[aaaaand, action!] al/hideo. somewhere in season 2. i love you never felt like any blessing.mlinaAugust 5 2011, 21:44:55 UTC
If there is anything he hates, it's a face-off in the rain.
"Drop it." The words come out hoarse and short. Running down an entire block while trying not to slip and fall flat on one's face can do that to a person. He clears his throat and readjusts his grip on his SIG. "I said drop the gun."
The rainwater falls heavy into his vision, causing him to blink repeatedly. He is cold. He is drenched to the fucking bone. He is pissed off as hell. He has absolutely no more patience; if the suspect so much as twitches the wrong way, he is going to shoot, damned be the consequences.
But when the suspect extends both hands to either side, allowing the rifle to fall to the floor while a handful of bullets tumble from one open palm, he is confused.
"Do you make it a point to personally chase down every sniper who takes a shot at your charge?"
The voice that speaks over the rush of rain makes his blood run cold. And when the suspect throws back the hood that had obscured the face beneath it, Hideo's jaw tenses.
This is seriously, not his night.
They've done this dance before. The first time around, he'd managed to get out with a fractured forearm and a busted rib. Masato had laughed at him and told him to consider going back to basic training, but it was all in jest. Alcione is an expert at her choice of weaponry. Everyone in Asterion knows that much.
Tonight, here in this alleyway under a broken sky, it's like deja vu, only deadlier. Thankfully though, he's no longer a victim of his own emotions.
Or so he likes to think.
He's heard Chiaki joke around about how the adrenaline rush of a job is the only way to get high. In that moment when you are in complete and utter control of the situation (when your bullet finds it's mark, or you've got the culprit cornered), you are the god who decides who lives and who dies.
With a little more pressure he could very well break her wrist. Yet, he only takes it as far as to make her cry out with enough pain that she has no choice but to let go. The baton that should traditionally be made of rattan clangs heavily on the cement ground, but he's focused only on the way she's glaring back at him while his other hand is a vise around her throat.
Her other arm hangs limp. The blood tricking down from the bullet wound dilutes in the puddles on the floor. He already knows what happens next.
"Feeling sentimental, Emi?"
You've no right to call me that, he wants to say. Only my closest friends hold that privilege.
Don't be a moron, Emi. Jun's voice echoes at the back of his head. It's stupid to hold onto the memory of a relationship built on a pack of lies.
But they weren't all lies. Not when his side of things were all built on truth.
He told her once, that she tasted faintly of rain. They'd been young then and he'd thought she was nothing more than a regular girl he'd had the dumb luck to meet by sheer circumstance.
She still tastes of rain. But the rain is mixed with the faint coppery tang of blood.
If there is anything he hates, it's a face-off in the rain.
"Drop it." The words come out hoarse and short. Running down an entire block while trying not to slip and fall flat on one's face can do that to a person. He clears his throat and readjusts his grip on his SIG. "I said drop the gun."
The rainwater falls heavy into his vision, causing him to blink repeatedly. He is cold. He is drenched to the fucking bone. He is pissed off as hell. He has absolutely no more patience; if the suspect so much as twitches the wrong way, he is going to shoot, damned be the consequences.
But when the suspect extends both hands to either side, allowing the rifle to fall to the floor while a handful of bullets tumble from one open palm, he is confused.
"Do you make it a point to personally chase down every sniper who takes a shot at your charge?"
The voice that speaks over the rush of rain makes his blood run cold. And when the suspect throws back the hood that had obscured the face beneath it, Hideo's jaw tenses.
This is seriously, not his night.
They've done this dance before. The first time around, he'd managed to get out with a fractured forearm and a busted rib. Masato had laughed at him and told him to consider going back to basic training, but it was all in jest. Alcione is an expert at her choice of weaponry. Everyone in Asterion knows that much.
Tonight, here in this alleyway under a broken sky, it's like deja vu, only deadlier. Thankfully though, he's no longer a victim of his own emotions.
Or so he likes to think.
He's heard Chiaki joke around about how the adrenaline rush of a job is the only way to get high. In that moment when you are in complete and utter control of the situation (when your bullet finds it's mark, or you've got the culprit cornered), you are the god who decides who lives and who dies.
With a little more pressure he could very well break her wrist. Yet, he only takes it as far as to make her cry out with enough pain that she has no choice but to let go. The baton that should traditionally be made of rattan clangs heavily on the cement ground, but he's focused only on the way she's glaring back at him while his other hand is a vise around her throat.
Her other arm hangs limp. The blood tricking down from the bullet wound dilutes in the puddles on the floor. He already knows what happens next.
"Feeling sentimental, Emi?"
You've no right to call me that, he wants to say. Only my closest friends hold that privilege.
Don't be a moron, Emi. Jun's voice echoes at the back of his head. It's stupid to hold onto the memory of a relationship built on a pack of lies.
But they weren't all lies. Not when his side of things were all built on truth.
He told her once, that she tasted faintly of rain. They'd been young then and he'd thought she was nothing more than a regular girl he'd had the dumb luck to meet by sheer circumstance.
She still tastes of rain. But the rain is mixed with the faint coppery tang of blood.
-----
Prompt: Heavy In Your Arms ~ Florence + The Machine ; first shared here
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