[for Raven]

[tasteofneedles]

There's an old episode of M*A*S*H that deals with the trope of whether or not you hear the bullet that gets you. Or maybe it created the trope; Sean's not entirely sure, now that he thinks about it. All he knows is where his own experiences fall, and so far, he's taken the fact that he's heard it coming every single time as a sign that he's not out of the game just yet.

Not that he wouldn't deserve it after this one. The whole job has been a rushed mess from the get-go, and he has only himself to blame for that. He's been so eager to get back to things after having the general populace up and disappear, taking with them any notion that he hadn't completely wasted his life in Darrow up to that point in building up the reputation of the Banshee. Without any payoff, without the ability to do any real good from within, he's just been another crook. So with everything back to normal (or as near as it ever gets), maybe he's been more pressed than he should be to get back into the swing of things, maybe he's been sloppy, maybe he's been ignoring sketchy cues in the name of expediency and the knowledge that he can handle himself if things go south. Maybe none of that takes into account his distraction of late, between his wedding anniversary and getting to know Theresa all over again and trying to balance the bitter with the sweet of it all in time for a nice family Thanksgiving.

And all it takes is an instant.

The double-cross doesn't even faze him, really, and maybe that's part of the problem. Two Rambaldi representatives (read: goons) waiting in the alley for him instead of the expected one, conveniently darkened streetlamps, no pockets bulging enough for the the envelope he's owed... Sean's already bored by it all by the time a car smoothly pulls up to block off the far end of the alley, penning him in. He's moving to disarm the thugs even as they're still reaching into this coats, too stupid to know he's never penned in as long as there's open sky above, and he's on autopilot, his movements rote, facile. He's better than this, and he knows it; he should be beyond this paint-by-numbers bull. What the hell is he doing?

Pride goeth. It would be the word of a second, not even that, to use his voice, to warp the air around him for that extra bit of protection as the near-silent whir of the car window descending comes to him form the end of the alley, rising above the sounds of the scuffle. But he doesn't bother. Why should he, when it's just as easy to ram his elbow into one heavily-tattooed neck and shove the guy around to put him in the line of fire instead?

As the shot rings out, echoing in the close quarters, it takes a curiously long moment before Sean actually realizes that it's hit him. Because saints, what are the odds of that? But then he catches up to the sudden, blinding pain in his side, connects it to the sound, and the window's rolling back up, and the two gangsters are scrambling to their feet, and...

He almost shouts them down, but he picks now to check his actions, and in that too-late instant, he doesn't trust himself not to just kill them both. Then the instant is past, his knees go out from under him, and he knows he's lost.

He's been lost for a while now.

Comments

[and_proud]

The first thing Raven sees is Sean, on the ground and grasping at what can't be a minor wound. She's tempted to run straight to his side, dial 911 but then she spots the other two, headed for either an escape or more ammo, and she knows this is one of those moments where Erik is right – that they're better, that hiding isn't doing anyone any favors.

Cream and blonde give way to blue and red, and she doesn't let herself flinch at the expressions on the faces of the goons as they grab for her, torn between wanting to stop her and not wanting to lay their hands on her scaled skin. They don't get a chance before she's spinning, twisting her frame and sliding a foot under one of the two men's that sends him flying to the ground. His head smacks the concrete hard and it turns her stomach sick, wondering what kind of damage she might have done and whether this is why people fear her and her kind.

She can't dwell on it too long, though, because the second is closing in on her and he's no longer unarmed. When and where he pulled the knife from, she can't be sure, but the sharp metal of it glistens and she can't allow herself a moment for fear or hesitation. She just has to disarm him.

Raven's surprised by her own reflexes as she grabs at his arm, twisting it to the point that she thinks maybe she can hear a bone break, wondering if that's a good or a bad thing. It reminds her of the helplessness she felt when she'd been in the alley that day, approached by some creep who couldn't have known her strength. And how much she wished she'd been able to show him, to be the threat instead of the threatened. It's less appealing now that her and Sean's lives are on the line.

She's quick to get him to the ground with the same nauseating thud of skull on ground, but not before the knife is in her thigh and she knows that this is what they mean when they talk about pain searing. Burning. It's unlike anything she's ever felt before and she can't remember whether she's supposed to leave the blade in, or not, whether that's something they ever covered in any mandatory first-aid class. She doubts it.

It's hard to think of anything but the pain and Raven's sure if she wasn't already in her natural form, she wouldn't be able to focus on keeping up her usual facade. Somehow she manages to stagger over to Sean, keeping one eye on their attackers as she kneels, looking to inspect his wound instead of her own. "Sean," she cries, despair and pain. "Can you hear me?"