Cliché
Jez Redfern refuses to acknowledge that hollow feeling in her stomach. Just as much as she chooses to ignore that stupid wetness stinging her eyes.
She instead takes a breath, blinks rapidly, and pretends to be emotionless (there'll be plenty of time to vent later). She lifts her left leg and drapes it across her Harley and grips the handlebars lovingly for one second, allowing herself to remember some good times, before she flips the kill switch and speeds away from her Uncle's home.
She doesn't bother turning around for a last glimpse.
She was running away.
Running away… Jez lets out a wild laugh, letting only two little droplets stream down the sides of her face.
She listens to the engine purr contentedly for a whole block before revving it and deciding to take an official street of the city, a street that led straight out. She makes a sudden turn once, foot brushing the pavement and making sparks, and some of the cars behind her start to honk.
How many times had she dreamed of running away? Of being her own person? Of living on the edge? It was always a tempting idea. She never had a problem with her uncle, sure, but she always thought that running away would be an exciting adventure. A journey to the unknown.
It wasn't.
It was leaving behind everything she knew. It was doing that, and knowing that the remaining days of her life would probably be hell. It was running away from her San Francisco, away from her life. Away from the things and people she thought she'd never leave.
Away from her gang.
Away from Morgead.
Jez doesn't know what kind of emotion that last part stirred in her. She was just too messed up to care.
Another wild turn. Another set of angry drivers.
Her Sportster rumbles beneath her, and Jez brings a gloved hand to her eyes and brushes at them (but she's not crying, if that's what you think. She wants to be stronger than that). The pavement and gravel fly past her and—way sooner than she'd like—Jez was on her way. The road running across the Golden Gate Bridge was a challenge, always loaded with traffic, but she swerves and dodges and manages with ease. And at one point, when she was bypassing a yellow buggy, Jez steals a glance up.
The sky was blue. Blue blue blue. Not a single cloud.
It was a beautiful day.
And it made Jez laugh again. She was sure some of the cab drivers with open windows looked at her and twisted their fingers beside their ears.
Oh, the irony.
Nothing would change in the world, she realizes, nothing would change for anybody else. But for her? Oh, yeah. Jez Redfern the Huntress would be a thing of the past. It was just Jez now. She had a new mission.
Repent. That was what she needed to do. She needed to be human.
If Morgead could hear her thoughts now… He'd probably kill her.
Maybe he should .
No one else would want her now anyway. Maybe no one ever did.
She was a mutant. A one of a kind freak.
Jez sped on.
Someday, he'd tell her. When it feels right and he has nothing to lose, he swears he will.
But that's what he always says. Used to say.
He swears it, and yet, Morgead knows he'll chicken out in the end, because he always does. Always. Because he always manages to convince himself that there'll be another chance.
He blew it.
Big time.
Because now that she's been gone for a month—a whole damn month—he doesn't know if he'll ever get that chance.
Morgead gets off his bed and picks up a fighting stick from his stash. Not bothering to look at it, or even glance, he swings it at a hanging punching bag.
The bag moved with a distinct whack, the chains holding it up rattling.
He doesn't flinch. He's known more pain than that glorified pillowcase can muster.
But he does curse.
He cursed a lot these days.
Because it hurt.
Yes, he admits it. Morgead, the cocky bastard that he was, was hurting.
All because of that damned Redfern.
He chokes down some more curses, ignores the bittersweet, salty tang at the back of his throat (he does that a lot), and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
Wood met the grain-filled bag once more.
Every day it was like this. He'd wake up and expect her to pop out of nowhere—she'd done that nine times before, each time successfully ending with her hitting him on the head with a big stick—and to be honest with himself (though he barely did that), he'd classify that as paranoia. Or obsession.
Obsession… was he obsessed? With Jez?
Yeah right.
His weapon hit the bag five more times.
But maybe…
He laughs at himself before leaning on his fighting stick—which turned out to be a Japanese bokken, which (wouldn't you know it?) was a long time favorite with Jez—and he laughs a second time. A long, sympathetic, straitjacket-worthy laugh.
Well not anymore, dammit. Never again.
She wasn't worth this, she wasn't worth anything. She was probably dead anyway.
So damn Jez. Damn her to hell.
He chuckles.
Maybe she was already there.
Morgead grips the bokken, remembers that one time when Jez used it to swat at a fly, and hit the bag again. And again and again.
Morgead wakes up, disturbed from his morning snooze, guessing that Val left his textbook somewhere again and needed help finding it. He expected to be bugged and annoyed until he got up and helped the poor boy (which he certainly won't do, by the way).
He never expected to see red hair and misty blue eyes. Her red hair and misty blue eyes.
He knew his eyes widened, his lungs taking in a quick breath. He almost blinks but doesn't, because he knows for sure that this isn't a dream (he's had those before, but none had ever gotten so realistic as… this), because he can see that authentic look of challenge in her eyes, smell the peach-and-apricot shampoo that had never (no matter how hard he tried) left his system.
"Jez."
She doesn't smile, instead gets into a defense stance, and grips something in her hand. "Hi Morgead."
He felt his lips twitch more than once, because that was her voice. He thought he'd never hear that voice again…
She was back. Right there, within reach. And all Morgead wants to do is hug her. Hug her and never let her go. The promise of leading an anti-Jez life flew right out the window. It was a stupid promise anyway.
Because here she was.
Alive.
And for a moment, Morgead was actually, genuinely, absolutely, considering telling her.
Three words, his mind encouraged, come on, just three words.
"You came back."
He mentally slaps his own forehead. Idiot.
She shifts the stick he had been too preoccupied to notice into her other hand, "Apparently."
He waits for an explanation—of course she'll explain. After all the hell she put him through? It's the least she could do.
He keeps waiting.
She just looks at him.
So?
She continues her stare down.
He lets out a breath he's been holding for 365 days, and in one furious motion, gets up and throws his hands in the air. "Where the hell have you been?"
She raises her eyebrows, surprised, and answers. He gets even more furious. The conversation turns into a searing tirade on his part, ending only when she challenges him. He accepts. They fight.
And at one point, their faces are close together. Her eyes were locked on his, Morgead could hear her pulse…
"Don't try that stuff," he says, and he pulls away with everything he had. He's had enough.
She asks what stuff and tries to disarm him. He blocks and evades.
He refuses to give in.
And Morgead can't go back, he can't take anything back.
He missed his chance again.
He didn't know if he cared anymore.
Jez laughs as Morgead pulls out of the kiss, speedily and secretly grabbing one of the chocolates he's given her, thinking sweet thoughts for the future (despite the oncoming Apocalypse, it was pretty bright). Honestly, she just doesn't know how either of them stayed in such denial, and as cliché as it was, they should have known that they were always meant to be.
And she grins as he does. Because she knows he's thinking the same thing.