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#but also like. studies bigfoot for funzies. has camped in the TNT area. can and WILL use a shotgun if necessary.
pigeonwit · 10 months
Text
manhattan, west virginia (WIP, scene scribble)
“You did not,” Davey says raggedly, his voice low and rusted as he stares right through Jack’s chest, “tell me what was chasing you.”
“Chasing me?” Jack whispers. His stomach drops, his palms sweat, his throat closes up like he’s being choked, up against the wall, drops of spittle flecking his face, ‘what did you do?!’-
Davey’s hands clap against his shoulders, keeping him pressed – like gravity – to the ground.
“He won’t get in.” And when he says it, Jack knows it’s true. There are no lies in the way Davey stares into his eyes, his brow tight and determined, his mouth set in a stubborn, furious line – his blue, blue eyes glinting like daggers in the moonlight. “We won’t let him.”
Jack wants to believe him. Desperately, he does. But he can’t help the way his eyes flick to the blood and ash smeared across Davey’s temple.
“What…” He says weakly, the words catching and cutting against his tender throat. “How…?”
Davey bites his lip. Looks away. Closes his eyes and breathes, bone-deep.
“Rage makes monsters of all men.”
Jack trembles. Trembles like a child. He swallows thickly, forces himself to be solid.
“You said…” He coughs into his fist, shakes away the lump in his throat, because he’s twenty one and men don’t cry, even if he still feels childishly raw. “You said you don’t work with monsters.”
Davey’s eyes flick open, moon-silver, otherworldly and ancient and dangerous.
“I don’t work with monsters.” He says low in his throat. “But all men bleed.”
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