Blaire's Body

CINQ

dedicated to Homely8 and autheras because they're super sweet [and patient] and their stories are beautiful. ily

WARNING/DISCLAIMER: I do not support gun violence. 

YEAR: 2015

"UH, BRADLEY," GREYSON says, looking down at her blood-crusted fingers. "Where'd this come from?"

He looks down at her hand, and takes it in his, frowning. "Huh. Must've gotten it from the bird, then," he says, before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the blood from her fingernails. She watches as the dried flecks of blood fly onto the grass.

"The bird?'

Bradley gives Greyson a lopsided grin, tucking the handkerchief in his back pocket. "Yeah. You're a natural at hunting."

A frown ripples against her face as her eyes travel to the haversack thrown casually over his shoulder. "Can I – can I see it?" she asks softly, wondering whether a small bird lay inside the bag, feathers coated in its own blood – a red so dark that it's close to black.

His eyes bore into hers for a split second, and she wonders if the question was too much, if she shouldn't have asked. Her lips part for her to apologize, but he swings the haversack and plops it to the ground, a twisted little smile on his lips.

"What's with the look?" she says uncomfortably, staring down at the leaves gathered around her feet.

He unzips the bag and tosses out a couple of handguns. "You're just so ... never mind."

"C'mon, you don't get to say never mind like that," she complains playfully. Her eyes are trained on the guns on the ground, and the smooth leather grip of it. The shine on the barrel seems to call out to her, whispering, gesturing, calling for her to pick up the gun – pick up the gun and feel the trigger, control and powering resting against her palm.

"You're just so much like me. My family's never really supported my hobby, y'know? It's just so crazy to think that you actually take interest in all this shit too," he says, looking away from his bag and into her eyes, the twisted smile morphing into something else – a wry, boyish grin that makes Bradley seem more normal.

He pulls out a large, dark towel with something wrapped in it. He lays it delicately on the ground, which Greyson thinks is rather ironic, considering the bird's already dead. He unfolds the towel with skill and practice, veiny, delicate hands moving almost artfully. As she watches, her gaze again travels back to the gun.

Unable to help herself, she bends down and picks it up. It feels perfect in her palm, the weight is just right, balanced in her hand. It feels beautiful and perfect, the cool metal under her fingers, pure control. She could fire a bullet into his tanned head, and he would bleed red, just like the bird. Dark red oozing, close to black, down his forehead and into his eye and sliding down the slope of his neck, just like the bird – feathers oiled with blood, a dove transformed into a raven.

"Greyson? Greyson?" Bradley asks, and she blinks – Bloody Bradley is gone. She's not pointing the gun at him, and he's perfectly fine, unharmed. They're both doves now, innocent and fine and safe.

He smiles at her. "Nice, isn't it?" he asks, nodding to the gun in her hand.

She blinks and nods. "Yeah. Really nice," she replies, turning the gun to examine it.

"You can have it, if you want."

"What?"

Bradley rubs his neck awkwardly. "Yeah. I have a couple of those at home. You can have that one."