And Wash wasn't wrong; Felix was really good at that, really good at getting in, making it count, making it hurt. He wanted to carve his name into every tree trunk before he chopped it down and set fire to the wood. But while knives were intimate, while knives were close and carved and chipped away at doubt and defenses until they got at the heart, they were ultimately just a tool.
Felix wasn't a tool of Hargrove. He did it because he wanted to. Because he had fun with it.]
You weren't there for a lot of it, Wash. [Stuck with the Feds. Stuck with Locus. Locus was easier; the air around him was different.] I hung around him. I got drunk with him. When we had good missions, we fucking celebrated, and when we had bad ones, he called me out on it. I...He was a friend.
[Fingernails dug deep into his sleeves, jaw tight. His eyes weren't on Wash; they were on the knife.]
...But I was never a fucking friend to him. I was fucking up left and right; everything was a shitshow, and it was secretly his fault as much as it was mine. But he was the only fucking person who I thought knew what the hell to do. He was the only one I could fucking look to. He was--
[you]
--someone that didn't fucking exist. And you think that would make shit easier, right? But noooooo, it doesn't, because that just means he was fucking laughing at me the entire time and I should've been able to tell! I had all the fucking time in the goddamn world to see through it and I didn't. How fucking stupid am I?
[What if someone else had gotten hurt? What if he had killed Caboose or Grif or Simmons or Kimball?
He started to move, to pace again, to do something because this was tension, this was wound up, wrapped up and he couldn't sit still.] But he's dead, Wash. Ding-fucking-dong, the bitch is dead. So this shit? All this shit? It doesn't fucking matter anymore. There's nothing to fucking worry about and I'll fight with swords and you can keep your knives and everyone can forget that that part of Chorus happened.
wow, we're can talk a lot about feelings.
And Wash wasn't wrong; Felix was really good at that, really good at getting in, making it count, making it hurt. He wanted to carve his name into every tree trunk before he chopped it down and set fire to the wood. But while knives were intimate, while knives were close and carved and chipped away at doubt and defenses until they got at the heart, they were ultimately just a tool.
Felix wasn't a tool of Hargrove. He did it because he wanted to. Because he had fun with it.]
You weren't there for a lot of it, Wash. [Stuck with the Feds. Stuck with Locus. Locus was easier; the air around him was different.] I hung around him. I got drunk with him. When we had good missions, we fucking celebrated, and when we had bad ones, he called me out on it. I...He was a friend.
[Fingernails dug deep into his sleeves, jaw tight. His eyes weren't on Wash; they were on the knife.]
...But I was never a fucking friend to him. I was fucking up left and right; everything was a shitshow, and it was secretly his fault as much as it was mine. But he was the only fucking person who I thought knew what the hell to do. He was the only one I could fucking look to. He was--
[you]
--someone that didn't fucking exist. And you think that would make shit easier, right? But noooooo, it doesn't, because that just means he was fucking laughing at me the entire time and I should've been able to tell! I had all the fucking time in the goddamn world to see through it and I didn't. How fucking stupid am I?
[What if someone else had gotten hurt? What if he had killed Caboose or Grif or Simmons or Kimball?
He started to move, to pace again, to do something because this was tension, this was wound up, wrapped up and he couldn't sit still.] But he's dead, Wash. Ding-fucking-dong, the bitch is dead. So this shit? All this shit? It doesn't fucking matter anymore. There's nothing to fucking worry about and I'll fight with swords and you can keep your knives and everyone can forget that that part of Chorus happened.