Felix did duck at the return fire, and while one shot went wide, the other colored the tree a little too close to his head for comfort with a spray of paint the color of dark blood. He could actually feel a few drops splash the side of his face. His body's reaction to that was even more unexpected than the worry that Lennon might tumble into the river. Suddenly he was transported to a bathroom he never wanted to see the interior of again, creeping around a doorframe to see the lifeless body of the man who had just been feeding him homemade roasted chicken and potatoes. He was crouched next to the remains of a headless corpse that probably wasn't/could have been/would that do that a weird German baker who probably hadn't done anything to deserve it.
Pain brought him back to the present, realizing that he'd been pressing most of his body weight forward onto the hand not holding the gun, and that hand was currently bracing on a very uncomfortable stick. He couldn't have spaced out for more than a couple of heartbeats, but that was more than enough. "Hey," he called, his voice a little breathless and strained even as he tried to layer confidence and good-natured humor behind it. "I couldn't smack you on the ass from here. Figured that was the next best thing."