[ It's been a week since people began returning to normal, longer since his encounter with Sparkling, that's left partially healed gashes across his chest. Now more than ever he feels like this meetup with Jonathan, this tiny slice of normality they've carved out for themselves, in spite of all the things that are constantly happening around them, it's something he needs. They set a time and a place, and, when it eventually rolls around; Abbacchio isn't there.
He's not far, in fairness. Maybe three, four blocks away.
When he'd left that evening, he knew something was wrong. He took care to eat extra this week, still recovering from the injuries— it's been easier, to maintain certain needs when Fugo is so meticulous about feeding — and yet, something is still off. It's like an itch that crawls up his spine.
A commotion outside a corner store draws his attention, and when he reaches the scene it's to see two men, one of them palming off something to the other, this one in a clean, neatly pressed uniform. Something flashes in him, something irate that lingers just under the surface most days and reaches its boiling point. He diverts his route, following after the police officer, and it's like something switches on, and he's engaged, activated. He's no longer pursuing a dirty cop, he's hunting prey, and he kicks off the ground to swoop at the officer, adrenaline flooding into his system as an instinctual, hungering desire overtaking every conscious thought.
Claws sink deep into the man's shoulder blades, bone gives in under his pressure — he lets out the start of a scream, silenced in an instant by a sharp snap, head left turned at an unnatural angle. Just as fast as he'd lunged, he takes off again to the air, pupils nothing more than narrow slits as he searches across the city's skyline for somewhere to take his prize.
The scent of blood reaches him, and it's overwhelming, intoxicating in how sweet it smells. But it quickly turns saccharine, roils his stomach to the point it becomes nauseating as the adrenaline begins to fade. It's happening again — it's happening again, and he doesn't know why, because he's been careful — he's been so careful to make sure that something like this doesn't happen, that he doesn't lose his sense of self, that he doesn't lose control.
When the high wears off, he's left with shaking hands, coated in cooling blood, and the dawning horror of realisation at the sight of the officer with dark brown hair and a broken neck, his face contorted and frozen in fear, blood pooling beneath him and staining his crisp white dress shirt a deep red. It's an image that is so hauntingly familiar, one that's etched into his very bones, one that he sees when he closes his eyes. It knocks all the air from his lungs.
Abbacchio doesn't move, hasn't realised that in his pursuit, it led him closer to the kitschy café he and Jonathan had chosen this time, he's only a street away, tucked into a dingy alley. He's not easy to overlook, imposing as his figure is, but the way he's on the floor and backed himself up against the wall, knees tight against his chest, his wings curled around him; he blends in with the surroundings. The only indication there's anyone in the alley are low broken breaths and the occasional quiet, choked sob. ]
action, jan 30 | cw broken bones, murder, panic + trauma response
He's not far, in fairness. Maybe three, four blocks away.
When he'd left that evening, he knew something was wrong. He took care to eat extra this week, still recovering from the injuries— it's been easier, to maintain certain needs when Fugo is so meticulous about feeding — and yet, something is still off. It's like an itch that crawls up his spine.
A commotion outside a corner store draws his attention, and when he reaches the scene it's to see two men, one of them palming off something to the other, this one in a clean, neatly pressed uniform. Something flashes in him, something irate that lingers just under the surface most days and reaches its boiling point. He diverts his route, following after the police officer, and it's like something switches on, and he's engaged, activated. He's no longer pursuing a dirty cop, he's hunting prey, and he kicks off the ground to swoop at the officer, adrenaline flooding into his system as an instinctual, hungering desire overtaking every conscious thought.
Claws sink deep into the man's shoulder blades, bone gives in under his pressure — he lets out the start of a scream, silenced in an instant by a sharp snap, head left turned at an unnatural angle. Just as fast as he'd lunged, he takes off again to the air, pupils nothing more than narrow slits as he searches across the city's skyline for somewhere to take his prize.
The scent of blood reaches him, and it's overwhelming, intoxicating in how sweet it smells. But it quickly turns saccharine, roils his stomach to the point it becomes nauseating as the adrenaline begins to fade. It's happening again — it's happening again, and he doesn't know why, because he's been careful — he's been so careful to make sure that something like this doesn't happen, that he doesn't lose his sense of self, that he doesn't lose control.
When the high wears off, he's left with shaking hands, coated in cooling blood, and the dawning horror of realisation at the sight of the officer with dark brown hair and a broken neck, his face contorted and frozen in fear, blood pooling beneath him and staining his crisp white dress shirt a deep red. It's an image that is so hauntingly familiar, one that's etched into his very bones, one that he sees when he closes his eyes. It knocks all the air from his lungs.
Abbacchio doesn't move, hasn't realised that in his pursuit, it led him closer to the kitschy café he and Jonathan had chosen this time, he's only a street away, tucked into a dingy alley. He's not easy to overlook, imposing as his figure is, but the way he's on the floor and backed himself up against the wall, knees tight against his chest, his wings curled around him; he blends in with the surroundings. The only indication there's anyone in the alley are low broken breaths and the occasional quiet, choked sob. ]