( also felix: three yards away, and scrutinizing. his shoulder twinges sharply, a phantom pain. )
He's in. ( he shaves the bitter ice from his tone, masterfully chipping down its serrated edges into malleable and comfortable disconnect, and slides his hands into his jacket pockets for a lack of anything better to do. not used to empty, unweighted hands. not used to lingering stillness. ) Probably sulking at the bar, looking broody and mysterious.
( probably wondering what the fuck is taking felix so long, too. actually not his fault this time.
he doesn't bother asking or stating the obvious. you planned this, you motherfucker. you set this up. karma isn't that obvious, nor is the universe – or any universe, for that matter – that convenient. sam tracked him like he was another fucking mark with a fat bounty over his head and drew an educated conclusion based on felix's haphazard patterns, then took a shot in the dark, just to fuck with him. could kill him in the breadth of a heartbeat, but he doesn't. hasn't. table scraps. child's play.
fuck mercs, felix thinks spitefully, and snags his cigarettes from his pocket, knocking a stick into his palm. he watches sam from behind a wispy coil of cigarette smoke, exhaling through his nose. his eyes drift slowly, outlining the strong length of his body in the half-dark and pausing momentarily on his katana. always on his hip. consistent, like the rest of him, and yet.
he scatters ash onto the concrete. psychotic motherfuckers, every single one of them.
finally: )
I don't bite.
( he's stonestill, dressed in stupid tight black denim that he will undoubtedly have to be forcibly peeled out of later and a white t-shirt. against all odds, under every infuriatingly clean and trim article of clothing: armed to the teeth. plenty of time for violent, deranged backstabbing later, promise. )
no subject
He's in. ( he shaves the bitter ice from his tone, masterfully chipping down its serrated edges into malleable and comfortable disconnect, and slides his hands into his jacket pockets for a lack of anything better to do. not used to empty, unweighted hands. not used to lingering stillness. ) Probably sulking at the bar, looking broody and mysterious.
( probably wondering what the fuck is taking felix so long, too. actually not his fault this time.
he doesn't bother asking or stating the obvious. you planned this, you motherfucker. you set this up. karma isn't that obvious, nor is the universe – or any universe, for that matter – that convenient. sam tracked him like he was another fucking mark with a fat bounty over his head and drew an educated conclusion based on felix's haphazard patterns, then took a shot in the dark, just to fuck with him. could kill him in the breadth of a heartbeat, but he doesn't. hasn't. table scraps. child's play.
fuck mercs, felix thinks spitefully, and snags his cigarettes from his pocket, knocking a stick into his palm. he watches sam from behind a wispy coil of cigarette smoke, exhaling through his nose. his eyes drift slowly, outlining the strong length of his body in the half-dark and pausing momentarily on his katana. always on his hip. consistent, like the rest of him, and yet.
he scatters ash onto the concrete. psychotic motherfuckers, every single one of them.
finally: )
I don't bite.
( he's stonestill, dressed in stupid tight black denim that he will undoubtedly have to be forcibly peeled out of later and a white t-shirt. against all odds, under every infuriatingly clean and trim article of clothing: armed to the teeth. plenty of time for violent, deranged backstabbing later, promise. )