Transitioning to Past Tense

Based off this tumblr post: http://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/110731939970/person-b-knowing-theyre-undoubtedly-about-to-die

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Fuck. That's it all there is to say, pure and simple. After all, you aren't really one for mania or monologues. Some might call you stoic, but you don't really think that's the right word. You're careful. You just know the power of an overblown emotion, a misplaced word, and you're careful not to give anyone that leverage over you.

But if you were really careful, you wouldn't be here right now. Careful people don't let their guard down long enough to let goddamn assassins get close enough to stick a knife in their abdomen. So, maybe stoic is the right word, because you sure as hell weren't careful.

Your assassin, damn her to all hell, was good. Too good. With a bullet lodged somewhere in your shoulder by a careful sniper in the rafters and a long knife shoved into your stomach, you won't make it to see tomorrow's sunrise. Hell, you won't make it to sunset, and that's in maybe fifteen minutes. You'll be lucky if you have any more than a handful of them, and that's only if God decides to smile upon you today. Given His track record in that department, you aren't going to count on it.

Your cellphone sits in your pocket, a final taunt from the girl who has just murdered you. The ambulance will take at least ten minutes to find you in this mass of warehouses, especially since you can no longer remember which one you're in, memory foggy from the blood you've already lost. Ten minutes you no longer have.

Still, you dig it out of your pocket anyway. It beeps out a charming little reminder: low battery; 19%. You giggle at that—not at all hysterical, of course—but it quickly turns into a hacking cough that splatters blood over the already stained concrete floor. 19%. Even with your phones pitiful battery life, you won't need that much anyway.

If you're going to thank God for anything today, it'll have to be speed dial. You save precious seconds not typing in those six other numbers, simply pressing 3 and letting it ring. Please pick up, you think, at the same time realizing; Mom is going to kill me for not calling her. You would laugh at the irony of that too, if you hadn't already learned how much it hurts.

It doesn't sound into infinity as you feared. After five nerve-wracking rings, he picks up. "Hey, sweet cheeks. I was just about to call you. What do you want for dinner?"

"Don't call me sweet cheeks," you gasp out. God, why does everything hurt?

"You okay, dear?" A moment's pause. "Shit. I know you hate terms of endearment. Is that any better?"

"Yes." Keeping things as monosyllabic as possible, that's the way to go. It'll make goodbye easier.

On the other end of the line, he chuckles and for a moment, the insistent throb of pain is replaced by warmth. "Which question are you answering?"

"I don't know." Words get harder and harder. One at a time.

"How about you answer this one: are you okay?"

You will not cry. People like you—the stoic, the careful, the something—they do not cry. "Ask me something else. Please."

"Why?" You live for the moments of confusion in his voice, because the next step is desperation, and you don't want it to get that far.

 "Just need to hear your voice." I don't want my last words to you to be a lie.

He's wary now. "Why are you being so sweet? Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing." You wince, half from the pain, half because he's managed to make a liar of you yet.

Of course, after all your years together, he knows that voice; the one you put on when you're being held by hostage-takers in the south of France and he wants to ask you about your day, or when you're stuck in an elevator in Taiwan with the mark and a broken leg and he calls because 'babe, I can't remember the Netflix password'. "Don't lie to me."