❝ fuck, ❞ mutters fionn eloquently, sitting down in the open boot of his car and rubbing his face with his hand, room enough next to him for @growpained to sit, should he like. christ, but he's tired. tired, and in pain; it seems unfair to him, months after the fact, that when they cut off a limb too broken to be saved, they did not take the pain with it. instead they left him with a ghost, haunting the space that used to be an arm. he wishes, not for the first time, that he could take something stronger than ibuprofen to chase the pain away—and files the thought to be talked about at tomorrow's meeting.
it's been a day of firsts. first major fire investigation handed over to the police and ending with an arrest. first time watching a serial arsonist be picked up—even if his invitation to tag along was given on the proviso that he'd stand well back from the men with guns, with other civilians like abbot. he was glad to; he's incredibly uncomfortable around them. first time watching a large number of city resources slowly be stood down, the guy deciding not to set himself and half of swat on fire, and instead choosing going quietly over being shot. he watches the arsonist (suspected arsonist, he reckons he's meant to say) be driven away, listens to the officers chat about where to get a post-shift drink, gives a smile he only half-means to the fire crew as they head back to their station.
slowly, he shrugs out of the left sleeve of his jacket, turning his prosthetic arm off so he can remove it, setting it behind him in the boot to be joined by its sleeve. ❝ it always like this? ❞ he asks, finally massaging his aching residual limb with a groan. fionn's not even sure it helps. ❝ all...guns and shouting. ❞
