Title: Death Never Wears Your Face
E-mail: eli @ popullus.net
Rating: R
Posted: March 16, 2004
Summary: It hurts, until it doesn't.
Disclaimer: JJ should be glad I don't work with him. Read.
A/N: Sarkney. But if deathfic isn't your thing, turn away now. Because this would be DWP: death without plot.

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This wasn't even close to how it was supposed to end.

No blaze of glory. No nursing home, either. But dying from lungs backing up after a bullet ripped through sucked. She could hear it.

And it hurt.

"This is...what happens when idi-idiotic costumes...leave no room for..."

A hand on her chest, shifting, bumping her breast as--

Oh, better. That awful sound stopped. And the pain slowed, molasses tick tock time. Tick tocktick, running along, a metronome with a finger in the way every almost-other sweep.

She didn't want to turn her head. The floor was cool against her cheek. She might drown if she looked up as he slumped over her. Then he groaned and she blinked. No good sounds, anywhere. His weight settled, heavy, and she coughed as air and pain pushed out a whimper.

Black shiny--

Dress shoes stepping in her blood. A lot of it, spreading, oozing. More than hers. It seeped into gray cloth, knees and thighs on the side she could see. More sound faded in, rang in her ears, echoed out.

Sobbing: "Why? Why did you--? He was dead anyway!"

She saw the tears run down a twisted face. She stretched one hand out. Wanting. Reassuring. Sorry.

Her other hand stayed in its last place, resting on the head buried against her neck...until her father gathered up that hand and cursed at unblinking blue eyes.

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