A/N: The usual stuff. I don't own anything and the mistakes are mine blahblah. And thanks for the title. X3
Collapse.
She sucks down lungful after lungful of heavy smoke filled breaths. Her heart is working overtime in her chest, fit to burst as the adrenaline surge courses through her veins like molten lava. Her eyes scan the carnage, view obscured by the haze of smoke and rain.
All the strength in her arm ebbs away and she feels her hold unconsciously loosening on the grip of her twin Berettas. Confusion blooms across her features as she looks down and sees the stain spreading across her t-shirt. She probes it cautiously with her fingers. They come away bloody, glinting black in the moonlight.
"Shit."
He looks up at the sound of her voice, puzzled eyes meeting hers. Her world tilts sideways and the ground comes up to meet her; guns clatter to the ground, a hollow echo of her own collapse. The ground is cold and wet but the latter makes no difference what with the sheet of water still falling unendingly from the sky.
He's calling her name, though it is too high in pitch, too frantic and sounds too far away for her to make out whether he's using the one that's two syllables or three.
He tries to pick her up, one hand under her legs, the other behind her shoulders. It feels like someone has stitched her belly full of hot coals. She screams, unable to hold it in. She can see it in his face that he's sorry and he's too scared of that sound to try again. So instead he carefully lowers her back down, pulling her onto his lap.
He's stammering like a broken record; muttering about doctors, tear streaks well concealed but not invisible amongst the rain.
There is no point. She's dying. She doesn't need a doctor to tell her. She knows blood better than anyone and she knows that there is too much leaking out of her, that it's darker than it should be. She's going numb from the feet up.
She calls his name and he looks at her. Really looks. From his haunted expression she knows that he knows too, just can't admit it to himself. She struggles to lift her arm, uses two fingers in an attempt to wipe away the tears she doesn't want to see.
The bloody lines she leaves behind reminds her of a child's game. Maybe they're playing cowboys and Indians; she's Calamity fucking Jane, like in the park back in Japan.
She liked Japan, which is twisted because it was too fucking cold, the alcohol tasted like shit and she couldn't understand a fucking thing that people were saying but it had kind of been just the two of them and for that one blinding moment she could pretend that things had never turned out this way.
It had taken her a while, and now it was too late, but she had finally realised that maybe that was all that mattered.