A 100-word-Jack-drabble that came up and bit me. gasp No pairing!
Disclaimer: Me no own.
Jack is sitting at the end of the ramp, repeatedly running his hands through his hair.
Because no matter how many times he does it, he can't believe it.
He brings his hands away and stares at them.
They're sticky and covered with dried liquid. Blood.
It is blood that covers his hair, blood that makes his hands sticky. Jack's hair has been dunked in it, dyed the kind of scarlet that sickens and entrances you at the same time.
Some of the blood flakes off his hair; drops to the floor.
But he knows that it'll never wash out.
.:pass the shampoo:.
