#hellhoundkincaid

“He’s usually the one getting you into it.”

A smirk and a drawl in his tone as Jared pushed away from the doorframe. “Dinner? I’m buying.” 

The last time a mysterious stranger approached him to make digs at his personal life, he had wound up in a hospital with his throat near torn out. The memory wasn’t especially endearing him to whomever this newcomer was, or their intentions. 

Their words, though... their words were hitting home. Good riddance. He’d kept telling himself that, over and over again, hoping that he’d eventually start to believe them. It was maddening, how the barely-contained rage, the pain of betrayal, the horror of his mind being violated all meshed together with his love, his longing, his need. 

And the memories...

The memories that had come flooding back...

So many of them were beautiful. 

Well, right up till he went and took them away.

Keeping one steady hand on his staff and the other hand hovering at his hip, where his revolver was nested in its holster beneath his duster, he raised his eyebrows and snorted. “Pretty sure it’s not even on the same planet as your business, pal. But go on. Keep poking. See what happens.”

“Gosh, you’re interested in things that have jack-all to do with you.” Harry crossed his arms and glowered. It didn’t bother him. Not really. Murphy was a free woman; he didn’t own her. Had no right to make her decisions for her-- even if this particular decision was monumentally idiotic and what the fuck did she see in that asshole anyway? The bastard had nearly killed him, for Christ’s sake. Stars and stones. Who goes and fucks their good friend’s would-be killer? That was all kinds of messed up.

And he wasn’t even going to start down the other rabbit hole this jerkwad had brought up, clearly referring to John. Nope. Not going there. That whole debacle was going to stay stuffed back in a far corner of his mind behind a steel-plated door where he didn’t have to think about... about...

(how John had--)

Anyway. Deep breaths. Exhale powder-keg, inhale calm. 

Okay, so maybe this stranger’s egging was bothering him a little bit.

“How about you try minding your own business? Pick a hobby. Croquet or something. Or, you know, going and fucking yourself with a goddamned cactus is always a good alternative.”

“What makes you think I’d try?”

Harry still wasn’t moving very much, especially his head, which was thankfully still attached to his very mangled neck. He managed a stiff, slow-motion tilt of the face that felt about ten thousand times more extreme than it probably actually was, and blinked, also in slow motion.

Everything was in slow motion right now. It was probably the drugs.

“Sstubb’n tha’ way,” he slurred, his voice a harsh, raspy whisper. He blinked again, trying to clear up the fuzziness of his vision. And, you know, of his brain. Damned morphine. He should probably be scared out of his wits, lying here vulnerable and alone while the highly skilled, ruthless assassin that had nearly taken him out recently paid him a visit (okay, so he’d nearly taken Harry out because Harry had hired him to do just that, but... semantics), but all he could muster was a warm, fuzzy feeling. Fuzz everywhere. Fuzz fuzz fuzz.

His lips peeled back in a grin. “What’re you doin’ herre, Kincaid? Finishing... the job?”

Uninvited commentary time. Good thing she’s used to that. Having coffee helps too. Karrin smiles.