Re: Allen + Henri | FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT
A dozen yards away, the bartender spoke with a pair of friends. Henri handed his jacket, a light summer affair bundled around a few items, to Antoine, and leaned briefly to whisper in Ciara's ear. When he straightened, he rolled his shoulders, and took one of Antoine's cigarettes, tucking it behind his right ear. Without another word, he turned, and stalked across the festival yard.
As he walked, he undid his shirt, button by button, in time with the steady drumbeat behind his ribs. At this moment, Henri didn't stroll, no lazy loping gait to slide his body where it happened to go. This was a stalking march, deliberate, graceful, and direct. As he wove around the dancers and laughing celebrants, he kept his eyes fixed on one man's back.
He unbuttoned his cuff links, smiled at a memory mere weeks old, that he would hold as long as he had wits. In the dark, his flashing eyes were nothing out of the ordinary. Tonight, everyone's eyes reflected a roaring fire.
He moved past the last crowd that stood between he and the Marshall. The Law. Another shrug of his shoulders, three more steps. Two more heartbeats, thunder in the very center of him. One deep breath, and a single sentence, spoken in an unmistakable patois drawl.
"Hey, you gotta light for me, Hangman?"
He planted his feet, just as you taught me, hips twisting to drive the motion, shoulder and arm forcing all of their power into a single point. The balled right fist flew forward, precise as a foreman's hammer, as Bellamy turned around.