Slade is not afraid of emotions. He’s not afraid of letting himself have a moment to mourn or to laugh. Still, the feeling of agony building up in his chest that leads to this moment of vulnerability is not something he truly wants to feel at all.
His chest has been aching for days, the loss of his son feeling like so many hot coals, burning him up inside. He sits on the edge of his bed, room dim, lit only by his bedside lamp. His apartment is painfully quiet.
He looks out onto the balcony through the gap in the curtains, a glass of scotch clutched loosely in his fingers as tears slip down one side of his face. Silently, they cut rivers down his cheek, disappearing into his stubble and beard.
He senses movement just outside of his periphery. He doesn’t turn, just stares straight forward and lets the tears fall as they may.
His voice cracks when he speaks.
“If you’re here to kill me, I can promise that won’t end well for you.”
// @allpurposebogeyman - Oops! Starters (accepting)