Work Text:
He’s rough, hands calloused, too hard. Harder than she’d know, or remember. But she’s gone now, and he’s left with blood and gun oil and spent casings and the stink of death. He doesn’t want it, never has, but he does what he has to, what he’s forced to. It’s too much, and yet not enough. He wants more, but it’s never enough. The burnt taste of adrenaline and the copper of blood on his tongue. He needs more even as he needs to get clear of it. It’s as familiar as slipping into well-worn shoes, easy and done with little to no thought.
Snap a neck.
Aim pistol. Press trigger.
Dislocate shoulder, knife to jugular.
Poetry in motion.
He’s the most reluctant artist even as he’s the most obsessed, the most driven. He’s art in motion, even as he regrets moving forward.
Each stride takes him further from her memory, but is it his fault? He’s defending what’s his, he’s doing what he’s always had to do. Survive.
He’s tired, so tired. But he’s also never felt so alive. The confliction is a betrayal, for how can he be alive when she isn’t?
One hour. It will be enough, but also won’t be. He has a lot left to do, but also so little.
Maybe he’ll see her again, at the end. Maybe he’ll push the end back a little further again.
He’ll see.