The pain in his scalp and his wrist meld into one, cohesive thing. It almost makes things clearer, condenses it down. The guy's blood is a smear on his hand and his gun is buried somewhere in the drifts around them. The only thing on him that's warm is the blood that's leaking out of him and fuck, that went deeper than he thought. He hears the curses and the taunts over the rushing in his own ears, the frantic way his heart is suddenly beating and the tired, aching weariness is almost all encompassing. He can almost hear her singing. Almost...
Tom closes his eyes. No, Tommy. Not yet.
He opens them in time to see Mike retreating, one last glimpse of his profile in a jaundiced, sodium streetlight and he's gone. Just like that. Gone. It's almost like the past two years have never happened, right back where he started in the shipyard, a stolen PK cruiser blasting out through the hold. Tom remembers this feeling, hopeless, alone, but sure and fucking certain as an orbit.
He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing over the knob in his throat. It's a long time before he stands.
Tom closes his eyes. No, Tommy. Not yet.
He opens them in time to see Mike retreating, one last glimpse of his profile in a jaundiced, sodium streetlight and he's gone. Just like that. Gone. It's almost like the past two years have never happened, right back where he started in the shipyard, a stolen PK cruiser blasting out through the hold. Tom remembers this feeling, hopeless, alone, but sure and fucking certain as an orbit.
He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing over the knob in his throat. It's a long time before he stands.
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