#poisonpicked

forest hazel hues are slow to dance along the seams of floorboards beneath booted feet, tracing over the veins and knots in each board before settling into the seam, unable to find john's penetrative blue gaze. why did he have to be so fucking honest with that question?

fingers dig and pull at the inner fabric of her pockets where hands are dug in deep, fists tucked tight against thighs, unable to look up at him as that question digs into the back of her mind. the tip of grace's nose glares a vibrant red against olive skin, licking over her lips as fiery hues finally lift to find him where he stands across the room from her.

callous digits smooth over damp fabric, shakily coming back covered in red, slipping back around to lay flat over the wound once more.

he'd be fine, he'd be fine, he'd be fine, he'd be f-

lips press together with a quiet sigh breathed out of her nose, arms coming up to cross over her chest, taking time to truly think that question through. could she be happy with steve? at one point, part of herself believed that she possibly could be happy at his side no matter where they went. now though? now after they have separated and found a different path in life?

lips are tipped back into a confident, though minorly fearful, smile, fingers curling in around the calloused velvet of palms -- knuckles digging into the backs of hands from where they lay pressed into the brick wall behind her. the bite of that knife at her throat reminding her who held the power here.

it's rare for them to get these quiet moments anymore -- one either off trying to get their job taken care of or the other leaving as soon as one comes back, spending no more than a few minutes together in passing over the last few weeks. it hurt -- not being able to see the love of his life for days on end, but stretching that into months made it unbearable, relishing the quick glances he was allowed before one would be gone to leave the other until next week rolls around.

slim digits securely grasp hold of straps as the cargo is finally loaded in, slowly getting to her feet as breaths heave against her chest, watching the terminal disappear back into the floor where it had sprung up from -- the gentle hum of her floating carrier the only noise keeping her anchored into reality. a steady trickle of beads of sweat curling down the column of her spine, stalling at the small of her back, but she had to keep going, knowing that if she gave herself time to stop there would be no getting back up for the day. there was too much to do.

the compass said it was another 1083m to the next cargo drop off, counting every step as a marker until grace can wander back to her own shelter for the rest her body was craving, the tones of an incoming ring call cutting through the fog that had creeped in over her mind -- fatigue and stress mounting on top of it all. steps freeze as the porter fumbles to accept the call, listening to the frantic message playing requesting immediate corpse disposal, no team heading the way or able to due to the string of timefall and bt's at her back. shit. there was no telling what other porters, if any, just heard that message, already turning to stash all cargo in her private locker at the waystation west of capital knot, making her bag as light as possible to make this trek to as easy as possible -- shucking everything that she can into storage and turning away before the shelves are gone back into the ground.

breaths are sharp &&. ragged against dry lips as one hand presses flat against a galloping heart -- the other supporting her path backwards to lean against the brick wall, adrenaline wearing off in shaky waves. deep breaths are drawn in through her nose, exhales leaving parted lips, &&. stormy blue hues dance among the littered ground to the woman that stands near by. hurt?

warmth decorates in small patterns over chest, throat, &&. shoulders -- fabric long since abandoned hours earlier before hunt began. slender digits cascade through silver tresses as head tips back under the warm spray, hum curling up the back of saturated throat. wrists drape loosely over shoulders so finger tips can dance against the scarred space between shoulder blades. thoughts become adrift to the hunt that had left him satisfied.