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No one ever warns you about the warmth of it.
The faint, residual heat that, although nowhere near scorching, wrings a shudder from your body.
The manner in which it spills through the webbing of your fingers, coiling around each digit to reach the palms. The tackiness of it. The scent.
No one tells you what it is you should do about it either.
Do you wipe the residue onto your clothing, trusting the fabric to soak it all up?
Do you smear it across pavement, in hopes your skin will scrape off with it?
Do you scream for help? ...Should he?
The body has already gone cold. What help is there left to offer?
Dick doesn’t know what he should do. All he knows is what he’s done.
“I killed him.”
The words whispered aloud don’t yet compute in his mind. He couldn’t have possibly. He’s not capable.
And yet it’s his hand locked around the handle of the knife. It’s his T-shirt soaked in the sticky, acrid crimson evidence.
It’s his voice, choked and broken, echoing against the alley walls.
“I killed him.”
He did this.
“I killed him.”
What is he supposed to do?
“I killed him.”
He doesn’t know what to do.
“I-”
“Hey there, chickadee.” A slow, low rumble competes with the ringing in his ears. “You’re okay.” The soothing gravel of it does little to hide the concern beneath.
“I killed him,” he croaks.
“No, you didn’t.”
He isn’t listening. Jason’s gaze hasn’t landed on the blood yet. The splatters staining pavement, the streaks along the walls.
Hasn’t seen what’s lodged beneath chipped fingernails and speckled into hair. Hasn’t noticed the red coating his once-white sneakers.
The killer's hands begin to tremble.
“I killed him.”
His hands begin to tremble.
“Hey.” The voice draws nearer. “Easy, birdie. Look at me?”
“I killed him,” he gags.
“No, you just stabbed him.” It’s said with such jarring indifference. Casual. Certain. “Look.”
The gunshots ring like applause in an empty amphitheater. Dick’s body jerks violently at the sound.
“See that?” Jason says softly. “I killed him.”
Large, calloused hands ease the knife from his grip. “C’mon Sunshine. Lemme see those pretty blues.”
The murder weapon clatters to the floor, but Dick can’t follow its trajectory. Those same hands cradle his cheeks, calloused thumbs brushing over minor lacerations and a split lip.
They linger, catching tears slipping soundlessly from wet lashes. “Can you breathe for me, birdie? In and out, nice and slow.”
“He was—I didn’t mean—”
“Shhh, it’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”
“What?” He should’ve called someone. You’re supposed to call the cops when you find a body. When you leave behind a body.
“You’re not a killer, Grayson.” The tug of Jason’s lips is impossibly amused. Tires screech somewhere beyond the alley. Light spills into its mouth. Car doors open. Shapes pile out. Masked, gloved. Holding tarp and rolls of plastic sheeting.
“Even if you called it in,” Jason continues, ignoring the hustle of movement around them, “no one would believe you. You’re too good at your job.”
No one ever warns you about the warmth of it. Nor do they warn you about the cold that follows.
How it seeps into your bones when it’s scrubbed away with bleach, rolled in painter’s tarp, encased in polyethylene sheeting and loaded into the back of a ghost car.
They warn against it. Cast utmost shame upon it. Christen it a crime.
But they never tell you what to do.
They don’t tell you what to do when a handkerchief is used to carefully erase forensic traces, gingerly wiping between the webbing of your fingers, catching what leaks around each digit before it reaches the palms.
They don’t tell you what to do when a caress textured by old leather and thick knuckles dotingly smooths tousled strands from your forehead, tucking them behind your ears.
Do you pull away?
Retreat from the woodsy blend of cedarwood, cigarettes and scotch?
Withdraw from careful hands and understanding eyes?
Do you demand the victim be returned, and your transgression correctly dealt with?...He should, shouldn't he.
But muscular arms rise in quiet invitation, offering shelter. Offering to cocoon him in a warmth that does not scorch, but soothes.
How do you possibly fight against that?
Dick knows what he should do. He knows what he's done.
"There you go, Angel. I've got you."
But the Devil can be so compelling at times.