@liutheri said: ' run, and don't look back. '
❝ no.❞ he says, immediate, and without looking up — his hands press his scarf into deep gash— one of many that luther had caught, instead of him. it slows the blood loss, but only for as long as he holds down pressure. he had let himself get hurt, because of you. because of your mistake. because you had locked up. for all the time he's been here, for all the years — he feels, just now, like a child. like he was suddenly in the deep end of the pool. like he couldn't parse why someone he barely knew would throw their life down for him, in a place like this. and now he wants you to run. save your own skin. ❝ that's not how i do things.❞
it felt like something had tilted, being on the other end of this conversation. it was a role jake took to naturally among newer additions to the fog. but it was probably fair to assume that john luther was neither new to survival, or sacrifice. that wasn't anything that had to be said to him out loud.
but his frustration is directionless, ironic, even; he would have done the same fucking thing. ❝ you just. shouldn't have had to. you didn't have to—❞ he bites back his words, stilted and sharp in his throat. it didn't matter now.
the blood-soaked, threadbare fabric of the scarf prevented him from seeing the wound clearly; but it wasn't going to get better waiting here. he wasn't claudette, or quentin. he couldn't stitch this up fast enough for it to matter, didn't have what he needed to do it even if he could. they're nowhere near an exit. absently, he realized that even now, luther looked unafraid—immovable. calm, steady. it was jake that kept stumbling, that couldn't for the life of him think of what to do next.
seven years in, jake is a realist. he knows how these things play out. ❝ i'm sorry. ❞ he manages, rough, with a constricting in his chest. his hands come away from where the blade had gauged, slow, trying not to tremble.
❝ this was my fault. ❞
