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He smiles with his teeth bloody at Junior as he tries to regain his footing.
His face aches deeply and he can barely keep upright. He's too fucking old for these fights, for any of this. He can't find it in himself to regret his actions, but he does feel like the pain's a fucking reality awakening sensation.
So, he smiles at John and he feels a trickle of blood sliding down his chin and falling on the floor.
"You'll never fucking replace me," he grunts out and in the next instant he's kicked through the wardrobe's doors that break like mere sticks, then grabbed again into a tight chokehold. John's choking him. Fuck, John's choking him. And he'd thought they were making some sort of progress.
Fat fucking chance.
The distant noises of an imminent explosion break through the haze of being choked and alarm signals blared in Hal's mind. They were about to get blown up, about to die. Fuck, he couldn't allow that, not like this. As much as he despised the kid for being his replacement, the little cracks in John's facade were making Hal's aversion melt away and something far softer, far more dangerous settle in.
He's so close to passing out and succumbing into Junior's strong arms, but he manages to lift his hand just enough to clench his fist and create a bubble around them, shielding the two men from the blast that destroys the entire motel surrounding them.
It's black, darkness for a short while until finally Hal's eyes sting and he has to open them.
His body's crushed beneath the rubble of the motel, of his own room and he can barely feel his legs, his abdomen even. It sends a sharp pang of fear through him.
It hurts so much once awareness settles in and he can only whimper in agony as he tries to move, to dislodge himself from the mess and get up. He has to get up, god, it hurts so fucking much and...
Someone's stepping onto the remains, stepping towards him. He can hear it faintly, his ears are still ringing.
He groans as he tries to angle his head.
For a second he thinks it's John — and what wouldn't he give for it to be John, John who's come to apologize or help him, get him back out. But then he notices the long hair and at last, Zoe's face becomes clear.
She talks. He thinks he listens and maybe even responds, but it's all too much. He aches too much. He wants to rest, to close his eyes and succumb to the sweet sweet embrace of —
"Well, your trainee's left you now, ran away like a little coward. But say, how are you?" she asks, smiling down at him in that condescending manner. They're not even that far apart in age, he bitterly thinks.
"Me? I feel like a million bucks," he almost exclaims, smiling up at her in what he hopes is a charming way but really is just bloody and pathetic. "And if I know the kid well enough, I'd say... he ain't no coward."
In the next moment a shot rings out and a body drops next to him.
But nobody comes to get him for a long time. And a long time he spends crying out in pain and smiling dumbly at the ceiling as blood pools around him, as his jaw aches worse and worse and as he mourns what him and John could've had. Could've, if he wasn't the coward one.