Four Hundred and Twenty | Yogscast Lewis (xReader)

T h i r t y T h r e e

T h i r t y T h r e e

S a f e h o u s e

When the flames turned into smoke and ashes, we were already on the move.

I cradled him by my side, checking the patched up wound on his abdomen as Giovanni drove. The sandy wasteland was all I could see as well as the bright lit sky from the millions of stars and the moon itself.

I could not face to see his face.

I barred my teeth and took deep breaths, trying all my might to not take the gun from my pocket and point it at his direction.

However, something inside me fought and I controlled my urge to make more red on my hands.

I was confused. Angry. Devastated. Embarrassed. Humiliated.

How could I have not known...that the very person who understood what I've been through: was very much in a similar situation?

How could I let it slip?

Instead: he was supposed to be my enemy.

"Stop it."

I turned to find my uncle's face. He looked at me with a pained look.

I quietly replied, "Stop what."

"Thinking." Will breathed out.

"I can't can I." I muttered, brushing his hair from his face. He was laid across the back seat of the car, his head on my lap. "She'll come back." I mentioned, knowing very well I wasn't talking about the woman who I killed just moments before.

"She's dead, [Y/N]."

'No, she'll never be able to die.' I thought in my head.

Between the two of us: I had live. But I lost.

____

We crossed into Europe in a few days, in which Will had stopped bleeding every few hours. However, the fever had hit him hard after days of feeling normal. We knew it was dangerous to head into a public hospital, not when we had George in our hands with handcuffs and most of Matthews' connections at our backs.

I made sure to contact our safe houses, those that helped us whenever we were in need of assistance during missions. Giovanni and I made sure to take turns, risking our position to get resources in crowded areas. That meant markets and cities.

The best way was the hide in plain sight until we get some contact from British Intelligence.

We sat in trains and buses and cars for weeks. I had known it was already September. Three months away already.

George stayed quiet for most of the time.

It was almost like a mutual agreement between him and the four of us. He would stay quiet until we return to British soil whilst we wouldn't lay a hand on him. Clearly it was more stated to my end as my body had automatically kept handling the gun and knives in my pockets whenever he spoke.

But those months of travelling gave me time.

It gave me the time to think ahead of what happened. Why it happened. From my view, George Kingston (or whoever he was), was my friend. He grew up in Bristol, with a sister and a family that treated him unkindly by who he preferred to love. He told me this when we first met, and it was all true when I met them.