His hand splays over the wound, pressing his palm flat to it. Feeling the heat of Vasquez's skin against his, the edges of the smooth scar, the very idea in his head of a bullet ripping through his skin, through muscle and bone and taking the abilities of a gunman like that.
He swallows hard, a sound that felt like it echoed in the air around them as his hand flexes, dragging his nails over the edge of the scar.
The entire time his gaze doesn't leave Vasquez's face. Seeing that pain there, the way his expression is just as tight as his words. For a long time he stands there like that, both holding Vasquez at a distance with his arm and desperately holding onto that contact though he's not sure why it's suddenly so important to him.
After a time he shakes his head. "The truth is that I must have spent the last year sick from the fight. I must have only just woken up," he says, speaking a truth he isn't sure he believes but needs to say out loud as if that makes everything okay.
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He swallows hard, a sound that felt like it echoed in the air around them as his hand flexes, dragging his nails over the edge of the scar.
The entire time his gaze doesn't leave Vasquez's face. Seeing that pain there, the way his expression is just as tight as his words. For a long time he stands there like that, both holding Vasquez at a distance with his arm and desperately holding onto that contact though he's not sure why it's suddenly so important to him.
After a time he shakes his head. "The truth is that I must have spent the last year sick from the fight. I must have only just woken up," he says, speaking a truth he isn't sure he believes but needs to say out loud as if that makes everything okay.