I haven't ever seen a guy go at a cheese and ham sandwich the way Cillian was right now. I mean sharp, canine teeth tearing into it like a starved wolf, barely taking a breath between bites. It was actually sorta freaky, watching him chomp bits off before sucking them up like a damn hoover, practically inhaling it. Gotta say it was a fucking shocker he hadn't already given himself hiccups from eating that fast, but after watching him dangling on the edge of death for the past few days it was actually a relief to see this side to him, as unexpected as it was.

He was completely oblivious to my amused stare which drifted to the runaway mustard that was painting the side of his cheek. His eyes were narrowed, his focus entirely on the sandwich as though it would disappear if he didn't finish it fast enough. Even the crust, the worst part of any sandwich, didn't stand a chance. It vanished in seconds as he bit, chewed, swallowed, and dove right back in.

Without taking my eyes off of him, I reached over to the faded green biscuit tin that Sam kept on the counter and dug out one of his precious chocolate digestives. He'd always had a sweet tooth—stashing biscuits, sweets, and chocolates around like he was still twelve years old.

Back before, well, before I fucked everything up and he moved to this dump, Sam always kept a multi-pack of Haribos in the drawer of his bedside table. A little energy boost, as he liked to call them. He'd pass me a packet after we'd gone at it, wearing our bodies out as we got lost in each other, trying to forget all the other shit in our lives—his own unique version of pillow talk I guess. I missed those days, but at least Cillian was just as good a distraction from all those sad, sorry thoughts that kept trying to push back into my head.

I took a bite of the biscuit, letting the rich chocolate melt over my tongue as I watched Cillian finish off his sandwich with an air of determination that was actually kind of impressive. I knew he took things seriously, didn't know that stretched to lunch too though. In fact, call me a perv but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little turned on just watching him right now. I mean, only because it's been a while since anyone has devoured me with that much passion.

"Y'know," I said, trying not to smirk, "I think I've seen dogs eat slower than that."

Cillian rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, his mouth full as he finished off the last bit of bread. He shook his head slightly, ignoring my remark completely, then reached for a packet of crisps, tearing it open with a grin.

He barely looked up at me, his focus still fixed entirely on his food as he crunched into his crisps. It was the largest sign of life I'd seen in him since he turned me down at the club. Despite everything, I've gotta say that did wound my pride a little. Maybe in another life the two of us went back to my dingey little apartment under better circumstances and fucked each others brains out instead of getting shot at by gangsters. But then again, knowing him better now I'd say he probably isn't the type. Too much business and not enough pleasure if you ask me.

"If you're that passionate about sandwiches, I'm afraid to see you with an actual meal."

He huffed a short laugh, crumbs scattered on the front of his shirt, but as his hand reached for another crisp, my curiosity crept back in.

"So..." I began casually, taking another digestive from the tin, "about this contact of yours, in Crawley. What's his story? You sure he can help?"

Cillian's eyes narrowed, his hand pausing mid-reach. "He's no one important. Just a friend, someone I've been able to rely on before. If anyone can help take some heat off of us, it's him. Not much more to it."

"Sure, you might think we can trust him, but Roxy and me? We've never met him and, no offence, but I don't know if I want to associate myself with more criminals if I can help it."

Cillian leaned back, eyes cold and guarded. "You'll know what you need to know when you need to know it. Right now, all you need to know is that this is our best chance. So, unless you want to wash up dead in some canal, try and trust me a little."

His vague response grated on me, but I couldn't really blame the guy for having secrets. "Right, because that's reassuring," I muttered under my breath.

Cillian's jaw tightened, and for a second, his eyes met mine in a way that made me think he was about to chew my head off. But then, as fucking weird as can be, his eyes almost seemed to soften, something strange flashing across his face before he looked away, crumpling the empty crisp packet in his hand.

"Just trust me." He sighed. "This is the best chance we've got."

"He's not wrong you know."

Both our heads turned towards the door where Roxy was standing, leaning against the frame. Don't ask me how long she'd been standing there because I don't have a damn clue.

With our full attention, she strode into the room, her eyes turning to Cillian. "The Emerald Guard. I can't say I had any direct encounters before all this shit, but I've heard of you. Ruthless, violent and shady as hell. You're a big name here in London, even if smart mouth over here hasn't heard of you guys before."

"Hey!" I scoffed, clutching my chest in mock offence. "It's not like I usually hang around with mobsters. I'm classier than that, love."

Roxy rolled her eyes, but I caught a glimpse of the slight smirk that played at the edge of her mouth. Even Cillian seemed amused, a small smile creeping onto his face as he shook his head, polishing off his crisps. It was a rare moment of levity, the kind of thing that almost made you forget where you were, what fucked up situation you were in.

That's when Sam stepped into the room, and he looked exhausted. Dark circles beginning to pool under his weathered, hazel eyes after a couple of sleepless nights nursing Cillian back to health. He wiped his hands on his jeans, no doubt fresh from dealing with yet another desperate soul who'd stumbled into his underground clinic. Although he probably thought of himself more like a criminal than a doctor these days, Sam had always been a saint. Even now, turning his back on the proper (and legal) way of doing things to help those who had nowhere else to go.

Cillian straightened up a little, clearing his throat as he offered Sam a nod. "Thanks..." he said, "for patching me up. Not many people would risk their neck like that."

Sam gave a tired shrug, his voice casual. "It's what I do. Can't really turn people away when they're bleeding out on my doorstep, can I?"

There was that tiny, sincere smile again. The one that almost couldn't quite believe there were strangers out there who would stick their necks out for him like we had. But Cillian's expression shifted, his gaze hardening again as he weighed Sam up. "I'm grateful," he continued slowly, his tone taking on a subtle edge, "and I know Charlie trusts you, but don't think for a second I'll let you turn me in."

Unlike the Sam I once knew, he didn't flinch. Just held Cillian's gaze with an easy calm, like he was used to these kind of threats. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, voice steady. "I know when to keep my mouth shut. Besides, if I wanted to play informant, I'd be out of business in a week."

I tensed, a spark of irritation flickering through me like a scattering of burning embers. I don't know if it was the thought of Sam being threatened because of me, or the fact that he was now used to it—because of what I did—that got under my skin the most. But I knew better than to make things worse again. So, as whatever false sense of comradery between us faded, I held my tongue and shot Cillian a sidelong glance.

After a beat, the gangster crumpled the empty crisp packet in his fist and tossed it onto the table, standing up with a wince. "Mind if I grab a coat? I'm not exactly fit for London's finest weather."

Sam nodded. "Help yourself," he said, gesturing to the coatrack by the door. On it hung a few old jackets—many of which I'd seen him in over the years I'd known him—as well as a couple of coats, a dirty mac and his old lab coat. I felt another pang of guilt just seeing it, knowing that it would waste away in this dump of a place just like Sam and his ruined future. The future that I ruined.

"You're not seriously thinking of going alone are you?" Roxy asked as Cillian shrugged into one of the spare coats offered to him.

Cillian turned to face her, finality in his expression. "I'm not thinking about it. I'm doing it. I'll be quicker on my own."

Roxy stood straighter, stronger as she crossed her arms. "You've barely recovered and now you want to go meet your contact alone?"

"I'm not going all the way to Crawley on my own," he sighed, pulling the jacket collar up against his neck. "I'm just gonna go a few blocks to find a payphone. Better than trying to call him from here. I've just got to arrange a meeting. Look, the more of us there are, the bigger risk we run of attracting attention. I'll blend in better alone."

I shook my head, jaw clenched. "Blend in? Yeah, right. I bet you'd blend in everywhere you go, especially when you wince every time you take a step."

Cillian seemed surprised that I had noticed, as if he hadn't expected me to care whether he was in pain still or not, but his voice held no sign of it. "This contact of mine... he won't trust anyone he doesn't know. I need to speak to him alone, convince him to help us."

Roxy opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything, Cillian gave her a slight nod of reassurance, as if telling her that he'd be alright.

With one last look around the room, he stepped toward the door. "Stay put," he said, giving us both a hard look. "You'll be safer here. I'll be back."

Just like that, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. The draft of cold air left in his absence settled uneasily around us. I glanced at Roxy, who shared my worried look, and dipped my hand back into the biscuit tin to begin eating away my concerns.

Hoover — a vacuum cleaner, properly one made by the Hoover company.

(rain) Mac — a coat, especially one made of waterproof material, worn for protection from the rain.