Re: NYC Streets: Helena/Seven
[Something warm presses against the place where his cheek is on fire and he groans again, a sound that gurgles low in his chest. Something new, something dry that smells like foam and sterile cotton as it rasps against the skin at his throat. The eyes that cannot see (red, all red) have started to sting from the smoke that belches up through the shredded plastic and mangled steel of the truck's front end, and he wants to wipe the back of his hand over his face so that he can see but he has to find his gun. No, no, first he has to get the hands off his neck -- hands -- they belong to his brother --]
Don't! [That word comes out clearer, cutting and sharp. Seven forgets about the pistol for a moment and his hand comes up to bat at the thing that wants to strangle him, only strong enough in his weakened state to swipe his hand against Helena's like it's a caress. No, you have to fight. Grit of his teeth that sends fresh waves of agony through his swollen jaw, and then he grabs at the offending wrist in a surprisingly fierce grip. His face turns blindly towards her, latching onto one word. A word he knows.] Marta?