DECLAN
Declan doesn't think much more on the matter of who the boy was. If he was a drifter, if he wouldn't be looked for, then there was no reason to. That kind of sentiment would only serve to hurt, to plague and poison the mind. Once it takes hold, it can't be cured. Only the symptoms can be treated, often by means of a stiff drink... Declan knew all about that.
The thanking him had to stop, though, because it was starting to get... jarring. "Don't."
"Don't thank me. Was in the wrong place at the wrong time, tha's'all." It's a brief look he gives Sunjata, and maybe it's sympathy that softens his expression. Whatever it is, it doesn't last long, because then it's replaced by something harsher. If anything, it's to keep them both afloat through this lurid situation. "This is what we do for each other now. Don' thank me..." His voice suddenly loses its initiative and trails off as if he's choked up. But nothing else contorts his countenance, and he's moving on to the next... step, if it can be called that.
Sunjata can handle the sand, feathers and all, if he so chooses. Declan's not partial to working together. If anything, the governor could've easily left right then and come back in a few hours, and this would all be gone. A bad dream. Only, the rest... the innerworkings, the intention, the plans of the person {or people} who'd done this. Those things would not simply disappear with water and soap. The blood itself was pretty stubborn, anyway, and Declan had to put a fair amount of elbow grease into it.
Sunjata speaks and he pauses, letting out a long breath. And he thinks about that for a moment, deliberates over it. Then, he jerks his head up, expresion incredulous and narrowed. He looks over his shoulder at Sunjata. "Now what the fuck's 'at supposed to mean?" He rolls his jaw, cooling himself, and dips the blood-stained cloth into a bucket of soapy water. He wrings it out, crouched down, and says, "I get it, you don' wanna make a scene, don' wanna make people panic. I don' either, but I can't help ya any further than this if you don' tell me what's goin' on." He squints up at Sunjata, watery blood dripping from his hands. Somewhere among the chaos, he's managed to light a cigarette. It dangles between his lips, smattered by wettened, crimson liquid. "What I should be lookin' out for, now that 'm on your side."
The thanking him had to stop, though, because it was starting to get... jarring. "Don't."
"Don't thank me. Was in the wrong place at the wrong time, tha's'all." It's a brief look he gives Sunjata, and maybe it's sympathy that softens his expression. Whatever it is, it doesn't last long, because then it's replaced by something harsher. If anything, it's to keep them both afloat through this lurid situation. "This is what we do for each other now. Don' thank me..." His voice suddenly loses its initiative and trails off as if he's choked up. But nothing else contorts his countenance, and he's moving on to the next... step, if it can be called that.
Sunjata can handle the sand, feathers and all, if he so chooses. Declan's not partial to working together. If anything, the governor could've easily left right then and come back in a few hours, and this would all be gone. A bad dream. Only, the rest... the innerworkings, the intention, the plans of the person {or people} who'd done this. Those things would not simply disappear with water and soap. The blood itself was pretty stubborn, anyway, and Declan had to put a fair amount of elbow grease into it.
Sunjata speaks and he pauses, letting out a long breath. And he thinks about that for a moment, deliberates over it. Then, he jerks his head up, expresion incredulous and narrowed. He looks over his shoulder at Sunjata. "Now what the fuck's 'at supposed to mean?" He rolls his jaw, cooling himself, and dips the blood-stained cloth into a bucket of soapy water. He wrings it out, crouched down, and says, "I get it, you don' wanna make a scene, don' wanna make people panic. I don' either, but I can't help ya any further than this if you don' tell me what's goin' on." He squints up at Sunjata, watery blood dripping from his hands. Somewhere among the chaos, he's managed to light a cigarette. It dangles between his lips, smattered by wettened, crimson liquid. "What I should be lookin' out for, now that 'm on your side."
I'm not always good.
