leon whistles, low and casual as though impressed at what's been spit his way. fiesty. the ease with which he takes berating though is against the familiar stirring of adrenaline in his chest — feels like every goddamn time he's run into something grotesque, a thought in him more instinct than premeditation. something to fight. set right. put him down. but he recognizes this one, and this one talks. jowls still intact, dripping venom rather than blood and cartilage from his teeth, and — he recognizes miles. hates his fucking job. which, ❝ yeah, you got me. plenty cushy. spend a lot of time on my ass. ❞ in the mud, the muck, the viscera. but they're things he can't talk about. what kept him distant after the start of it all, what settled in him long before what lead to the dissolution of them in his apartment, ❝ couldn't be luckier. ❞ and he offers it with with a quirk of his lips, but it's so dry.
drier than his bleeding heart, deceiving. all he's got for miles - hell, anyone he cares about - these days. leon's hands retreat into his pockets, backs of his fingers beneath the known weight of his firearm. he wills a god he hasn't prayed to since that night he won't have to use it. not here, not now. asking forever is too much, ❝ wetwork. ❞ leon replies simply on an exhale. he could leave it there. walk away, keep digging anywhere that isn't here. his feet are stuck, heavy, unwilling, but his mind and heart can't agree which principles he's standing on this time.
carrying on with a levity he does not feel, the crush of his heart, the mass of miles has never felt quite so much a burden, ❝ thought i was going on a vacation, they give me those sometimes. but you know? shit came up, fresh leads on a case. ❞ miles is a smart guy. always has been. coveted his brain more than anything else. he doesn't need it spelled out for him, though leon leads anyway — he wants him to say anything that'll tell him it isn't true. that he doesn't have a thing to do with it, that it has nothing to do with him looking like shit, ❝ and i figure, journalist you are, you might have already started my job for me. hoping luck strikes me twice, save me the work. ❞
⤷ @outshur , from here.
















