Sat. May 14: Lasts / Hozier – It Will Come Back To Me

The last time he sees her she looks tiny, staring up at him from the sidewalk, bathed in the blue lights of police cars. The wind whips at his jacket and he knows he's making a dramatic picture. He deepens the gruff expression on his face, trying to make a dramatic final exit. He can't explain the hesitation in his posture, the brief moment he pauses to memorize her face because he knows it's the last time… except it's not.

Two weeks later she appears in the sights of his rifle, arms crossed, deep frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. He has no idea what she's doing sneaking around the docks at midnight, but he suspects it has something to do with her job at the newspaper. He can see the outline of the.308 under her jacket. The corner of his mouth twitches, fighting against the urge to grin. Her stealth is impressive, and he fights the urge swoop down and throw her over his shoulder and haul her back home.

She notices the shuffle of feet before him, ducking down behind a couple of barrels as the men saunter by. It's a close call, his finger tensing next to the trigger, but the group doesn't notice her. He watches as she emerges from her hiding place, getting the hell out of dodge before anyone notices. She looks up at the rooftop he's watching from, and for a split second he thinks she's made him, but she looks away, feet silently padding against the wood as she runs away.

She needs him like she needs another hole in the head, clearly able to take care of herself without his interference. He tells himself it's the last time he'll stick his nose in her business… but it's not.

Three days later an undeniable craving for freshly brewed coffee draws him out of his hiding hole earlier than usual. He's usually a night owl. The city's filth aren't exactly a bunch of morning people usually, and he does his best work in the dead of night. But here he is, standing in line

It's cold out, a great excuse to pull a beanie down over his head, a bulky coat with the hood pulled up over his head. He looks like the typical New Yorker in a cold snap, and not like a wanted man trying to hide. He thinks maybe there's something familiar about the person standing in front of him, but she's got a bright pink toboggan hiding her blonde locks and a bulky peacoat hiding her graceful figure.

She grabs her coffee from the hands of the street vendor, closing her eyes to inhale the steam as she turns around. His heart stops at the expression of bliss on her face. He knows he should turn and leave before she notices him, but he's frozen to the stop. She nearly runs into him before opening her eyes, her mouth falling open at the sight of him. He can't figure out what the hell he's feeling. When she reaches toward him, her mouth already forming the first syllable of his name, the urge to step toward her wars with the need to get as far away as possible.

He turns, coffeeless, and disappears into the crowd, telling himself that if he never sees her again then one day the image of her flushed cheeks and dreamy expression will begin to fade. It will fade, damn it. It's the last time he's going to see her… except it isn't.

In the spring, he decides to get out of the city for a bit, spend some time in the Adirondacks tracking a suspected serial killer. Once Frank finds the mountain man's bunker in the hills, he puts half a dozen bullets in the shitbag's chest. He can't explain it, but killing someone so completely full to the brim with evil satisfies something inside of him. The constant need for vengeance wanes some after a kill like this, and he decides to stay a few days longer.

He's sitting on the side of a stream, waiting for his shirt to dry in the branches of a nearby tree while he cleans his gun, uncharacteristically lost in thought. The bubbling stream and the rote motions sort of hypnotize him, and he doesn't hear the twigs snap behind him. It's the sound of someone gasping his name that finally puts him back on alert.

He snaps the gun together and turns on her, immediately lowering the barrel when he sees who it is. She's dressed for hiking, heavy boots, and jeans that hug her body. She's out of breath, the climb too much for her lack of physical conditioning, overheated in her soft layers of clothing. He doesn't even bother asking why she's here, the bunker of the serial killer mere yards away from the stream.

A little wrinkle appears between her eyes, the gears clearly turning in her mind. "You?"

"Try again." He snorts, raising one eyebrow. He can see her gaze sweeping over him, taking in his state of undress. She's doing everything in her power not to let her gaze follow narrow trail of hair disappearing beneath his belt. Suddenly he feels a little warm himself.

She clears her throat, looking away. "You killed him?"

He nods, setting his rifle against the tree. The fabric of his shirt is warm with sunshine as he drags it back over his head. It's better for everyone if there are no distractions. "Sorry to take the legs out of your story, Page."

She shrugs. "I actually don't mind… in this case. That man- I might have been tempted to do it myself."

He can tell from the tone of her voice that she isn't exaggerating, and that she really is grateful he took the decision out of her hands. He's starting to realize they're more alike than he ever imagined, a certain strength hiding beneath her graceful exterior, a need for retribution that matches his own. For the first time he thinks that it might not be necessary to cut every single person out of his life.

He grabs the fishing pole lying on bank, gesturing with it toward the stream. "You ever been fishing?"

She nods tentatively. "It's been a really long time."

Wordlessly he hands her the pole. Fishing is a quiet pastime, but it's comfortable, sitting on the rocks beside her, watching the sun slowly dip down over the horizon. It's getting late, and neither of them have had a single nibble. His tent his hidden just behind a thicket of bushes, and he doesn't know exactly what he's supposed to say. One last time he faces the urge to walk away from her, but this time he overpowers it. "It's getting dark."

"It is."

"We should probably bed down so we can hike out early in the morning."

"We should."

"We should."

You know better babe, you know better babe,

Than to smile at me, smile at me like that

You know better babe, you know better babe!

Than to hold me just, hold me just like that.