a promise to herself, to check off every little god damn thing a man had told her not to do. it's foolish, she knows it is, knows that a chance to bite back at all of the chauvinists out there wouldn't really resolve to much more than a heightened chance at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. potentially putting herself in harms way for a point that'd never get across. hell's kitchen was full of those wrong places, and it's not so much that she has something to prove so much as it is her attempts to stubbornly paint a reality that isn't really there. one where a woman can walk home on the streets of manhattan, where she doesn't have to hold her breath between the halos of rusty-orange glaring down from the street lamps.
one where that .380 in the innermost pocket of her coat was nothing more than dead weight. unnecessary; just a precaution.
the clear coat of her fingertips finds the brisk steel of the barrel, arms crossed over her chest, thumbing over the safety the moment a shot resounds nearby, echo close and succinct enough that it feels as if it'd passed through her chest, rattled through flesh to the cage of her sternum where her heart lurches. breath fogs out before her, blonde strands tussling with the wind as she idles there, front of her heels teasing the crosswalk that'd land her no more than a block away from her apartment if she just kept going. and she should, tuck her head down and make it back to that tired building where scattered files and case notes wait for her in disarray on that kitchen table rather than inserting herself where she shouldn't.
but there's a howl in pain, a crippling sound that's swallowed by another succession of shots that seem to be the only catalyst limbs need to urge her toward the source. the moment she rounds the corner the mouth of that pistol sets it's sights on the male slouched up against the bricks, opposite hand lifting to support her wristโand despite the tremor to her breath her aim is a hell of a lot steadier than it should be given the number of bodies scattered and unresponsive around her.
she does the math, hues flitting one by one over each of them and it doesn't take her long to realize that one of them is certainly not like the other. it's a safe bet who'd come with who, and almost as if directed by her gaze alone that gun's glare averts to the sound of approaching steps, boots meeting the quiet slap of puddles. it's evident that she's caught him off guard, taking a step closer the moment he so much as attempts to reach for his waistline. that tell tale hollow click sounds as she tabs the safety from it's place, encouraging him to take pause as tongue presses taut to the roof of her mouth. )
Walk away.
( it's spoken between her teeth, and a mocking chuckle rouses from him, eying the length of her figure, lingering on her heels before his sights drift back up to that pistol in her hands. ) You sure you know how to use that, ะผะธะปัะน? ( he raises his hands but he doesn't stop, drawing nearer in a calculative drawl of steps; calling her bluff.
her response comes with the shift of an eager trigger-finger, breath stammering, and that digit's just about to curl around that crescent piece when another shot speaks for her, coming from the man barely bracing himself upright against that wall behind her, and every bit of air within her lungs compresses with a single exhale. ) Shit.
( a swallow lodges in her throat, pressing off any acknowledgement of the tremor that's taken to her fingers as she crosses back towards him, tucking that gun into one of her pockets hastily. instinctively she reaches out a hand to support him, but it dawns on her that she doesn't know where he's hurt, so she merely settles for the outer round of his shoulder, ducking down a bit to get to his eye level as she scours him intently. )
Shit. ( it's not difficult to see that one of the many bullets in the chorus she'd heard had met it's mark. )
You need to get to a hospital. I can—it's not far.
no subject
a promise to herself, to check off every little god damn thing a man had told her not to do. it's foolish, she knows it is, knows that a chance to bite back at all of the chauvinists out there wouldn't really resolve to much more than a heightened chance at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. potentially putting herself in harms way for a point that'd never get across. hell's kitchen was full of those wrong places, and it's not so much that she has something to prove so much as it is her attempts to stubbornly paint a reality that isn't really there. one where a woman can walk home on the streets of manhattan, where she doesn't have to hold her breath between the halos of rusty-orange glaring down from the street lamps.
one where that .380 in the innermost pocket of her coat was nothing more than dead weight. unnecessary; just a precaution.
the clear coat of her fingertips finds the brisk steel of the barrel, arms crossed over her chest, thumbing over the safety the moment a shot resounds nearby, echo close and succinct enough that it feels as if it'd passed through her chest, rattled through flesh to the cage of her sternum where her heart lurches. breath fogs out before her, blonde strands tussling with the wind as she idles there, front of her heels teasing the crosswalk that'd land her no more than a block away from her apartment if she just kept going. and she should, tuck her head down and make it back to that tired building where scattered files and case notes wait for her in disarray on that kitchen table rather than inserting herself where she shouldn't.
but there's a howl in pain, a crippling sound that's swallowed by another succession of shots that seem to be the only catalyst limbs need to urge her toward the source. the moment she rounds the corner the mouth of that pistol sets it's sights on the male slouched up against the bricks, opposite hand lifting to support her wristโand despite the tremor to her breath her aim is a hell of a lot steadier than it should be given the number of bodies scattered and unresponsive around her.
she does the math, hues flitting one by one over each of them and it doesn't take her long to realize that one of them is certainly not like the other. it's a safe bet who'd come with who, and almost as if directed by her gaze alone that gun's glare averts to the sound of approaching steps, boots meeting the quiet slap of puddles. it's evident that she's caught him off guard, taking a step closer the moment he so much as attempts to reach for his waistline. that tell tale hollow click sounds as she tabs the safety from it's place, encouraging him to take pause as tongue presses taut to the roof of her mouth. )
Walk away.
( it's spoken between her teeth, and a mocking chuckle rouses from him, eying the length of her figure, lingering on her heels before his sights drift back up to that pistol in her hands. ) You sure you know how to use that, ะผะธะปัะน? ( he raises his hands but he doesn't stop, drawing nearer in a calculative drawl of steps; calling her bluff.
her response comes with the shift of an eager trigger-finger, breath stammering, and that digit's just about to curl around that crescent piece when another shot speaks for her, coming from the man barely bracing himself upright against that wall behind her, and every bit of air within her lungs compresses with a single exhale. ) Shit.
( a swallow lodges in her throat, pressing off any acknowledgement of the tremor that's taken to her fingers as she crosses back towards him, tucking that gun into one of her pockets hastily. instinctively she reaches out a hand to support him, but it dawns on her that she doesn't know where he's hurt, so she merely settles for the outer round of his shoulder, ducking down a bit to get to his eye level as she scours him intently. )
Shit. ( it's not difficult to see that one of the many bullets in the chorus she'd heard had met it's mark. )
You need to get to a hospital. I can—it's not far.