if life made any sense, you'd pack your bags and leave

[bangbangkerpooow]

Who| Billy, Tom, and Molotov
What| Billy joins the "pissed off at Tom" club. Membership: 32482924 gazillion.
Where| The training room
When| After the kiddy arena
Warnings/Notes| Violence and stuff.

Billy decorates a dummy with his throwing knives. One for the left eye. One for the right eye. Three for the smile. His throwing accuracy hasn't suffered since his days as a Tribute -- he wouldn't let it suffer -- and so it's only when he's aiming for the nose that things get difficult. The dummy's head bows under the weight of the five knives. The blade intended for the nose clangs, clatters against one of the eye knives and falls to the ground, embedding itself in the dummy's foot.

"Hey buddy," he says, biting down on his lip and his frustration all at once. He saunters towards the dummy, bows down, and scoops the knife out of the foam. He twirls it once. Twice. "You're not looking so hot."

He leans forward and places the knife in the dummy's face almost gingerly, like a child putting a carrot into a snowman.

"There we go. Might as well go out in style, yeah?"

This entire scene is not unusual for him.

Comments

[bangbangkerpooow]

After his punch connects with Tom's face, after he feels the other man's teeth through cheek, it's like all of his anger dissipates. Poof. Billy might as well be on a tropical beach right now, the water rolling over his naked toes, the sunlight bright on his face. It's a perverse sort of zen, this meditative state that emerges only after violence. It's where Billy belongs.

And then Molotov's kick connects with his neck and he crumples, coughing and choking, his hands automatically grasping at his throat.

"The neck?!"

His words are practically inaudible through the choking. He kicks at the ground, creating bursts of punctuation with his thump, thump, thumps. He tries once again, louder.

"The fucking neck?!"

[molotov]

By the time Billy's able to speak even sort of clearly, Molotov is at Tom's side, looking at his cheek, running her fingers over the rising bruise there, all gentle concern until she looks over her shoulder to snap furiously at the body on the ground.

"Yeah, the fucking neck," she barks. "If you didn't want to get kicked in the neck, you shouldn't go around sucker punching people who didn't do anything. Now shut up until you have an apology ready and you want to lick my boots like the street dog you are."

She scowls and turns away from him again to return to her selfish mollycoddling. It gnaws at her that someone else dared touch him. "You want some ice?"

[pimpcanes]

"I'm fine." It'll make for a nasty bruise, but in a way Tom prefers that. To wander around somewhat beat-up and none-the-more cowed projects a sort of confidence, an unspoken "yeah, but you should see the other guy". And while he appreciates Molotov's rescue, it's true that it's somewhat emasculating.

He takes her fingers from the bruise and holds her hand, kisses her knuckles, reassuring her and pleased at every chance he has to touch that perfect body, that fine china skin.

Then back to Billy. "My boots could use a polish too, actually."

Yes, he's enjoying this.