[ Funny thing is, he's never seen Felix without his helmet before. Heard the fucker's voice without the distortion of the helmet and radio. Why would he? They weren't that kind of ally. Their relationship - such as it was - remained transactional to the end, the way god and nature intended. Sharkface squints at him in the dark. Takes in the line of Felix's face, the point of his chin. Fine-boned, sharp, pretty much as expected.
Sharkface drags a hand down his face. He feels sick. Shaky now that the adrenaline's starting to dump and they aren't actively trying to bloody each other.
So, that's a problem. ]
You're not my type.
[ It's said in a drawl. These days no one's his type, or that's the line he's been trying real hard to draw. Sharkface doesn't touch anyone. Hasn't for years, since before prison. Not outside of a fight, not without violence. It keeps things simple, locks down the crazy. But this, place, oh.
This place just draws it out, inch by fucking inch. Like clockwork.
Sharkface stays where he is. The sick feeling grows. Twists under his skin. only These days, no one should be his type. These days, turns out lots of people are.
Hah. The irony twists in him, mingling with the gas of whatever it is they've been dosed with. Probably won't kill them.
Probably. Sharkface reaches up to prod at his face again. Jaw's not broken. Nose might be. He can feel something crunching when he inhales. Taste it in his throat. Cloying. ]
Bet you feel like shit right about now, huh?
[ There's a small bead of triumph in that. Bad as Sharkface feels right now, it's one of those shared misery equations. And that makes it bearable. ]
no subject
Sharkface drags a hand down his face. He feels sick. Shaky now that the adrenaline's starting to dump and they aren't actively trying to bloody each other.
So, that's a problem. ]
You're not my type.
[ It's said in a drawl. These days no one's his type, or that's the line he's been trying real hard to draw. Sharkface doesn't touch anyone. Hasn't for years, since before prison. Not outside of a fight, not without violence. It keeps things simple, locks down the crazy. But this, place, oh.
This place just draws it out, inch by fucking inch. Like clockwork.
Sharkface stays where he is. The sick feeling grows. Twists under his skin. only These days, no one should be his type. These days, turns out lots of people are.
Hah. The irony twists in him, mingling with the gas of whatever it is they've been dosed with. Probably won't kill them.
Probably. Sharkface reaches up to prod at his face again. Jaw's not broken. Nose might be. He can feel something crunching when he inhales. Taste it in his throat. Cloying. ]
Bet you feel like shit right about now, huh?
[ There's a small bead of triumph in that. Bad as Sharkface feels right now, it's one of those shared misery equations. And that makes it bearable. ]