#i care them and megan's lil affectionate shoulder bump

[trshmouth]

@adrenlne​​​​ cont.

he’s   following   her,   even   in   her   obvious   pursuit   away   from   the   rusty   hook   he   had   helped   her   down   from   just   seconds   ago.   OF   COURSE   HE   IS.   she   thinks   she   owes   him   a   thank   you,   knows   he   could   have   just   as   easily   left   her,   gotten   out   of   this   alive   if   he'd   chosen   to   look   for   an   escape   instead.   it   would   have   been   the   smart   thing   to   do,   she   knows,   but   he   had   still   come   back   for   her.   (       and   despite   all   of   her   sarcasm   and   fire,   she   knows   that   she   would   have   done   the   SAME.       )

 and   now   she   was   leading   them   into   the   woods,   with   one   shoulder   mangled,   bloody,   practically   useless,   and   the   opposite   hand   clutching   it   in   a   vain   attempt   at   stabilizing   it.   the   silence   is   overwhelming,   forces   her   to   focus   on   the   exhaustion   in   her   lungs   and   the   physical   stress   of   her   body,   and   it's   almost   like   he   knows   it   when   he   breaks   the   silence.

'                     so   we're   screwed   is   what   you're   saying.       '       it's   a   playful   jab   that   follows   quiet   exhale,   and   she   ducks   her   head   down   to   hide   the   hint   of   a   smirk   that   pulls   at   her   lips.   she   brushes   against   him,   shoulder   nudging   just   slightly.   she   fights   the   grimace   that   threatens   to   pull   at   her   lips,   turns   head   forward   again   so   he   doesn't   see,   so   he   doesn't   ask.       '       seriously,   i   think   i   might   be   more   buff   than   you   are,   tozier.       '

                    maybe  he  didn’t  have  the  right  to  worry  about  her  —   it  was  nearly  bold,  or  funny,  when  she  was  some  kind  of  star  player  in  this  hell.  in  all  reality,  saving  her,  not  saving  her  —   it  wasn’t  a  choice,  and  it  never  would  be.

 sauntering  after  her  through  the  woods,  all  the  heavy,  unnatural  quiet  makes  his  mind  reel.  it’s  too  much  listening  —   listening  for  the  faint  sound  of  crows  scattering  to  the  windless  trees,  listening  to  his  own  heartbeat  play  bowling  in  his  ribcage.  like  most  things  in  this  place  —   the  gutted  suburbs  and  the  sunless  skies  —   the  woods  gave  away  an  artificial  nature  by  their  silence.  and  silence,  he  was  learning,  was  commonplace  here.  common  to  staying  safe,  common  to  not  getting  caught.  sometimes  it  was  the  very  difference  —   a  breath  that  caught  you  out,  a  creaky  step  under  your  shoe  got  you  royally  fucking  dead.

he  feigns  the  mortal  wounding  of  her  words;    ❝   ouch,  red,  always  with  the  air  of  disbelief.  maybe  i  have  a  grand  machination  in  mind  here,  you  don’t  fuckin’  know  —  wait  up!   ❞     he  catches  up  in  a  few  paces,  matching  her  step,  shoulder-to-shoulder.  the  contact  is  welcome,  and  reassuring  —  and  he  huffs  a  laugh.  he  remembers  to  use  the  stage  whisper  this  time;    ❝   yeah,  maybe.  but  he’s  pretty  dumb  and  ugly,  so  maybe  we’ve  got  a  shot.   ❞    he’s  smiling  with  the  joke,  but  his  expression  falls  more  subdued  the  longer  he  looks  at  the  big  hook  gauge  in  her  shoulder.  

❝   …alright,  come  on.  we  gotta  fix  that  shit.  i  got,  um.   ❞    he  gestures  in  an  unusually  understated  way,  with  the  medkit  gripped  loose  in  his  hand.  the  one  quentin  had  dropped  before  —  well,  anyway.  it  still  had  something  in  it,  at  least.   (  you  didn’t  want  to  think  about  how  you’d  found  him.  )   rich  pauses  when  they’re  behind  a  good  shadowy  rock,  where  he  could  dump  the  contents  of  the  kit.  with  a  mildly  apologetic  look,  he  gently  pulls  her  down  at  the  good  shoulder,  with  him  toward  the  grass.

an  eyebrow  quirks  above  his  red-spattered  glasses  —  the  ones  with  loose  bows  that  he  has  to  keep  punching  up  the  bridge  of  his  nose.    ❝   …wonder  who  pissed  in  his  cheerios  this  morning.  or  does  that  guy  just  have  it  out  for  you  in  particular,  or  something?   ❞