06-05-2014, 02:33 PM
Jensen certainly recoiled from the murderer's look, but he didn't run. He would live up to the promise to die without a fight, if Hood so chose. However, both their attentions were simultaneously drawn elsewhere. The smell of smoke, powerful and permeating, filled the air. They also both seemed to come to the same conclusion. Fire, and the same instinct.
Hood took the stairs, Jensen quick on his heels.
"You know, for a Texan, you sure as fuck don't seem to like direct problem resolutions."
If he had had the wherewithal to process that, he might have noticed that the man's accent was similarly American.
At the second floor landing, Jensen paused alongside. The layout of apartment doors mirrored the floor above. One door already swung on its hinge despite the lack of fire alarm. Everyone must have ran during the gunfire. He stared so intently, Jensen seemingly forgot the ongoing conversation. However the answer was far from pleasing. "Why not kill them? So they can go to jail? And then what, waste perfectly good tax dollars, getting three meals a day? So when they get out they can go back to their gang? Fuck that. Save everyone the trouble."
They departed for the next level down. "We can't be judge, jury, and executioner. Its not our place to decide who's worthy of death!"
He corrected Hood, gently as a shepherd to his flock.
The fire blazed hotter than expected, and Jensen winced upon peering through the brightness of it. Again, he paused alongside Hood to check for anyone in need of help. "But what about their parents? Fuck their parents. They dropped the ball hard to put out shits like these guys." He was well-desensitized to vulgarity in his travels, but the endless vulgarity woven with cold-blooded murder chilled his soul.
The door popped open behind the force of the man's kick, and together they stumbled out to seek fresh air. The cold never felt so great.
It took him a moment longer than it ought to realize what he saw. The fire raged its heat at his back, but the real turmoil was inside.
Connor?
He blinked the sting of smoke from his eyes, and the long-forgotten athleticism of a high school sprinter surged his legs at breakneck speeds.
He was on his knees at Connor's side where he cupped a hand behind his neck and lay the other on his chest. "Connor,"
he breathed, looking the man up and down. All my fault. "Steady breaths."
And he leaned low to keep the man's eyes locked onto his. "Look at me. Just look at me."
Something, a can, was dropped at his side, but Jensen ignored it.
His lids fell low as his head bowed. His lips were quivering and his throat strangled with near-panic, but he dared not move an inch for fear of losing the tumultuous war with the Gift. It meant to consume him, but he kept the storm at bay, refusing to allow it to destroy him, not until Connor was whole again.
Seconds or minutes, Jensen couldn't tell, but he was watching the sand drip from the hourglass in slow motion. He felt every wisp of hair curl around his face on the wind. He saw each and every one of Connor's eyelashes blink with despair. Beneath his palm, Connor's heart beat wild and erratic, but Jensen refused to surrender.
The Gift stretched his skin tighter, it pulled the noose firmer around his throat, and wrangled beads of sweat from every pore like some discarded rag left to dry in the sun. He was close to death, yet he had never felt so alive!
When it settled, whatever it was, Jensen fell into sitting alongside his friend. His limbs, his very cheeks, sank beneath the strain of having ran the end of a long marathon. He pulled his helmet to his lap and peered down into the bowl of it. "This was all,"
he panted, "a big mistake."
His gaze finally lifted, broken and full of regret, and settled on Hood.
Hood took the stairs, Jensen quick on his heels.
"You know, for a Texan, you sure as fuck don't seem to like direct problem resolutions."
If he had had the wherewithal to process that, he might have noticed that the man's accent was similarly American.
At the second floor landing, Jensen paused alongside. The layout of apartment doors mirrored the floor above. One door already swung on its hinge despite the lack of fire alarm. Everyone must have ran during the gunfire. He stared so intently, Jensen seemingly forgot the ongoing conversation. However the answer was far from pleasing. "Why not kill them? So they can go to jail? And then what, waste perfectly good tax dollars, getting three meals a day? So when they get out they can go back to their gang? Fuck that. Save everyone the trouble."
They departed for the next level down. "We can't be judge, jury, and executioner. Its not our place to decide who's worthy of death!"
He corrected Hood, gently as a shepherd to his flock.
The fire blazed hotter than expected, and Jensen winced upon peering through the brightness of it. Again, he paused alongside Hood to check for anyone in need of help. "But what about their parents? Fuck their parents. They dropped the ball hard to put out shits like these guys." He was well-desensitized to vulgarity in his travels, but the endless vulgarity woven with cold-blooded murder chilled his soul.
The door popped open behind the force of the man's kick, and together they stumbled out to seek fresh air. The cold never felt so great.
It took him a moment longer than it ought to realize what he saw. The fire raged its heat at his back, but the real turmoil was inside.
Connor?
He blinked the sting of smoke from his eyes, and the long-forgotten athleticism of a high school sprinter surged his legs at breakneck speeds.
He was on his knees at Connor's side where he cupped a hand behind his neck and lay the other on his chest. "Connor,"
he breathed, looking the man up and down. All my fault. "Steady breaths."
And he leaned low to keep the man's eyes locked onto his. "Look at me. Just look at me."
Something, a can, was dropped at his side, but Jensen ignored it.
His lids fell low as his head bowed. His lips were quivering and his throat strangled with near-panic, but he dared not move an inch for fear of losing the tumultuous war with the Gift. It meant to consume him, but he kept the storm at bay, refusing to allow it to destroy him, not until Connor was whole again.
Seconds or minutes, Jensen couldn't tell, but he was watching the sand drip from the hourglass in slow motion. He felt every wisp of hair curl around his face on the wind. He saw each and every one of Connor's eyelashes blink with despair. Beneath his palm, Connor's heart beat wild and erratic, but Jensen refused to surrender.
The Gift stretched his skin tighter, it pulled the noose firmer around his throat, and wrangled beads of sweat from every pore like some discarded rag left to dry in the sun. He was close to death, yet he had never felt so alive!
When it settled, whatever it was, Jensen fell into sitting alongside his friend. His limbs, his very cheeks, sank beneath the strain of having ran the end of a long marathon. He pulled his helmet to his lap and peered down into the bowl of it. "This was all,"
he panted, "a big mistake."
His gaze finally lifted, broken and full of regret, and settled on Hood.