But this was new for him. His head spun from lack of sleep, and his black hair stuck up at every angle. He didn't bother brushing it.
His eyes were bloodshot, with the usual dark circles under it you would expect from someone who stayed up half the night staring at the wall.
But even with that and much more on his shoulders, the man bent over the ripped up piece of paper, covered in eraser marks and smeared ink. He read it again and again, his honey eyes scanning it, reading over every line. His heart pounded in his own throat... his ears ringing. He knew this note would never get sent out to the person he wrote it for. There was no way he could do it.
He pulled his eyes away from the paper and gast a simple glance at the picture on his desk. It was dusty, from lack of care, but he could still make out the things that were important to him. The soft blue eyes, the messy mohawk, the crooked and toothy grin. Those flushed cheeks, and cute little pericings.
Jayne didn't even focus on himself in the picture, he couldn't pull himself away from the face that was now causing him so much pain.
He wasn't used to feeling pain. He was known to carry a lack of real emotions: but love was something he didn't see coming. He'd loved before, but the abuse and the hurt was the only memory he had left of those days. He used to tell Hanna they were things of the past, and now all he could think about was the future. The future he had planned for the redhead he loved.
He loved Hanna Falk Cross. The street punk, the listen-to-loud-music-until-his-ears-burst type of punk. The one who carried that scar, and could melt your heart with those big pools of blue. The one who's past was a secret, but his soul was a pure as gold.
But now he was gone, and it was Jayne's fault.
And he didn't even say goodbye.
"Hanna..."
The detective ran a single finger down the picture frame, as if to stroke the face that wasn't there, where it should be. His heart jumped in his throat: his chest heaving. His head throbbed.
From lack of sleep, or heart break. He couldn't tell.
He understood those love songs, now. He understood what it felt like to have the one you loved ripped from your chest, so fast you have no time to catch it. He didn't even know how much the redhead detective meant to him until he was out the door.
Funny how things always work out that way.
He didn't give Hanna all he wanted when he had the chance, and now there was no chance. The feelings that realization gave him were something no man could put into simple words.
A man with a broken heart was a deadly game to play. And Jayne knew this better than anyone: punching his boss in the gut a few days back.
But that was another story.
His room was empty, the silence was killing him. Slowly. The sheets still held the scent of Hanna Cross: Jayne had no energy to wash them. But he knew as well as anybody that he wouldn't even if he could.
Sometimes he closed his eyes and pictured burying his face against that wild red hair, drinking in that scent... which reminded him of cotton candy and clean bedding. With a touch of marker.
But he would never tell Hanna that. He never did. Maybe if he did, his sheets wouldn't be soaked with tears that he wished he didn't carry on his shoulders each and every day, until he was home and could just fall against his bed and cry: his body shaking, his eyes wide and staring at whatever was in front of him, his fists gripping the sheets. But no sound ever came from his mouth.
Maybe if he had done a lot of things right when he could, he wouldn't be so broken right now.
It felt as if he carried a weight on his shoulders, and a iron hand handled his heart. Tugging and twisting until it was a painful knot.
It didn't help when that damned face was all he could think about.
"Fuck..."
The detective buried his unshaved face in his hands, his fingers tangling in his hair. He grunted in the back of his throat, his arms shaking. He moaned the name of the one human who knew just how to break him. The first soft sobs escaping his lips. He curled up, on that small chair, his arms wrapped around his head: his face against his knee's, and the sobs growing louder with time. They bounced off the walls and pictures that hung.
He wasn't Jayne Hart anymore.
He was an empty shell of a man.
"Hanna."
His voice cracked with raw emotion. But he was far too emotionally tired to fight it anymore. Calm and gentle, he pulled the small black gun from its case against his thigh: cocking it with a simple click. His eyes remained close, his hands still and full of focus. He knew what he was doing, and there was no trace of fear in his features.
He was finished.
With the sound of a blast, the bullet skimmed past his head, leaving a trail of blood in its path. Jayne grunted and swayed, the blood going down his cheek in little rivers. He stumbled, falling from the chair, his limp body making a soft thudding when it connected with the floor.
It was all so simple, now. Who knew death could come so easily when your heart was busted to pieces in the palm of your hands.
The note hovered and swiftly landed in front of the door.