Joe Homberg, Lance AlversSummary:
Post-arson, Joe contemplates his actions.Warnings:
IPPrivate, unless you have good reason to be there.
He felt unclean. He could still smell the smoke, knew that it clung to his clothes, even after he walked around until morning. He'd gone into a bathroom, splashed water in his face, but part of him swore there was still soot somewhere, ash in his hair. But no one gave him a second look when he entered the cafe. One large coffee in his hands, he'd made his way back to the apartment, feet knowing the way even as his mind continued to wander. He didn't remember opening the door, but he remembered locking it, tossing the keys on the table and then sitting down.
The first sip still burned his tongue. He'd gone all that way just smelling the stuff, but the first taste brought a small wave of relief over him. Usually he'd have a cigarette, but he'd had enough of smoke right now. This would do for now.
It didn't stop the lingering thoughts. He'd burned that place to the ground. He'd knocked out the lone clerk inside and let go. Firefighters would have a hell of a time pinpointing a point of origin before giving into the idea that it was a freak. It wasn't just arson, either. That clerk...he was dead for sure. He hadn't bothered to check for anyone else. As soon as he couldn't see anymore he'd bolted, coughing out smoke and into an ally. His feet had carried him in an almost zigzagging pattern the rest of the night.
So he'd killed. It wasn't the first time his power had gotten out of control, but it was the first time he'd acknowledged the fact that someone would get hurt. That he didn't care. That there was even a choice about that man's death. He could've dragged him outside. Instead, he cremated him.
Another hot sip and a slower exhale. How was he supposed to feel? Was that twisting in his stomach guilt for killing? Guilt for going against his superiors? For staying out all night? Was it even guilt?
God, he hated emotions, there were too many of them. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers insisting they felt ashes and he shook it out before rubbing at the migraine he'd developed.