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The darting rain seemed to grow slower as he turned, the black gun held in his dirtied hand. The water dripped from its trigger, running down the raw skin on his fingers.
And for a moment, as he aimed the gun at him, everything was silent, besides his own heartbeat pounding and throbbing harshly against his ears, against his throat, against the finger pursed on the gun’s trigger.
The last thing he registered was the look in the man’s eyes. The obvious front of rage and fury that hid poorly the look of betrayal and hurt. Leo could do nothing but watch, propped on his knees, his back straightened in both defeat and preparation — preparation for his death.
At least, it’s what it looked like to Vincent. He was ready to die. But he wasn’t. Not truly. It was all part of the tough-guy act he so stubbornly held on to.
The nerve in his trigger finger gave in. The deafening sound of a bullet filled the rooftop, echoing and ringing in his ears.
But Leo’s pained groans were louder. As the rain hastened, as time resumed its normal pace, the front he’d spent so long to build shattered. He winced, pressing a hand against the bullet wound. His gray shirt grew a dangerous crimson color, spreading quicker across his chest with the rain’s assistance. Leo struggled as he stood, his legs threatening to crash as he stumbled to the metal beam beside him.
And Vincent could only watch. The gun slipped from his hand, his dirt-covered hands now smeared in the imaginary blood of the man.
He was an officer of the law. Leo was an escaped criminal. This was his job. To stop criminals.
So why, if it was his job, did he feel so guilty ?
Vincent stood with the aid of the wet ground below. He’d never felt this guilty before, never in his line of work. Leo was certainly not the first convict he’d shot before — perhaps not as dramatic as this, but regardless, not the first.
Leo slid down weakly, his legs finally giving in to the pain. His breath became labored, his eyes unfocused on his surroundings. He was running out of time, and quickly.
But this was it, this was his job completed. Vincent could watch his eyes flutter to a close, could watch the rise and fall of his chest die out. That was all that was left. But this guilt…
The man’s unfocused eyes, lost in the rain, found his. They met, with not a single word spoken. The vulnerability was not only physical, but right there, in his eyes. The same eyes that seemed to have the light slowly drowned out of them as time passed.
Vincent staggered toward him, and stood just above him. The crimson blood began to puddle around his body, his clothes and arms tainted mockingly in the liquid. The pained moans grew more frequent, more real, as Leo failed to suppress them any further. There was no point in hiding it.
He was going to die.
No… no. He shouldn’t have to die.
Leo was - is a good man, a good husband, a good father. Vincent knew what it must’ve been like in that position. His own wife was waiting for him. Carol was waiting for him. And his daughter — oh, his daughter. She’d just been born and already meant the entire world to him, just as Carol did.
He was a criminal, yes, but he was a good man. And that was more important than anything Vincent could’ve thought of.
He stepped forward. He held his hand out, an offer of comfort, even with the risk of meeting the man’s wrath.
And, after a moment of hesitance, Leo reached his own bloodied hand out in return.
Their hands clasped together, an audible clap as they joined. Leo squeezed against his hand, not in rage, not in anger, but in appreciation.
Yes, this was Vincent’s job, to put a stop to criminals. But this was the same job he was willing to give up for his family. Leo would do the same, he was sure of it. Because he was a good man. And a good man deserved to live.
As Leo’s eyes began to flutter, Vincent reached for the man’s inner arm, and pulled him up before he could have a chance to refuse.