake cuts himself off, looking back at Jesus. "They did go pretty easy on me, but the judge said I went overboard and he was right. So I pled guilty and swore I'd never let anger control me like that again."
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It's the sort of crime a good lawyer could have got him off of, but good lawyers were never available for people like them. "How long did you have to serve?"
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"If I'd met someone who did what I'd always wanted to be able to do? I would've liked him, too. A lot of guys in prison had moms with bad taste."
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"What did you do when you got out?"
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Drake leans back, settling a bit more of his weight against the counter.
"You hear how people got into this shit versus what the guys at the top are like -- the asshole I was going for when I died was practically a cartoon villain and he was untouchable. Half the cops were on his payroll, anybody he even thought might be a problem was never heard from again. And I got so damn close, Jesus. I was right next to him. Every hit he gave me agreed to witness protection, we almost had enough to move... fucking Blaine. Fucking zombies."
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But with all the violence in his life, his first response to stories like this is still sympathy. Will always be sympathy.
"What happened?"
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But Jesus' actual question is hard to answer.
"It's kind of a long story," he says first, though he's thinking. "Cliff notes? The city's rival crime lord happened to also be a zombie, the one keeping me fed at the time. When I stopped cooperating he sold me out. Blaine's the reason I wound up a lab rat, and once I was dead they couldn't take Mr Boss down."
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"Drake," he says softly, hurting a little to hear it. "I'm sorry..."
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"I've had over four years to come to terms with it -- I'm okay," he promises the other man, tugging him forward off his stool to come closer. "Everybody's got something. Thank you for caring so much about mine."
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He kisses him lightly, with a playful little smirk when he breaks it again. "You're a good example for me."