Charcoal Grey [H.S.]

CHAPTER TWENTY - REALISATION

"Fuck, baby, let me come in."

Lennon frowned when she opened the door.

His hair was sticking to his nape, his T-shirt a tad too tight on his broad chest and arms, eyes bloodshot and a couple of bruises across his face. He leaned against the doorframe with a seething expression; a mix of a wince and a smile. It was very evident he was in pain and the fact that he was always like this most of the time bothered her. She sighed, looking at him, "Come in."

Harry walked in, his limp slightly more prominent than usual. Once he was in the living room, he made a beeline for the sofa and flopped down. He groaned lowly, his arm resting over his eyes as he leaned his head back. He already looked utterly exhausted, "Fuck, that hurts," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Lennon.

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking over at him, "You need to take it easy, Harry."

He lifted his arm to shoot her a glance, his eyes narrowing slightly. He knew she was right, but he hated being reminded of his limits. "I can handle it, grey," he said defensively, gritting his teeth. "I have dealt with so much shit before and besides I love this job, it gets me going."

She pursed her lips in a thin line, frowning, "I understand that, I really do. But, you need to be more careful. And it doesn't really help that you're used to all of this."

Irritation and annoyance welled up within him. He didn't like being told what to do, by anyone, as a matter of fact. He sat up on the sofa, his face hardening. "I know what I'm doing, Lennon. I can look after myself, for fuck's sake. This is how my life goes, you know that. I have been doing this for years and I'm perfectly fine." His voice edged with resentment. It was the way he dealt with pain and frustration – he got snappy and defensive.

She bit her inner cheek, "You get hurt all the time."

Harry's fingers curled into fists at his sides, the veins in his arms becoming more prominent. He shouldn't have come here after his fights because he's always in a sour mood. "That's the bloody point, isn't it?" he snapped. "It's not a walk in the park. Getting injured is part of the job, you know? Blood, violence, agony. I'm used to it all so quit looking at me like I'm some fucking child." He retorted, his voice growing louder, he hates being taken care of.

She exhaled, "That's not what I meant. I just..."

"You just what? You just want me to quit my job? You just want me to stop getting hurt 'cause you can't handle it seeing me in pain? Because that's not fucking happening," he snarled. "It pisses the shit out of me when you try and comfort me. It's like you think I can't handle my own work, like I'm a pussy who can't take a few hits. I don't want your concern or pity, I don't want to be looked at like I need comfort and need to be coddled." He stood up from the sofa, running his fingers through his messy hair. His muscles coiled and relaxed visibly.

She watched as he headed to the door, her voice quiet, "Where are you going?"

He paused at the door. He was going to snap at her again, but he froze. He was being a wanker to her, he knew it but he was terrible at communicating his feelings. He didn't answer her, instead he twisted the doorknob and walked outside. He had a few other things in mind as well, like getting himself cleaned up, drinking a whiskey or two, and having a smoke if he was feeling up to it.

☆ ☆ ☆

Well, he lied.

He was the most pissed he felt in a long time. Which is the sole reason for why he was absolutely butchering the punching bag in front of him, the worn-out leather already having suffered his wrath.

He punched and kicked the bag with every ounce of force he could muster. His breathing hitched, his teeth grinded and his jaw clenched. Sweat was dripping down his face, making his already messy hair stick to his forehead and the back of his neck. He channelled all his rage and guilt into every swing, the punching bag taking the brunt of it. He ignored the pain in his knuckles and the fatigue seeping into his muscles, he needed to let it all out, to get rid of the tension and the anger building up inside of him. The tumultuous thuds echoing throughout the empty gym.