#m. red.

[armsdealing]

@9sik​ sent: "how come you never give in? you really can't give me an inch? is it the pride? I'll have to break that down..." amon + red

the hunter’s jaw locks and unlocks repeatedly amidst the silence her questions leave behind. he’s familiar with this silence but that does not make it any less uncomfortable. he’s familiar with this feeling but that does not make it any easier to bear. the eyes stay on the road instead and how the damp asphalt glitters underneath the floodlights, the sweet night air pure in his lungs even after his cigarette and maybe because of it, and he tends to this silence with a hand in his pocket and the other around the rim of his hat. he avoids her eyes but even then he can feel the knife of her gaze in the hollow of his throat.

“it’s not about pride.”

there’s nothing prideful about red. very rarely does he take pride in what he does, as it’s more often than not thankless labor. an unforgiving job that has robbed him of a life and more relationships he can count, that’s given him a depth of knowledge about the world but has done little in the way of tethering him closer to it. and he carries no pride about it so much as he carries confidence that he’s doing a worthwhile service, he’s saving lives, he’s burying that which must remain unearthed, he’s giving answers to desperate widows, desolate parents, frightened towns, or at least he’s putting an end to the fear, he’s concluding this mad chapter of their history, and finally they can let it go and forget.

but often he does little more than that, and it’s nothing worthy of pride.

he tried to kill her a few days ago, not too far away from this rest top. put the muzzle to her forehead and pulled the trigger. he missed by two inches, the bullet punching the dark earth to her side when she managed to wear off the poison he’d stabbed into her. she tried to kill him too and was significantly more adept at it. probably only took a ninth of her strength to break his ribs, his arm, to dim the lights out of his brain and make him catch a glimpse of the afterlife. he woke up coughing on a pool of blood, incapable of moving and saying anything beyond soft, slurred nonsense.

he remembers this with shame. not at failing to kill her, but at knowing why he failed.

his hip tips to the side, frame leaning against a post, the intention less to look unfettered and more to give his battered body some relief.

“there ain’t nothing to give,” he repeats, light derision to his tone, a cynical brand of disbelief. “there ain’t nothin’ to break. so you should get going, really.”

[armsdealing]

@leombres​​​ sent: "tell me, mr. redford: do you believe in the devil?" the man in white smiles, keeping his gun aimed directly at the other man's chest. however, his motions are calm / far too relaxed. he doesn't aim to kill the man, but give a message. "because i believe you know his face. please make this easy - i'd hate to ruin a handsome man in this way." (for dennis!)

you think you get used to having guns pointed at you,  but you don’t -- at least not completely, at least not within the body. as red stays still, inquietude prickles up his scalp, synapse to synapse, and attempts to rouse instinctual reactions: draw the colt and shoot the man between the eyes. or take his gun and shoot him with it. or take the plate on the table and toss it at them, or take the knife. it would take less than speaking, he reasons. it would take less than a blink to do any of those things. 

but something stops him. not the name drop -- he’s used to being known -- and not the poise with which the gun is held, which speaks of experience, of the possibility that getting shot would take less than a blink, too -- it is the smile, white like the man’s clothes and the scleras of those unreadable eyes, what makes him rethink his strategy. 

“i don’t believe in anything,” he drawls, chin tipping forward, brows pitching up. the gall of this man. “and if you’re gonna keep pointin’ that gun at me, you better fuckin’ shoot me already. i ain’t one to cooperate when threatened.”

[armsdealing]

@tribeof​​ / starter call / still accepting.

abel’s touch comes softly, unprompted. fingertips to bloody cheek and thumb to lips. eyes flutter to the man standing before him, mouth parting to find witty words. or at least coherent words. anything to diffuse the pressure of abel’s hand on his skin. “it’s... fine,” he breathes, even as pain drums along his temple. even as blood clings onto abel’s finger. it is fine, because he is alive. and that, to red, qualifies as fine enough. “a few punches, abel. that’s all it was. few punches ain’t gon kill me.” he’s taken worse before. dole out worse. 

eventually the lightness in his chest transmutates into something cold. red puts his hand on abel’s and squeezes, kissing it gently before removing it. he’s unfamiliar with this softness and it stings. “you got any gauze or aspirin?”

[armsdealing]

@mtchstck / cont.

          FEAR WORKS IN STRANGE WAYS, he thinks as he watches her; either it paralyzes you or it strips you off your common sense. “Words of advice, kid? Intimidation only works if you keep your cool. Otherwise it’s got the opposite effect.” His hand remains still on his side, a good bit away from the revolver holstered underneath his jacket. Doesn’t consider using it, let alone drawing it. Doesn’t think he’ll need to. It would be an instant bad move. He goes on seriously instead, bit of dry amusement in his voice: “You got enough money for food -- ? That vending machine seemed low on cash.”

[armsdealing]

Escaping the storm outside had been the first part of Red’s plan and, admittedly, the last. He drove through drizzles carelessly all the time, and even heavier downpours he ignored in favor of keeping the engine running, but this? Shit, it didn’t compare. The rain felt borderline biblical in its rage, and he knew what that meant. Moment you start getting religious about the weather is the moment you pull the brakes.

The distance between the car and the 24/7 diner entrance ended up not mattering much; he stepped inside the place dripping. His shoes, jeans, jacket, and shirt all dripped big fat droplets of rainwater onto the floor, the resulting puddle mixing with the dirt from his shoe soles into a muddy trail. His body shivered. He looked exhausted. The black felt hat in Red’s hands weighted several ounces heavier than normal and his hands fiddled with it as it dripped. 

After much reluctance, he mumbled out a frustrated swear and sprawled onto the booth closest to the exit. "Please tell me you’ve got coffee and it’s hot.”

[armsdealing]

@nolaroots​​ sent: “I ever tell you what an asshole you are?” (Red) drive by james sallis / accepting.

his laugh hits brief and dry as a desert. “why thank ya. i think you’re lovely.” red’s not known for being the tactful or even the polite type, but it shouldn’t be that surprising why he’s not. years of living a relatively lonesome life will do that to you, it will sharpen your edges and make you corrosive to the touch. 

still, eyes flick over to the side just briefly to study pasha’s face and make sure she’s not truly offended. far as council folk go he reckons he could be working with worse ones, and he doesn’t want to make this partnership any more difficult than it already is. he turns his head back to the road and clears his throat. “it was an honest question, though. can’t blame me for bein curious.” you could blame him for phrasing it the way he did -- how come you’re so far away from the devereaux kingdom, your majesty? doing council work no less.

[armsdealing]

@alittlemercyrps / cont. 

He chuckled at the -- perhaps deserved -- animosity. “Thanks for sayin’ it gently, compadre. Means a lot.” Lightly, he shoved Pablo back onto a sitting position against a nearby tree, and forced a clean sock into his mouth. Admittedly, he enjoyed this one part more than he should. “Now relax, and bite this hard. It’s for your own good.” 

That’s all the warning he gave before dumping a flask’s worth of contents on the open gash of the man’s abdomen. It was a special remedy Keahi made him -- disinfected the wound just as it cauterized it shut. Hurt like getting branded by a hot iron, but it did the trick.  “Serves you fuckin’ right for what you did,” He hissed, his face close to Pablo’s, his hand still closed around the hunter’s mouth to keep him from screaming and notifying every single animal and monster in a five mile radius of their location. “You ruined our chances of wrappin’ this damned thing up tonight. Unbeliavable. I’m the one with the cowboy hat, but you’re the one thought goin’ all Silverado on a wolf pack would work.” He rolled his eyes, and released his grip just before standing up, like Pablo was suddenly toxic. “I gave your way a chance -- not because I wanted to, mind you. Now it’s my turn.”

[armsdealing]

@kiyote / closed. 

Irritation bubbles like water on a frying pan at the uncooperative answer. His lips part and before he can speak comes that noise, again, that scratching sound of talons against cheap wood -- he can’t tell the source just yet. It can be the door. It can be the table. It can be the floor about to burst from beneath their feet. Whatever it is, it is searching for a way in. Red’s senses have grown to become knife-sharp over the years, honed not by otherwordly origin but his own experience, his own need to always be aware of his surroundings in order to survive. 

When he hears it the third time he knows where it comes from. Red’s reaction -- yanking Teo by the collar of his shirt, shoving him against the nearest hallway -- carries on an implicit meaning-warning-threat: wake up. Wake the fuck up, Cruz, right now. "That noise, you idiot,” he hisses as Mateo’s back hits the wall. The creature makes its existence finally certain to them both, he hopes -- a low, desperate groan like an ancient tongue as it begins to pound on the door, louder each time, like condemnation. “If you’re not gonna help, shifter, then don’t stand in my fuckin way.”

Warm livingroom lights gleam on Red’s revolver as he draws it out.