it's in my nature {Tangerine | Bullet Train}

seven. the scorpion. a refresher on compartmentalisation.

There was no time for a breakdown, not with the body in the carriage behind them, blood on her gloves, and her heart in grief's chokehold already. As glad as she was that Tangerine was finally grasping the severity of her situation, the situation loomed larger than his sudden revelation. So Clementine decides to postpone her impending breakdown for the few minutes before she dies, which she figures should be some time later today, since there's absolutely no way she'll be allowed to leave this damn train alive. 

And this time it really was out of her control!

"We are fucked, all three of us, completely fucked," Tangerine was reeling, piercing gaze upon her like he's seeing her for the first time all over again, "I know you know, it's just- fuck." There was no hostility in the way he was looking at her now, however, and it's enough for her to begin to compartmentalise, whilst also wondering how much The Son would have told him about Clementine's punishment for Tangerine to be reacting this strongly.

"We're fucked if we're not smart about this," voice warm and firm and unwavering, Clementine takes Tangerine's hand, grounds him back in the moment. It takes him half a second to adjust, to recentre and reassess, but he too is a professional, so it only takes moments to recalibrate his understanding of the situation with this new information.

"So we find the killer with the briefcase, and figure out where the fuck we go from there."

"The killer with the hat and the glasses?"

"Blonde fucker, American, bucket hat and Clark Kent-looking frames."

"You've seen him?"

"You haven't?"

Clementine shakes her head. Tangerine frowns for a moment, before he looks down at their joined hands for a beat.

"Your cover still hold up?"

"Excuse me?" Clementine, genuinely confused, tips her head slightly. Tangerine glances over her shoulder to the carriage they'd just left, to the body they'd just left behind.

"If you're going to be a liability you should stay with Lemon and him."

Liability; if they'd had time, Clementine may have been offended at the implication, might have bristled and responded with some kind of biting remark, but they don't, and she doesn't, because she understands why. His question was painfully justified, even if she didn't like it.

Just minutes ago he'd had a front row seat to the way she'd reacted, his hand in hers when she'd finally laid eyes on The Son in that state, had been barely a foot away as she'd been trying to act as though she could still hear her own heartbeat over the white noise in her ears. She couldn't touch him. She could barely look at him. He could have been sleeping if it wasn't for the angle they'd found him at, or the clearly broken nose. How many times had he fallen asleep on her shoulder just like that in the back of Ubers over the years they'd known each other?

And the first time, still a teenager, still new to the country, still new even to modern society, she'd tried to take his pulse, afraid something was wrong. He'd moved her hand but didn't bother to let go, but groaned like it was a chore to move and lay across the back seat with his head in her lap when she couldn't keep her shoulders still enough. 

His dark hair had been short against the uncomfortable, sequinned material of the dress she'd been provided, the dress that didn't even come halfway down her thighs, the dress she'd tried to complain about since she didn't think she could fight in properly if the need arose - she'd been told who gives a shit? The dress looked pretty when she showed up in the back of photos, and it looked pretty there, against the black, leather back seats with her boss's son using her as a pillow.