#perfectsonnets03

Here in Hell’s Kitchen he’s not exactly spoiled for choice, and after hours of poring over pictures of lifeless girls and their lifeless eyes and listening to Jack float dead end theory after dead end theory Will’s trigger finger is itching. 

So this isn’t the same person, at least not technically, but it’s the same type of person, and that’s good enough. A rose by any other name and all that. Will presses the muzzle of his gun between the man’s eyes, anticipating the hot spray of blood across his face like a benediction, and that piece of human filth is stammering something stupid about how he really did lose a dog named Candy, but it’s not Will’s first rodeo. He might have bought it years ago, might have settled for some half measure and gone home with that itch still unsatisfied, but now--

“You’re going to admit what you are,” he says quietly, cocking the hammer back, and the tune changes. Now it was a mistake, now it’s he’ll never touch another kid again, now he’ll leave town and never come back. Easy, clean, just like it’s been countless times, except this time they’re not alone. Will curses silently under his breath, turns to aim his gun into the darkness behind them instead.