#outshur

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. ❞

it's to rick's credit that he does what miles asks. he stops in his tracks, head tilting to the side as he looks the reporter up and down. the problem with this guy is that that fucker father martin got his hands on him first — he'd corrupted and twisted him, soured him before trager could get ahold of him. really fucked up shit, if you were to ask him.

and oh, how he would like to cut him open — he'd like to see what he looks like under the skin, beneath his ribcage and deep in his marrow. the thought is enough to have a crooked grin pulling at those tainted features. the silence is oddly heavy, punctuated only by both of their breathing — miles, angry and ready to run, and richard, full of hungry anticipation.

there   is   a   long,   tense   moment   of   silence   following   miles   words.   leon   knows   attitude.   hell,   half   the   time   he's   got   one.   good   front.   better   to   keep   people   at   a   distance.   what   leon   doesn't   understand   though   is   how   they   got   here.   individually,   he   gets   it.   he   knows   what   happened   to   him.   he   knows   something   happened   to   miles.   miles   knows   something   has   happened   to   him. it's landed them in   THE   STICKY   WEB   OF   PROTECTION    /    DECEIT   which   binds   them.   is   it   not   enough   to   simply   be   together?   is   the   FORMER   not   enough?   he   feels   like   he's   standing   at   the   opposite   side   of   a   pit,   friend   turned   enemy   taunting   him   with   memories   of   the   past.   there   but   not.   the   quiet   is   broken,   eventually.   there   is   something   resigned   in   the   way   he   scoffs.   

if   miles   wants   to   play   at   something,   leon   is   the   pawn,   ever-willing,    ❝   alright.   you   want   flowers?   ❞   there's   something   unspoken   there,   something   genuine   ;   would   that   make   this   work?   leon   doesn't   hold   his   breath   —   he   looses   it   instead   as   he   takes   a   step   back   towards   his   bike   —   in   equal   parts   threat   and   promise   of   intent,   ❝   i'll   get   you   flowers.   you   still   like   the   same   ones, right?   ❞   and   though   his   volume   through   and   through   has   remained   an   even,   steady   thing in an attempt to be amicable, to not break what he's not even sure is whole,   there's   an   underlying   frustration.   it's   just   a   road   trip,   a   day   or   two   driving   the   deadest   highways   in   the   states   before   he's   pulled   back   here.   what's   the   big   deal?