fly like an eagle, strike like a hawk

❝ —there is more, ❞   dr. derosa smiles, interjection buoyant from impending victory. whether or not his client returned grew irrelevant; he gleaned much in this moment alone, and eagerly waited in the wings for more   ( and, more importantly, he continued to ride off the high of his wife's name ).   ❝ your refusal to engage is what prevents us from moving forward, your own greys seeded before you even considered reaching adulthood due to self - inflicted stress. why, i can only imagine that this boisterous behavior stems from childhood rebellion; perhaps you've not given yourself time to grow into that body of yours? we could work on that, if it suits. ❞  

"—uh," he blinks, eyes refocusing onto a distinct lack of serrano in the room. "... you're welcome?" belated mumble echoes alongside departing steps; uncertainty whisked away by the clack of a light-switch near the bathroom door. his feet set into motion as if on autopilot, guided by the simple desire to see his own proposal carry fruit. the bag lays abandoned underneath the coat rack in the entryway, cast aside at first chance, though not without purpose ( easily accessible and quick to find with the simplest of directions ). he snatches it whole, unwilling to confront the eerily persistent tremor in his fingertips, foregoes the ordeal of battling an uncooperative zipper, and drags it to the threshold where expensive parquet gives way to bathroom tiles.

hardly has he energy to swat away the buzzing racking his brain, eyes clenched when medical supplies settle on the floor, jostled by their unceremonious dumping. what would normally be simple clamor builds into a crescendo, crashing cymbals and rolling drums beating his senses bloody. a murmur is all the gratitude mustered, and even that lacks form — no tangible words leave his lips, only grunts of discomfort and exhausted exhales. even he is aware he cannot take much more. but at present, his job depends on deception, for he must be combative at moment's notice. his employer can see him no differently.

he takes one final breath, a short - lived, half gasp meant to substitute proper preparation, gripping taut the protruding handle and jerking it from soured flesh, spraying fresh scarlet along pure white porcelain. veins bulge from a clenched fist even before they slam into the countertop, a newly born agony pitifully concocted to dissuade from the other. barely does he remember the blade bloodied and brandished in his other hand, gripped with the fervor of a pen used to etch a man's final words. when it is relinquished, gravity's hold on soren doubles, and he finds himself kneeling in moments, mind searching amidst temporary black outs to recollect the seconds in which he collapsed.

beneath distant, desperately searching, floaty fingers, he finds a satchel blurred in his eyes' pulsing periphery, nails raking the fabric in a half - hearted attempt to bring it closer. in truth, he's not sure what he's grabbing: senses steadily dull, leaking like his now unplugged wound   ( moderately slow, at least — no major arteries hit, then ).   cotton - like pads, square in shape, press against his wound, soaked scarlet in seconds    ( was it? he can't tell time anymore, he realizes. how long had he been here? and where, exactly, was here, again? )   stabilization fails next, his torso wobbling, though his lower half remained still.   ( am i... sitting? )   

THE X-FILES + incorrect quotes

"what i want is irrelevant." the word itself feels foreign on his tongue. nothing good ever comes from wanting. it's redundant in his efficiency-driven life and knowing he can do without it is a freedom on its own ( especially when the alternative heralds sleepless nights and burdened consciences ). "—though i realize someone like you might find that hard to understand." he slams the door shut ( with a little more force than intended ), circles 'round the vehicle, and slides onto the driver's seat with a certainty that would make anyone believe it's actually his. "now ... you seem to have some sort of misconception. the only alcohol i've 'consumed' is the one you've breathed at my face ... which is why i'm here, in the front—and you're back there." a quick tap on the car's front panel lets the child safety locks jolt into place with a pointed click. best make sure it stays that way before his esteemed colleague does succumb to the call of casinos while on the road.

all he could thank himself for, in the distant future when recollection plagues him with past digressions, is that he omitted an additional consideration: that he himself was something to be used by the department's black sheep. sober contemplations always kept it in mind from the very beginning, a healthy distance   ( brought about by a ten - foot cattle prod )   keeping the tides from turning in opposing favors. soren could only wonder when exactly it was that he had lost said tool and allowed for such dangerous proximity.

with a huff, long legs tuck themselves in, though the body remains horizontal against the leather cushions of the back carriage.   ❝ maybe if ya didn't think yourself a device all th'time, you would be more normal 'bout whatcha want. an' whadya mean? you were at a bar! were you just prowling around for fun? ... don't answer that, actually, you probably were. i could see it. ❞   he wouldn't deny a severe inability to steer a vehicle, though: fortunately, he knew well of the law, even if alcohol addled his senses. that, and he simply couldn't bear bring harm to another through his recklessness. if it must be, then let it only be he who faces danger. he'd overcome.

"just because a little change of pace served you well doesn't mean you're built for this line of work. i'm not——telling you shit." loathe he is to admit, the man had outperformed his expectations back then; had proven well and beyond that blue-eyed idealism and violent ferocity are far from mutually exclusive. but could he truly embrace the underhanded ways of a parallel world where immoral sacrifice and lack of remorse are par for the course? whatever the case, the image of a blood-clad metal edge and traces of crimson on cold, bathroom tiles remains fresh in his mind. on the odd-chance that his decisions lead up to casualties, he'd prefer to monopolize the count. "the perimeter ... 'secure'?" a low huff escapes him as he presses his sweltering face against the other's neck.

moments like these made life worth living, despite all the hurtling downs that accompanied the roller coaster of existence. where their perpetual tango continued without a lapse in step, where soren finally could say he had a better understanding of the agent than he'd wager beck would like. and he would only continue to do so, with time.   

lone gun muzzle digs into pillows below; becomes a make-shift crutch in spite of its owners thankless, strangulating hold around it. it's not quite enough to keep him from following gravity's call, though. his collarbone collides with a steadfast shoulder either way and his head bobs along, up until his breath brushes against pierced ear lobe. he allows himself to indulge in a long-drawn sigh, just this once.

      ❝ much. ❞   he needn't say more, his confident whisper a wisp warming fellow ear in turn. by this time, soren fancied himself an expert, having plenty of practice with snakes such as beckett. to endure a constrictor's coil brought him no further strife. now was time to focus, to bring promised aid at the cost of venomous bites and acidic sarcasm ( likely worsened by fact that beck would suffer the smirk donned at a breathy moan, soren granting himself a moment of regularity, where, had they been entangled in a more familiar couch, soren simply wouldn't have let beck live it down ).

     𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐏, nor does his spine unwind. Surprise-tinged confusion swirls in a stern gaze beneath a frown held in place by incurable tension. He expected differently, palpably so. Kindness feels suspicious when it challenges preconceived notions. His father would call this a weakness, the mark of one unfit to lead. Coddling produces little if not yellow-bellied men, complacent, stuck in their error-prone ways. A firm hand is a saving hand. But that of Serrano? He must’ve only halted it for not yet knowing the gravity of his mistake. Raymond continues to stare at him, wary and still as a dog awaiting the boot.

nails dig into the seat row's cushions; prop his frame up just far enough to prevent their faces from colliding post-fall and adding a traces of red to the vehicles interior. you've got to be kidding him. maybe it is a matter of getting spoiled. "i'm not so sure you can afford this," he says shortly after catching his breath; voice low and controlled while grey gaze seems to ingest every speckle of red to be found in the other man's features. fine. so he is wasted.

"'lapd sergeant stripped naked on the backseat of his own car'. like the sound of that?" his balance shifts onto one palm alone without much effort spared, leaving his other hand unruled by constraints of circumstance. he clasps it firmly 'round his colleague's hip that exceeds the seat's ledge to dangerously inviting degree, slips fingertips underneath disorderly shirt and lets them roam until they just barely cross the border between textile and bare skin.

"—while intoxicated and helpless."

was that a threat? he could hardly tell.   ❝ then don't tell anybody, ❞   he muses, brushing beneath beck's chin with a drowsy graze of index and thumb.   ❝ since when did'ja fraternize with tabloids anyway. an' who said it'd be just my clothes comin' off... you're the one makin' moves. ❞   he declares with such honesty, such belief — for he did take beckett's advances and shoves along the two - ton vehicle for a romantic pursuit, no matter how brief. had liquor not tainted his tongue, sanity would refuse such an overture, but alas...

❝ dunno 'bout helpless, ❞   his scoff and flared nose resounds a newfound confidence undeserved by a drunk.   ❝ an' i'm not that shitfaced, either. i can still talk, ❞   brave is the boast that, without apt awareness, comes off as more of a joker's jest than candid claim. let lone the absurdity of mere speech being the threshold of supposed abstinence when in truth, should he take field sobriety tests he'd once given frequently in his time as a simple officer, he would fail them before they even truly began.

"as if they'd let a guy as wasted as you even enter the building. i won't stop you from burning up money ... but at least do it with a sound mind. you're just gonna regret it if -" he stops himself short; slow blink barely preceding the next turbulence in their shared step. oh, forget it. if that man is as drunk as he acts, it's unlikely he'll remember much of the lecture ... which he's not even sure why he bothers with giving it in the first place.

      ❝ no? ❞   genuinely earnest is his response   ( or question, given his inquisitive inflection ),   a hand idly fishing about his head for the supposed barrel. whilst their search results lay as barren as the kegs he drained, his legs stumble, body heaved without opposition.   ❝ m'pretty sure they'd let me in. imma payin' customer, after all. that's all y'need. ❞   never you mind multiple calls in his career's youth, with disorderly drunks needing swift removal from gambling grounds. he wasn't disruptive by any means, so surely he would be excused his intoxication.

murmured confusion is all the sudden swap of topic earns. hardly can he follow finished thoughts, let 'lone incomplete ones. already he's forgotten his proffered carte blanche, opting against inquiring what said bill was for again, though feeling himself ram the side of the vehicle brings another thought bubbling to the surface.   ❝ beckkk, ❞   he whines, face flushed a purer scarlet than mere alcoholic heat alone could produce.   ❝ we can't do that here, someone's gonna see us— ❞