#bryce;

It’s not where Daniel wants to be. He’d rather be at Ezra’s side, but it was clear the man didn’t want him there, and it left him with little to do with his hands. Threatening to shake when he didn’t curl them into tight fists.

He just wants to talk to him. It’s an easy thing to tell himself until he catches sight of the man, diligently working at loading up a truck. As if those hands weren’t turned against Ezra, as if he didn’t have the man’s blood on his knuckles. The only person Daniel had left, the only one who made him feel anything. Who made him feel whole. Left bruised and bloodied, and he still couldn’t piece together a whole picture of why.

If it’s a question that eats away at him, his world view has narrowed to the man in front of him, his feet taking him closer before he has time to put thought into exactly what he’s doing. Fingers drawing that gun at his side, and for a moment when he blinks it isn’t the younger man anymore at all. It’s someone with paler hair, more lines etched in his face. More blood on his hands, knowing beyond a doubt that it was Sykes who had torn open his family, even if he no longer held the knife. Their image follows, blood soaking into the carpet, his jeans, kneeling there in a circle of red trying to hold onto them. 

“Bryce.” His name escapes him in a quick burst, dragged out of his throat so harshly that it almost hurts, tearing up his vocal chords on the way up. 

“Turn around and face me.”