Disclaimer: Not mine.
A Kind of Wild Justice
by entropic order
Blink doesn't wonder how it came to this. He doesn't think about the implications, or the cause, or the fact that he's outnumbered three to one.
Blink doesn't think at all, because he's too fucking angry.
Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down to soak the band of his eyepatch. The heat and the sunlight and the feeling of the cobblestones beneath the soles of his too-thin shoes have all faded away to the periphery, but for some reason the heavy wool on his face still cuts clearly through his foggy senses.
The only other thing that can do that right now is the incredible urge to hurt someone, very badly if possible.
He's so hot.
Blink knows he will regret this later, but he doesn't care.
He's so hot.
He can't take it. He has to do something, he can't just stand here. He doesn't have much of a reason, but he doesn't need a reason, not now.
He raises his fist to strike the guy closest to him.
He's so hot.
His fist sweeps through the air, but it's not sweeping because sweeping is such a graceful word, really he's striking, he's carving, he's punching. There is a fleshy thwack, and Blink feels pain in his knuckles as they impact the bone beneath the skin.
When Blink pulls his fist back, a light smear of blood is dashed across his fingers. The man in front of him looks slightly dazed, and a drop of blood tracks its way from his temple to his chin. The two others do not pause to see if their friend is injured before they rush Blink with murder in their eyes.
Fights are not as easy as they are made out to be, Blink finds. Punching someone hurts, and it's nearly impossible to concentrate long enough to aim.
A long time ago, Blink used to think that he would always be chivalrous and would always fight fair. Then, he discovered what it was like to be in the middle of a whirlwind fight and to stop thinking and give yourself over to reckless reflex because either you're going get hurt or the other guy is, and you're sure as hell not going to let it be you.
Even the blood on his fists and his face does not manage to cool Blink off. Only torrential rain could do that, he is sure, and the sun is in the sky.
Ten minutes ago, Blink was not angry. Ten minutes ago, Blink was cool.
Then Mush had staggered into the lodging house, smelling of sweat and blood and cigarettes, and Blink had rushed out as soon as he had a name to go on.
He'd moved fast, fueled by a lot of anger and a little lust and a lot more than a little too much to drink.
It hadn't taken him long to find them: he'd known who he was looking for.
They spoke first. Blink had just stood glaring, and one of them had stood up and snubbed out his freshly-lit cigarette in a gesture Blink was sure was purely for show and said,
"What're you lookin' at, kid?"
"Fuck you," Blink had said, and that was when he'd struck.
Now Blink is caught up in the action and he's not thinking about why he's here or who he's defending. He's punching and kicking and finding any other way he can to inflict pain, civilized or not. His pulse is beating in time to his strikes, quick and harsh. He does not speak.
He is conscious of pain, but only dimly: there's too much else he has to concentrate on for his injuries to be his focus.
Then he realizes that he's about to black out. That's when he turns tail and runs.
Blink understands fights. He knows that no matter how much you promise yourself, you'll never keep your head when you're in the middle of the action. He knows that anger can be your friend and your enemy and sometimes both at once. And he knows that sometimes, it's best to run.
As Blink tears down the street dripping with blood and sweat and bruises, the wind whips around him and he begins to feel his injuries for the first time. His entire body will be sore the next day, and he will be exhausted and have an awful headache, but he does not care because he did what he set out to do.
He may have lost the fight, but he did what he set out to do.
Blink slows down as he climbs the steps to the lodging house. The damp wood of the door swings shut behind him and the bright heat of the outdoors gives way to the dark heat of the inside.
He grins as he walks upstairs to where Mush is waiting. He doesn't think about the implications, or the cause, or the fact that tomorrow will most likely not be a pleasant day.
Blink doesn't think at all, because he's far too happy.
Outside, it begins to rain.
A/N: Happy birthday, B!