#scriose

The feeling that he’s pushing his luck has come to feel so familiar that he mistakes it for the feeling that he’s doing something good. At least, he tells himself that he’s doing a good thing by confronting Chris about this; he assumes that Jane has no idea who they guy really is and what he’s really done, otherwise why would she stay?

Jane isn’t here. David hopes to get this over with before she comes home from work.

          they’re disgustingly domestic by now. case and point: hopper is tucked into the kitchen cooking breakfast on morning number god-knows-which of this arrangement they’ve slowly slipped into. ( arrangement doesn’t sound quite right. it’s too --- nice for that. they’re something now; something some of the folks around town have words to say about. anyway. it’s been longer than he expected, and he’s surprised by how comfortable it is to fall back into the companionable clutches of domesticity again. he just doesn’t have a name for it. ) 

          “ chris, ” he’s real sorry to make it awkward, but chris is the one who chose to intertwine his life with that of a chief police officer. he keeps his voice light, though. he’s given him enough time to come forward and talk about it himself, and he hasn’t.

          honest, she doesn’t know how she got here. to this moment. to the exact frame in time her palms connect with this man’s shoulders, gripping and pulling and slamming her head against his. she blinks hard, multiple times, grimacing. she really doesn’t know. 

     and, halfway through trying to pinpoint, there’s another, a gun too close to her face.

          “ fuck! ” her hands are two seconds from catching fire, so she’s hoping no one catches the burns smoldering on everyone she takes down, the way she takes down the second man like he’s a doll. there are bullets too, whizzing around and occasionally tearing through her jacket, impact, warping, and melting down her skin.