Jason creeps closer in increments. He's bold, usually, his forwardness born of a reckless impulse he can't seem to shake, and he hasn't learned, not yet, the art of keeping a polite distance, but something in Cook's movements makes him slow. Thoughtful.
This isn't the wanton destruction he's seen before. Not crank calls on call boxes, not poker chips thrown into cups. This means something, this matters.
Footfalls silent in the sand, Jason waits until he's almost to Cook's shoulder before he speaks. "What is that?"
Cook's so wrapped up in what he's doing, in his own thoughts and -- for fuck's sake -- what he's going to do tomorrow -- like he's got a fucking plan -- that he doesn't realize Jason's there until he's right fucking there. He jumps slightly, but people creeping up on him is, maybe strangely, one of those things that doesn't really freak him out.
"Fuck, mate," he breathes, just to lodge a minor complaint for future reference. He shakes it off and looks back to the fire.
Somehow, with just the two of them in the twilight, he doesn't mind saying. At least in part. "Clothes," he says.
The thing is, even if Jason didn't already suspect Cook of posturing, of being prone to presenting things with bravado when total fucking panic is warranted, he'd know something was up. He's smelled burnt blood before. He's bled and been blown up twice now, and he lived through both. He knows what it feels like in his nose, burning flesh and blood, stomach turning and familiar all at once.
"They're bloody," he says, and he doesn't think Cook's hurt anyone, not really, but the mystery remains. "Whose are these?"
Cook ignores him at first, jaw tightening as he balls up Freddie's t-shirt and chucks it into the flames. He's not angry at being found out. He dislikes the intrusion because Jason has no fucking right. He's got no right to a part of Cook's life, to knowing any part of it or his mind. He's got to protect Freddie too, from God knows what.
But mostly he hates that he really, really wants to tell this to someone, to push some of the weight off his shoulders for a little while. He hates himself for feeling that weak.
He tries to come back with a smart comment -- My most recent victim's -- but the words stick. No answer he comes up with is funny now.
"My friend's," Cook answers, teeth gritted together.
Comments 17
This isn't the wanton destruction he's seen before. Not crank calls on call boxes, not poker chips thrown into cups. This means something, this matters.
Footfalls silent in the sand, Jason waits until he's almost to Cook's shoulder before he speaks. "What is that?"
Reply
"Fuck, mate," he breathes, just to lodge a minor complaint for future reference. He shakes it off and looks back to the fire.
Somehow, with just the two of them in the twilight, he doesn't mind saying. At least in part. "Clothes," he says.
Reply
"They're bloody," he says, and he doesn't think Cook's hurt anyone, not really, but the mystery remains. "Whose are these?"
Reply
But mostly he hates that he really, really wants to tell this to someone, to push some of the weight off his shoulders for a little while. He hates himself for feeling that weak.
He tries to come back with a smart comment -- My most recent victim's -- but the words stick. No answer he comes up with is funny now.
"My friend's," Cook answers, teeth gritted together.
Reply
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