cột thẻ.

@cotthe (egg), unprompted.

Though Egg's proven himself many times over as far as fishing is concerned, that doesn't stop Dunk from feeling remarkably proud at the size of what he brings back this time.

While Egg handled their meal for the day, Thunder and Chestnut had gotten their daily brushings and some oats as a treat for the hard ride they'd just been on. Dunk's made the fire and laid their beddings out since, and though he contemplates coming up to relieve Egg of his fishing duties, the boy looks proud enough that he imagines the effort unnecessary.

"Come on, then, by the fire," he says, seeking the block of varnished wood Ser Arlan had bestowed him many years ago. It's a big one, typically strapped to Chestnut, and Dunk sets it down so Egg can place his catch there.

"Can't have you catching cold, now. Not when we've such a good meal to eat."

Once Egg is close enough, Dunk pats him on the head. "Well done. She's a beaut, all right.

He doesn't waste a second in dropping the catch to the block, taking care not to let them land too harshly over the wood. Egg minds that fish don't bruise the same way other meat does, but is sure it toughens it all the same. No need for rough bites tonight. As he undoes his cloak from his shoulders and lays it over a hang, he accepts the pat of approval with a greater grin than the one he'd come up over the hill with. Maybe he shouldn't preen so much at the praise, but he couldn't help it. He understood sunflowers towards the sun in those moments.

       ❝ I've got it, ❞   Egg assures him, already setting to the task. It hardly takes long at all, either. It might take him some time and tries at mending still, but fishing came quite naturally now, in all it's endeavors and labors. He's even figured out some tricks to picking the spine out cleaner, leaving less ribs in the flesh with every catch. A smaller pride, but accomplishment nonetheless. As the fish roast, he sits, letting the fire steam him through, too.

       ❝ Ser? ❞   A pause. Thoughtful contemplation sits in the silence as he watches the fire, though it isn't a heavy thought. It's innocent, idle enough that it slips through him rather than leaves him.   ❝ Would you help shave my hair? ❞

If only he’d gotten skillful sooner.

After taking Haibara to the morgue (he’d refused to let anyone else touch him, convinced that no-one would carry his body with the amount of care required to keep him intact), Nanami had wept. Truly, honestly wept. Even Geto-san’s presence failed to stop the flow of his tears, and normally he hates it when anyone sees him feel anything.

When he’d left to get some rest (but what was there to recoup for, knowing that he was so incapable when it really mattered?), the guilt of leaving Haibara somewhere so cold had made it difficult for him to fall asleep. So, sleepless at 2 AM, he’d made his way back to his colleague’s… no, his best friend’s body, because Haibara always hated being alone.

The sight of Shouko-san sitting in silence stuns him, but only for a moment. Dimly Nanami wonders if Haibara’s heart would flutter, knowing that his favourite senpai had sat by him as he laid in eternal slumber.

“Can you smoke in a morgue?” he asks in place of any formal greeting. Nanami doesn’t cross the threshold, as if respecting his best friend’s alone time with the girl he likes.

“Something about an open flame…”

If Shouko had been surprised, it doesn't show. There's no twitch to her shoulders. She doesn't even turn her head. She doesn't want to move her eyes from where Haibara rests. She's worried if she looks away, she'll want to see him smiling at her when she turns back again. It hurt a little too much to think about...

       ❝ Probably not, ❞   she breathes, smoke curling towards Haibara's body. The extension of her that wraps around him where she can't bring her own arms to. A deeper inhale and she sighs, shorter this time. The cigarette is brought to her lips, but she doesn't take a pull just yet.   ❝ Don't feel like standing around outside, though.   - 's cold. ❞   As if it were the real excuse. There was even a hint of humor to her tone, light but uneven.

Now that the droning silence has been broken apart, reminding Shouko of just how much she  hated  it, she's getting antsy letting it blanket over them again. Letting it lay over them the way that thin, scratchy sheet lay over

       ❝ What time is it anyway? ❞   Something. Anything. At least it was a real question;   she lost track of time hours ago.   ❝ Surprised you're getting on me about  smoking  instead of staying up. ❞   She's not, but it gives her something to say. Something light, something a little uneven...

A drag is finally taken from her cigarette, inhaling deep to sigh the smoke back out with ease. She wonders for a moment if he doesn't move because of her smoking or because of...

There was not a lingering trace of violence or awkwardness in that gesture - and it was surprising to the hunter, too. Whatever caused the door to seal shut and isolate them from the world outside turned the pair unable to hide behind a mask of aggression forced by the Network, giving the two fighters some time to hide, heal and... Continue to do whatever they were doing right then.

The suggestion about another one of Emily's headbutts had Evan retracting minutely back, pretending to be afraid for a split second. "No way in hell, Brass. Fuck off," despite the words, his smile hadn't gone anywhere and McCone was clearly amused at the mental image it offered, "Your head's harder than the walls - can't remember the last time anyone knocked me off like that," he trailed off, thinking it had a lot to do with the fact no one had been close enough either.

Easier to be the one doing the killing from a safe distance - Emily had forced him to get personal; something real instead of the Network-sponsored professionalism. But rather than focusing on how the woman made him feel, Evan's brain decided to revisit her choice of words, not before giving the brunette another long, interested look.

There were any amount of things Emily could've said back to his smart little remark. Years of sass and sarcasm were traded instead for avoidance with a good ol' roll of her eyes to kick things off. She scoffs and runs her tongue along the edges of her teeth, fixing Evan with an incredulous look before shaking her head. He wouldn't be getting anything else for his ego from her now.

       ❝ Alright -   That's it.  I'm knocking us out again. ❞   Despite how fed up she played into being, that warm and playful smile never leaves Emily's lips. It dimples her cheeks the whole time she's shimmying up to his side, rolling herself as much as she can onto her good leg to hoist herself over him. There was nothing easy about the maneuver and there was certainly a lack of grace to it all that had her looking a little clumsier than she'd have liked. Never mind the fact she was wearing less than him, either. Emily was committed to the bit, and she'd be damned if she wouldn't do her best to see it through.

To her credit, she makes it at least to his legs without too much trouble. A breathless mixture of giggles and grunts bubble up from her in all her effort to make it on top of him, to keep herself there. She has her weight kept mostly on her right knee to keep herself propped up over him, left arm supporting her by pinning down his right. Emily does her best to keep her broken knee from bending any which way, but in doing so, she's dragged her thigh up the gap between his, hip lowered until -

A catch in her breath. A full freeze of her frame. Her eyes only minutely widen as they lock onto Evan's with a horrible mix of mischief and amusement swimming in them.

       ❝ . . .   Are you  hard? ❞

Though in his daily life he does his best not to indulge, by now Nobara knows of his weakness to sweets well enough that there's hardly any reason to hide it. Still, he takes in a deep breath. The photo on Nobara's screen is making his mouth water.

"...no."

His brows furrow as he reads the post's caption. "The mochi comes from Asakusa."

That's the good stuff, he thinks idly. But still in Tokyo, so not crazy expensive. His temple brushes lightly against Nobara's hair as he looks at the screen with her. She's pushed his buttons effortlessly, of course.

"When do you want to go?"

       ❝ I'd say   tonight   if I wasn't so comfy right now, ❞   Nobara mutters as she turns her face into his, burying it a little into his cheek. It felt awfully hard to give up their peaceful nothingness together just for a good dinner and some sweets.   ❝ I didn't bring a change of clothes either, so...  bummer. ❞   A few purses of her lips and she peppers his face with some kisses as she takes a moment to contemplate when.

       ❝ Tomorrow? ❞   She didn't have anything pressing going on and knew if Megumi were busy, she could wait 'til he wasn't. A small pull back of her face from his, head tilting as she reaches up to play with a bit of his hair.   ❝ I'll even call to make a reservation.   - Be all  fancy  about it. ❞

@cotthe, unprompted.

"Normally people only say 'sorry' when they mean it," Megumi says, just as flippantly as Nobara had attempted to express some kind of regret. The topic is swiftly dropped.

Stubbornly, he refuses to turn more than the absolute minimum required to keep track of Nobara's screen. There's something embarrassing about her being aware that she commands all of his attention, so hopefully Nobara'll chalk it up to his general mistrust towards Instagram-based recommendations.

"Is it a deal because of price" -- his arm wraps loosely around Nobara's back -- "or some secret menu thing?"

There's a light snort from her as she scrolls and investigates a little further. It doesn't surprise her he asks;  it does tickle her, though. Enough that she amuses the concern with checking. A few taps and scrolls later and Nobara lifts her phone again for him to see   ( regardless if he looks or not ).

       ❝ You're in luck, old man.   - It's the price. ❞   The mock in her tone was light. It wasn't like the cost was a ridiculous thing to be concerned about. Did it suck a bit of the novelty out? Maybe. That didn't matter as much, though. Nobara idly wraps one of her own arms down around his knee as she resumes her scrolling, back to her comfortable little lean into his frame.   ❝ Looks like they do have a secret dessert menu, though ~ ..   - Ever had a mochi sundae? ❞   

The (in)famous chief almost stilled when that happened - but with the ongoing context of her reactions and the way Caroline continued to watch him, he followed the brunette's lead. Her gaze made Evan so damn aware of his flaws and unworthiness, with the hunter fighting the need to just allow himself to bask in the pleasant feeling of knowing she wasn't pushing him away... But if she insisted he was good enough for now, why should he refuse?

(Because of the monster he had been once, of course.)

When she talked about the heart, though - it did give McCone pause, making his eyes go wide and concerned because that was a valid point. Caroline's wounds were way more than just physical; the bandages would get removed one day and skin would heal, but what of her own spirit? Mind, heart and soul? But Evan's fears proved to be baseless once more as she drew him closer, asking him for more of his presence and touch rather than less.

The hunter promptly worked with the bed's protective rails - his hands, free from Caroline's, interacted with the levers to lower the last barrier between the two of them, knowing he would always catch her in a heartbeat. It was astonishing that for one so seemingly fragile, she had the strength to move mountains - while Evan barely felt himself able to breathe when his head came to rest against her chest, the constant thumping of the organ below flesh and bone making music for his ears.

So precious, so alive - and to think he almost lost her out of pure, damnable foolishness.

The hunter's hands slid over her delicately, moving to the sides and away from Caroline to anchor himself - he didn't want to press her to the point of crushing ribs, but it seemed like she had other ideas. This close, Evan could smell her so perfectly - from the residual chemicals of the medicine applied to skin to the faintest undertone of her cologne - that he thought dying like that would have been a perfectly acceptable fate. Cradled by an angel, comforted by warmth and enveloped by gentleness... It was way more than he deserved.

But her last request had Evan's eyes fluttering open, fully aware his reason to be there was not yet fulfilled. And it did feel like a mission sent by the gods or a gift he lacked the words for, being called to help heal and mend the woman who had come to mean so much to him. "Yes," he replied, voice now beginning to betray a bit of his own nerves - that was all so new, so raw and delicate.

McCone turned his head then, nose brushing over her hospital gown when he spoke the next words, keeping them to an intimate whisper, "Show me how you want me to help you heal, Caroline."

Evan then added a quiet 'please' following it all - shifting a potential order into a plea, placing himself at her disposal. A brief, barely-there peck was given to the woman, even if he did it all over hospital clothing - but he was ready to do anything she requested of him, as demonstrated since the moment she regained consciousness.

It was almost alarming, the sudden silence that washes over her mind with his voice, with the press of his lips just over her most vital point. Like being taken under a wave -   the sound of crashing drowned out with ease. There were no more quiet trills of machinery monitoring her, no more humming from the lights overhead. Just his breathing and her heart. Just them.

This was all he's wanted, wasn't it?  Caroline knows there's a part of herself that wanted this, too. That wanted healing.  His healing.   - The opportunity to heal  if it meant it would be him. It's a slow realization even though it'd been sitting in the back of her head for a while now...   Caroline could have ran a long time ago. She could have requested to be transferred. There were more opportunities for work that paid just as well if she looked for them. She didn't have to stay with the Network -   stay where he would be. All of his pleading could have gone unanswered for the rest of his life if she'd have chosen to just disappear. A small part of her, though, wanted closure...   and grew into something more. Bloomed and overtook every space it could with a sentiment she hadn't wanted to admit to herself until it'd become too much...

Now,  that  sentiment  refused to be ignored. It pounded at her heart the way her heart pounded against her ribs -   a demanding, beckoning fist on the door she had been trying so hard to keep shut. All that effort just for Evan to plead gently at the lock...   All that effort just for her to break the door down herself -   all because he'd asked so very softly, so painfully sincerely.

Caroline shows him, just as he asks her to.

Her hands travel the whole length from the nape of his neck down until they've found his. The touch is almost featherlight, but she knows he doesn't need any pressure to feel where she guides him. Where she lifts his hands and his arms until they're wrapped around her frame. They don't separate from him even after she's anchored him around her -   fingers travel again across his skin, all the way back to his shoulders, to the curve of his jaw until she can lift it with tender care. She wants to see him...   Spotlight every ounce of vulnerability he lets bleed from his eyes. Her thumbs glide across his stubble, careful of his scars, swiping lightly at the curve of his cheeks.

There was almost a sad little humor to thinking how much she wanted him to do as  he  wanted. How a part of Caroline wished he would grasp at her, pull her to him all he wanted, claim instead of plead, and yet...   She knows it wouldn't put the same storm in her chest as being a witness to the depth of his yearning did. Every nerve in her body had only been heightened  because  he waited,  because he wanted...

       ❝ ...   How  I  want?... ❞   Her palms shift lower, ever so delicately, down his jaw. One hand reaches, fingers threading into the roots of his hair. The other cups his chin, draws her thumb lightly beneath the swell of his lip.   ❝ ..  I want you to heal me. ❞   Her thumb swipes back slowly, and as it glides across again, she shifts, dragging her soft touch over the plush of his lips in full.   ❝ I want you to kiss me, Evan... ❞

In any other scenario, the sight of Rebecca with both her feet on the ground and her gun pointed without regret might have changed him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the image of her standing like a spaghetti western's vengeful angel will stick forever. For now, though, all Daryl does is smile crookedly because you're dead, man-- Becca's better with a gun than I am (teary eyes and all).

And maybe Officer Grimes really would have been dead, if not for the way Glenn suddenly cries, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! That's enough, all of you!

"Why don't we put the guns" -- he glances Daryl's way, gulps -- "and, uh... knife... down, and have a civil conversation?"

"Y'all lost the right to fuckin' civil when you chained my brother to a roof."

"And we're-- we're sorry, Daryl. We didn't mean to leave your brother behind..."

"I dropped the key," T-Dog finally says.

Daryl growls, head snapping in his direction. "And, what, you couldn't pick it up?"

Finally, for the first time since he's started talking to these people, someone shows shame. Regret, too, and a good amount of guilt. Daryl sees it in the way T-Dog's head dips, in the way the hand holding his rifle goes slack (and it occurs to him then that the sheriff had been the only motherfucker that pointed a weapon at him in this scenario-- not his goon), and in the way he seems to stumble over admitting, "It fell down a drain."

It's a miserable situation. Frankly, all Daryl wants to do is sit down and cry. If he thinks too much of Merle left alone on that roof to burn, if he thinks too much of the sheer desperation his big brother must have felt to cut his own hand off-- fuck, his legs feel weaker all of a sudden. So Daryl dips his head, sheathes his knife, and with a hand landing gently on Rebecca's waist to ground himself, he glares in Rick's direction.

"Put your gun down, asshole."

Rick doesn't budge. (To the side, Glenn groans.) "No, not until she--"

"You stupid fuck," Daryl snarls, "she ain't puttin' it down until you do, didn't you hear?"

"Just let it go, Rick," T-Dog says solemnly. Guiltily. Without fanfare, he puts his own rifle on the ground. "It was his brother. Ain't no man deserve a death like that."

Glenn, however nervously, steps forward to set a hand on both firearms: one on either side.

"C'mon, both of you. No-one has to get shot today. Not in this house full of old people. Please?"

Rick's eyes turn to Glenn's. Glenn meets his gaze, nothing short of pleading. Then, reluctantly, he starts to bring his gun down.

Just as Daryl had said -   as he'd reminded them...   Rebecca doesn't lower her gun even a fraction until the Sheriff has lowered his a satisfactory amount. Not when Daryl's hand anchored himself at her waist. Not when Glenn desperately tried to diffuse the stand off. Though, that's not to say Rebecca had  no  reaction, at least, to Daryl by her side. When she felt him hold onto her so very gently in the middle of it all, she  did  want to drop her gun, drop everything and just make sure he was alright. A louder part of her screamed that he wouldn't be alright unless she had the Sheriff in check, though. Although this wasn't what she signed up to be when she joined S.T.A.R.S., this was exactly what the program, and her colleagues, prepared her for.

Finally Rebecca puts the safety in place on her pistol and secures it back to her hip. Daryl hardly had to say anything at all for her to continue.

       ❝ Do you remember where you left him? ❞   Plain, to the point, though not entirely pleasant. At the very least Rebecca had managed to stave off the antagonistic edge to her tone in favor of neutrality. Her eyes haven't left Rick's yet, boring into them and every move her made. The others were kept in her peripheral. It was her turn to have a soft hand find Daryl's side, just at his hip -   enough that if he needed to grab onto her arm, he could. She knows he's not a child that needed to be coddled in this moment, but she knows she wants to provide comfort if she can. This wasn't how this was supposed to go...   ❝ - Where Merle's  belongings  would be? ❞

Rebecca understands she might not be able to force any of them to backtrack and show them exactly where, but she'd certainly try. Even if it meant just going on their own -   something that, at this point, she almost preferred...   Rebecca felt it necessary, like Daryl, to at least try and get his things back if they could.

They had to try...

How old was Emily? The hunter didn't know (and never really cared to check before), but chances were she didn't remember much of the show when it started, particularly when it wasn't the Network's biggest hit and major prime time attraction. At her return, Evan's gaze fell to her bloodied and bruised figured, but for once... Her hands were on him and it wasn't to further press a bullet entry wound.

She started pulling his vest to the side, tearing fabric of his regular uniform apart and exposing his body to the colder air of the bunker. Evan's arms returned to life, trying to stop the woman from continuing with whatever she was doing - was Emily Brass saving him? Treating his wounds when she was just as broken?

"This is not what I meant by making different choices," Evan gritted his teeth, suddenly much more conscious and aware of his surroundings than he had been moments ago. The first aid motions did sting, though - and he grunted on the floor, inhaling as deeply as he could despite the blood oozing into the wrong cavities, enduring the pain as people like them did. It wasn't a pretty sigh - but he also stopped trying to push Emily away even if her intentions were crystal clear.

McCone focused on her questions next - if she was going through that fucked-up nurse routine, he knew he had to remain awake and talking to her was the only thing he could do to help. The same survival instincts from Emily echoed somewhere in Evan's soul - it had been too long playing that game, exposing himself to real danger for some thrills for the audience. If roles had been reversed, he would know how to treat another in improvised settings, which amused him in a strange manner.

Fuck, they really did share a bunch of similarities, huh?

"You look young," he said, teal-colored gaze now fixed on the woman above him, hovering efficiently despite the broken limbs to get him to a more stabilized condition before tending to herself. "You probably don't remember how this show started - not many people do. But the guy who made it for 29 days in the first season before getting killed in a fire? You're looking at him," Evan let the words sink, but not for dramatic effect - the gauze wiped at the worst of his wounds now and it did sting to the point of having him cussing and panting.

"Well, what's left of him. The fire was pretty bad and I was on life support and surgery for a while," he breathed a sigh of relief when the worst seemed to be over, but his eyes didn't stray too far away from Emily. Not because McCone was particularly interested in her feelings on the matter or the sudden change to her behavior, but because her age was really bothering him now. Had runners been that young all the time or were they getting less and less mature...?

       ❝ Don't give a fuck what you meant, ❞   Emily mutters, undeterred. There's a bit more urgency to her efforts thanks to a light-headedness coming on, her vision taking on a bit of a double film. Wouldn't do either of them any good for her to pass out on him now   ( again ).   There was something cathartic about bandaging him up. A motion that was familiar -   a motion that wasn't rip and tear besides the rip and tear of gauze before it's tightened around his shoulder. It's the bullet wound she's taken the most care of first. Cleaned twice, disinfected, double padded -   the works. The rest of his damage came next, little by little. When he brings up her age it brings up a bit of a pinch to her face, shooting Evan a look while she listens. The look is wiped away the instant   ❛ You're looking at him ❜   leaves his lips.

Matter of fact, she looks at him a little harder now. Studies those very scars he elaborates on as he continues. There was no way he was serious...

       ❝ Must've been  damn good  surgery. ❞   The words slip out of her more than she means to say them purposefully. Maybe that concussion really was getting to her...   The light-headedness certainly was. It's blinked away, kept at bay as she disinfects the last of his more serious scrapes and bruises. A lovely collection of colors spattered around all his scars. Emily had no doubt she probably looked a lot like this underneath, too -   like someone's abstract take on pain and anger in reds, greens, and blues. She'd digress, though. No point thinking about the state she was in. She doesn't think she'll be conscious much longer to see for herself. A slight shake of her head and she sighs, gathering all the supplies neatly into a little group aside from her.   ❝ If you're bringin' up age 'cause I helped you, it's got  nothin'  to do with that...   - You'd've done the same in my shoes... ❞

Even though she says it so easily, with so much confidence, even she knows there's no weight in what she said. She doesn't  know  this man. She doesn't even know if she cares to get to know him. She just knew she cared enough to not be a killer anymore -   not if she could help it, anyway. If they were going to die locked in this bunker anyway, then she'd die sparing the last person on Earth she could from her violence   ( after beating the shit out of him, that is ).

Emily scoffs at the phrase  playing nurse.  Like this was a different game on it's own. Fuck...   that light-headedness was really starting to get to her...   It has her swaying a little, reaching for her head and pressing the other hand firm down on the bunker floor.

       ❝ Can't wait to..   have your turn playin' nurse? ❞   The words come slow, almost breathless from her in little puffs. Her body's reached it's limit and she's not fighting it anymore.   

       ❝ You better not...   let me fucking die...   McCone... ❞

And like that, Emily Brass is out like a light.

Daryl's chest lifts with the short breath he takes, blue eyes widening in barely concealed surprise. "You're comin' home?"

Somehow he'd always thought Lee would be gone forever. She was visiting more, sure, but visiting wasn't staying. Lee never stayed long enough these days for her scent to linger even when she left.

When Merle left to be a man, he never came home again-- a decision cemented by his falling out with Father, certainly (and the human mate that he took), but Daryl always thought this just meant men and women weren't meant for the forest any more. The thought of Lee living near again fills him with a joy that's almost dizzying, but when he looks at her-- really looks at her, and listens to the tremble in her voice as she tells him why-- all that emotion is dashed away.

Daryl doesn't know what to say. Despite his brother's best intentions, the use of human language escapes him still. But, even though his form now is more flesh than fur, where language fails, his instinct rushes in to compensate.

Scooting closer, Daryl's head bumps lightly against Lee's, ending with a gentle nudge of the nose to her ear.

Oh...   He made  comin' home  sound so sweet, so warm. Lee wanted to feel that way about home again. She really, truly did. After all, home had a lot more memories that were good than what were bad. There were so many memories with  him,  and those mattered the most   ( at least, she wanted them to matter the most ).   But...   Lee doesn't know when the rest of her would be able to catch up with that still-innocent part of her heart. That little part that still had Good Boy wrapped around it, protecting it from the rest of the world was easily overwhelmed by everything else.

Until Good Boy himself came closer, reminded her he was there, now, for her, too.

Lee leans into him without an ounce of hesitation, pressing her temple lightly into Daryl's hair line as he lingers by her ear. Even her hands gravitate towards him, wrap around any part of his hands to anchor herself a little more into him.

   You don't gotta be alone.

It earns him a puff of breath, something more vulnerable than a laugh and almost as soft as a sigh. She lets her eyes close, slowly, as she sinks further into Daryl's warmth.

It did mean something.   It meant everything.

Lee was always good about being alone. Momma made sure of that. She didn't  have  to be though, and Daryl -   her Good Boy -   always made sure of that. Lee would've been fine alone, but she would always be better with him.

She threads her fingers with his, turns her head so that it was her turn to bury her nose near his ear. A smile finds her lips as she lets out another little breath.

       ❝ ..   We can make it the farm we talked about, ❞   Lee muses, squeezing their hands together.   ❝ just for us. ❞

"He can't get us. That's what changed," he said with astonishing frankness, moving minutely on the floor to better stretch a leg and groaning quietly as response; moving was not the best idea on the table, but he did feel better afterwards, "You accidentally freed us. Well, we may never leave here, but we also cannot play his game. I'm thinking he will play some edited footage of a fight and claim I died a fucking hero's demise while making sure the country's most dangerous individual..." another cough, spitting blood aside once more, "...Was dead, too. They will hold some bullshit funeral thing for views and start selecting new hunters so the show can go on."

It was strangely sobering to describe the Network's tactics when he was far removed from the studios and their usual infrastructure; almost like it happened to someone else in a different reality instead to McCone himself. He chuckled, smiling at no one in particular again, finding some sort of dark poetic justice to die like that - was he better for giving his last prey an option he didn't have? Or was it all just self-serving bullshit to die in peace?

Evan didn't know.

"Got no good answers for you, girl. Maybe the best one is that I kind of see myself in you, many years ago," the chief of the hunters murmured quietly, and probably the confessions kept coming because Evan didn't see any downsides: he was going to die. Emily was either following him shortly or surviving, but it wouldn't matter after he was gone. McCone left no legacy behind, no one who would sincerely mourn him... The members of his fan club would cry for a week before moving onto the next shiny celebrity with enough TV screen time; anyone who ever knew Evan (or John) properly had long, long gone.

It was almost nice to think he would be meeting Caroline again.

Wait...

   Why did he sound like he was dying?

And Emily didn't just mean the sound of his breathing, or the labored beating of his heart. His choice of words, his honesty... Sure, she knows he said he wasn't going to stop her from killing him, but...   - Was he dying?   

      Was he going to let himself die?

As much as she wanted to fully unpack what he was telling her, what he was trying to confess to her, she's suddenly gotten a  new  flood of adrenaline pumping through her system. It has her pushing herself up from his chest with a pained groan, expression pinching as she does her best to look him over. She needs to determine where the most blood had been lost, where he was still losing blood from. Did she need to set any bones aside from his nose? Did they have enough supplies to manage his injuries  and  her's?

Fuck.   She needs him to keep talking.   She needs him to stay awake.   A harsh swallow and Emily does the absolute best she can to get herself up onto her hip, to get her good leg beneath her in an attempt at standing   ( or at least attempt crawling towards the cabinets ).   She tries to rummage through his words while she rummages for bandages, antiseptic...

       ❝ ❛ Many years ago ❜  ??   - ❞   She repeats the phrase as soon as it stands back out to her, shouting as much as she could through her own fight with pain so he could hear her.   ❝ What do you mean,  ❛ many years ago ❜ ?? ❞

Bottled water and clean rags. Gauze and saline.  Fuck yes.  Emily gathers up what she can in her good arm before crawling her way back to his side   ( with a good amount of struggle ),   dropping herself unceremoniously next to him. It hardly mattered to her that he was already trying to fight her help. She's moving around his efforts easily enough, taking apart his shirt and revealing what she can to start cleaning around his wounds. It was almost second nature, being able to administer the crude first aid. She's had to do this to herself so often that she didn't even bat an eye.  Rinse here, wipe there...  She's as careful as she can be with her limited mobility. There's a gentleness to her efforts that completely betrayed all the viciousness from earlier.

       ❝ This is gon'a sting... ❞

His bullet wound stung, the nose hurt like a motherfucker and his left arm felt weird - either cracked or dislocated. The weakness that came with the blood loss was beginning to settle in, something that would be irreversible if they kept at it... And yet, what was the point? Why should he continue to dedicate himself to a job he loathed if they were never getting out?

The truth was a simple one: McCone had never been brave enough to pry the bars of his cage open and take the easy way out (a bullet to his own head), but Emily had done it for them. Killian couldn't order him around anymore, like some glorified attack dog, and there was a real (and shameful) relief in all of that. Drowning in their blood, hidden away from the audience that enjoyed his spectacular killings... It was a good way to go. Better than most endings he envisioned, meeting his demise at the hand of a subordinate for views or because Killian thought it would be funny.

As Emily began to regain consciousness too, he did nothing to stop her or protect himself. The dimmed lights of the bunker gave McCone enough of the picture, particularly when the brunette dragged herself back to him, apparently still full of adrenaline and survival instincts. She was met with another smile on the hunter's features - even if it looked eerily out of place, as if his brain had been damaged by the concussion and he wasn't seeing things clearly.

(On the contrary - he had never been more certain of anything in his life.)

"I'm not going to hurt you anymore,"Evan said, voice strained and coarse, interrupted by a small cough that made him desperate for some water; "And I won't stop you from killing me either. The game's over, Brass."

It had been an unexpected choice in terms of statement, causing Emily to hover above him in a flash, eyes wide as they had been moments (hours?) before. His calm demeanor, however, seemed to prove a point - he was in no fight or flee mode; no tension, no preparation for anything. Evan's body was fully supported by the ground and he intended to remain there for the foreseeable future.

"I'm tired of this shitshow and the fucking theatrics. Take the win, Brass," he inhaled, raising a hand - even if the gesture spooked Emily at first, it soon became clear that he held no weapons and nurtured no ill intentions either. Evan McCone spoke (and acted) like a dying man and he sounded curiously satisfied about that. His digits found her face - almost as if he was anchoring himself, further smudging the blood on her cheek before dropping his palm over his own bruised body.

The lights went out when her head collided with Evan's, replaced slowly by that same warm wash she remembers back home. Or, where home used to be.

Her dad is sat beside her still, like she never went anywhere from her last little dream. His coffee isn't even halfway done, still steaming. This time it's  Emily  that decides to say something, turned a little to face her old man some more.

       ❝ Mi manchi... ❞   The phrase leaves her almost breathlessly. When she goes to put a gentle hand on her father's knee, she sees just how much blood she's covered in. It pulls at her lungs, catches her breath and stills her for a second before she pulls her hand back. She can't stain his memory like this...   Not here...   Emily doesn't see the soft look of pity, the strange look of grief her father is giving her from the corners of his eyes. A trembling breath and she squeezes her hands over her knees, steels herself.   ❝ Credo... credo di poter fare meglio ora... ❞

There wasn't anything  stopping her  from doing better now...   was there?  Even if that bunker door never opened again, as long as she was alive down here, she could still do better...   right?

She can feel her chest tightening all the way up to her throat. She can feel that tell-tale sting behind her eyes, the burning that flushes through her face despite how hard she fought the building mist. Emily didn't realize she could feel it because she was  waking up...  Everything was still so warm. There was still a slight breeze through her hair. She had no clue it was because of the warmth radiating from Evan still beneath her...   no clue it was his breathing pushing her hair around. She was moving before she realized it. Climbing back up over him with a slow drag of her body, her forehead pressed flat into his sternum.

She still wasn't seeing Evan, bloody and beaten, beneath her.  All Emily saw was the unmoved apparition of her father sat so peacefully on their apartment balcony, still cupping his morning coffee in his palms. He wasn't making any move to hug her back, to hold her even slightly, and she thought maybe it was because he was  disappointed  in her. It breaks her a little. It puts a break in her  voice,  weak and whispered as it leaves her.

       ❝ M- Mi ...   Mi dispiace... ❞

It's when Emily realizes the sharpness she smells is not the strength of a morning brew but in fact the metallic tang of  blood  that the dream is finally severed from her.

She wakes up.

She wakes up and she's straddled over Chief Evan Mccone, not leaning pathetically into her dad's side, begging for forgiveness.

Unfortunately for her, the adrenaline has worn off. She can feel just how torn through her shoulder was   ( something she'll be grateful about later;  no bullet to dig out ),   how the break in her knee still hadn't settled and would need to be set eventually. She thinks for a minute she'll need to fight again -   What if he had one more round in him?   - but when she sees that smile on his face...   that same, strangely defeated smile...   she stills. At least, she's motionless long enough that he gets to say something to completely disarm her.

       ❛ I'm not going to hurt you anymore... ❜

For a moment, Emily's just watching him like she can't just take his word for it. After all, the  Game  still had roughly  four days left,  and there was no God to confirm their certainty that it'd be over even after that fact.

He said it himself. He wasn't going to stop her...   Maybe she  should  just kill him... let his body decompose quietly in the far corner of the bunker. At least then she could be certain she'd get away from Killian for good if she ever got out of here...   Emily's eyes aren't even focused on Evan anymore, distant and glassy as she feels herself spiraling both from the exhaustion and the growing pain.  She was tired, too.  She's been tired for so long...  How the fuck could this be winning...

... and then one simple touch to her face snaps her out of it completely.

Emily can see all of the acceptance in his face now. Like he'd brushed all the fog away with the soft press of his palm to her cheek.   Fuck...   He did mean it.   He wasn't going to stop her if she tried killing him. He barely even looked like he cared if she did or not, like there wasn't anything else he cared to live for. Sure, Emily knows she's got nothing on the other side of that door -   she knew if she got to win Killian's fucked up game, she'd have to start with less than nothing   ( because there was no way in Hell he was giving her that money ).   But she'd have  herself.  That's why she kept going, kept fighting. It wasn't as if she gave a fuck whether people knew her or not anymore. This was never about what the people saw -   it's why she submitted all those tapes at once, with no great spectacular messages or anything. They'd be unusable anyway. They'd have to fabricate something themselves to keep the people interested. She just wanted out.  She just wanted to get -

       ❛ Maybe it's  better  that way. ❜

- ...   better.

It just...   It just doesn't sit right with her. It  frustrates  her to not be able to understand why he was giving up so easily. A part of her was scared it was because Killian's conditioning had just been  that good.  He'd trained her  too well  to be a killing machine despite all of her efforts to try and keep some of herself intact. But the longer she watches that...   look...   in Evan's face, the tighter her chest coils in on itself. She shakes her head ever so slightly, her expression finally softening out of that fighting dog and into something more real, filled with all of her anger and confusion. She's out of breath   ( her body fighting to keep itself up ),   but still manages a few words before crumpling back down into his chest. Fuck self preservation at this point. She knows they're both too exhausted to care about how they bled out   ( not that it'd kill them ).

       ❝ Why do you give a fuck?... ❞   she finally manages to sigh out.   ❝ You didn't care before hunting me down. What the fuck changed... ? ❞