Work Text:
Sunburn gunshot to the throat. Rifle in hand and all. Jan's pretty and unfamiliar with it and Jørn's steaming slowly at 27 wet degrees. Okay, fine, it wasn’t the throat, it was an empty beer can propped up on a rock, but it viscerally felt like it. It’s only sweat dripping down his neck. Suntanned arms drunk and clumsy drop the weapon to the ground and fly up in the air in surrender. Jørn's own, red and raw and thinner than the joint patiently waiting in his back pocket, reach for a high five. He misses. He’s still bleeding profusely.