a moment of weakness (hi!)
18. My muse is been beaten badly and is in bad shape, yours finds mine in this state.
It was late, dark, and deserted in Moscowâs dirtiest part of town, the part tourists stayed away from, where government officials had their trash forcefully removed. James was bleeding, slumped into the corner, supported by a solid (though freezing, icy) brick wall, course surface catching on his torn clothing. He hadnât expected them to know he was coming, especialy not so much as to know where his hideout would be. Heâd escaped, of course, but theyâd gotten the best of him, taking his threat very seriously.
Of course theyâd known just how much damage he could cause.
It was snowing now, cotton candy fluff coming down, arctic winds being blocked only by the solid walls around, the alley ways and the small, leaning shacks. Crunching steps coming towards him, and he wasnât in any shape to fight yet, but still he stood, flesh hand pressing into the wound on his abdomen, attempting to staunch the blood flow. Snarling, a cornered dog, ready to strike, he faced the mouth of the alley, ready to fight til he dropped. He wouldnât go down without a fight, major blood loss or not.
But the flaming hair rounding the corner was familiar, as was the body, curved and lethal. James wasnât sure it was really who he believed it to be, untrusting of the area, Siberia bringing the bitterest of memories back. âCold night for a stroll,â he spat out the Russian, along with the copper of his life, both of them freezing as they fell to the ground, soft as eiderdown. Barely audible over the mournful howling of the wind, a mother screaming for her lost child, endlessly searching, forever grieving.
@balletwithguns
