reacher hates you.

countless times he had been injured, thanks to you. in addition to that is your involvement in the deaths of the members of his unit— our unit— and the fact that you're also working for langston, the very part of your con that he don't understand.

his job demands him to keep his personal feelings as far apart from work as possible, as if he wasn't doing that already since the beginning. and if it's in the best interest of the mass, he will collaborate or sacrifice a local idiot bastard. and while he's always the best at disguising emotions— with the exception of his inability to hold back his actions— he makes an effort not to express them when it's evident that doing so is a poor idea— but now? no. he made no effort at all.

not when you're bleeding from the neck. shot.

and here he thought he'd managed to bare the cards you possess. the best and the worse of you. the face you make when you kill, the look when you're furious, the expression you have when you argue against him to point we look like barking leashed neighbor dogs. it scares him how foreign you look at this moment— ten feet can't feel any more distant than right now.

you shouldn't have taken the goddamn bullet for him. why would you? how could you? you could've lied like you always do. stab him in the back and front, shoot him. abandon him and those around you, as always. that's what you're best at, right? so why didn't you? why do you have to be so damn difficult?

"look at me. look at me." reacher clenched his teeth. his tone roughened. shadows flashing in his eyes as he growled, ripping off his glove with teeth in a blink and grabbed your face— ruining everything between them—the hate and betrayal gone in a flash from his mind the second your precious rubies seep through his fingers trying to cover the wound on your neck— and just like that he forgives you. and he hates that the answer as to why is simply because it's you.

"don't fucking close your eyes."