Unaware to the irony of it, Nash watches him sleep, wishing that circumstances were different and the peacefulness smoothed over Koda's features wouldn't be disturbed by the general awfulness that their lives have become. Or perhaps, hoping that in the midst of the awfulness that above keeping their lives, they keep themselves — just with a more finetuned set of survival skills. Despite having a knack for cherishing the little things, he vows to himself to keep a more careful eye for the good moments. They're going to be numbered now. Few and far between. Already are.
One way or another, he's aware of how this all ends. How it always ends when you get involved with these things. Not everyone will get out of this alive ; the goal now is to make sure that they do. That at the very least Koda does, but he knows that his life is now a higher priority on the list too. Koda would go mad if he died because of this ; he knows that there's a mutual need for survival, rooted possibly deeper than the initial one, that is dependant on each other.
A sigh pulls from his lips, exhausting the consistent ache of his still healing ribs, but he pushes himself up regardless ; folds his clean clothes on the edge of the bed before going to make coffee in the poor excuse of a kitchen. There's no complaint ; what they can get, as quietly as they can get it is enough. It doesn't make motel beds anymore comfortable, but so be it. He smokes two cigarettes in the time it takes to drain half his mug ; is about to light a third while he waits for his mother to pick up, a disposable phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder. Third ring, like clockwork - he expects it.
It takes five rings for the call to connect. And instead of his mother's usual angel, darling, he's greeted with “Think you forgot something back in London.” He's out the door, with his jacket and his gun before the man finishes his threat. “I would hurry, if I were you, Mr. Newton.”Â
They meet him half way with a shattered windshield, and a blown passenger tire. His vision blurs with how quickly the vehicle swerves ;Â flips. Arms lift to guard his face, his seatbelt suspending him just an inch from the smear of metal against pavement ; jolting him back against the top of the seat when the totalled frame finally comes to a halt. He can smell gasoline. He has ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Hands fumble to unclip the belt. Five. Four. Elbows embed themselves with glass as he crawls ; there's a limp as he runs. One.
He's thrown by the jolt of the explosion ; ears are ringing. he doesn't see the approach of the man until he's already plucked his battered body from the pavement. There's a piece of metal stuck in his thigh ; a searing pain in his left ankle. His hands fumble again, this time for his gun. He thinks he can hear the sirens ; can see his mother's face through the barred back window of a white van ; thinks of how sorry he is for letting her down ; for not being a better son. Horror stricken screams slowly filter in -Â hers. She's not asking for help. She's telling him to run. She drops before the sound registers in his head. There's a boom of thunder. His fingers close around the handle. A second boom of thunder, his body crumbles - warmth spreads across his side from the pool of blood seeping out of the man's forehead. He doesn't have time to process it all before flashing lights blur into a haze of black.
