He didn't know how she could still weigh nothing, exude nothing, when he took her to him. With all the things he'd lost, was still loosing, you would have though it'd be at least a little trying to pull at a person. All the lightness that had made her the perfect snack for hyena trio, of the Reno he'd known. She'd not grown at all then, in flesh. Perhaps that's how he wanted it. Perhaps he was grateful for that. It was a blaring reminder that the rest of the world still maintained its density and amplified resistance, when his arm not encircling her shoulders thought it would close the door after her. The shoulder joint relied on his ribs for leverage, and that in turn brought his curved bones to recall fantastically uninvited boots. There is no bravery left for you here, Volk Wicker. She must have felt the scrapping of the idea, which left the truck gaping. His fingers glided with eager defeat off the blade of the door's side. Big brother onto baby sister, finally. If it couldn't be about pride, it had to be about practicality. And in the end, survival. He laughed to reject her defense, like running the truck through their battlefield had been staying put, and that hurt so much he wanted to cry against her.<br/><br/>The boy tried to count the breaches to his human hull while the hall passed by in whatever pace Reno chose. No glittering little girl's laughter while her borrowed big brother chased her, intentionally dragging his feet. No mother following after, telling father something about how the girl would hurt herself. Stupidly, Volk tried to help, and was sure he was pushing in to her, upsetting her balance more than he was adding to their advancement. Despite this, she had them in the bathroom, and he got to lay down eventually, body in the bell of the bowl, submerged in the echo of his dull landing. He wouldn't have known what to say, laying there, eating the soup of his own blood and spit, head on the edge, hooked there to keep him as he was, but Reno didn't wait for conversation, and he didn't argue when she took off the deliberately simple, expensive, now gloriously stained and used and shredded gray fabric.<br/><br/>Somehow it wasn't a disaster. Things were broken, how could they not be, and he was breathing like a bag of chicken bones, and there was the violent clouds just below his complexion with their beginning sick colors, but he lived, didn't he, and he'd made it here. Theater of heroism, as presented by ruptured blood vessels and inflammatory responses. Muscles there, denied because it's artful to look strong and starved at the same times, says the city girls, and his trademark stretched-out being. Volk wasn't ashamed. They'd not lived the kind of lives that made it hard to see the handsome in hardship, even if he didn't like to apply that kind of experienced eye on his baby Reno. Her lightly raking touch was good to remind him that there wasn't just pain left. Little girl, curious about all the nuances of a body that had protected something.<br/><br/>It hurt her, his state, and he stared at his sister when she took the time to suffer too. He didn't know if he was expressing what he wanted with his face. They were the same, finally, for at least these heartbeats - he was at some of the earlier, unsure stages of dying, and she was still hoping for some relief for herself. He'd forgotten he loved her, and she was reminding him, tear by tear. All these apologies. He rustled, a burst of saccharine jewels stopped by the back of his hand not holding her. His sister thought he'd die. He wasn't done proving himself tonight. His breath burned through his nose when he sat up better, and held out both arms to line her cheeks so she'd look at him clearly. Every little bit hurt, but he discovered that the wholly incompetent Chris had not put a lot of attention toward his head. The runaway prince must be beautiful, or his story ends.<br/><br/>"You're doing fine, Ren." said through rose garden mouth, black petals, shining with spittle. Sometimes his eyes hung, like the strings of the Volk doll had detached from keeping the marbles in the sockets level, and sometimes they were vivid with engagement from whatever new surge of pain wanted to deliver new information. He was the machine that his parts built, and right now he only had the power of this perpetual thrum of pain. This should be a sullen scene, children without parents, but he was in the epilogue of an impossible victory, and the girl he'd forgotten to become this half-person was concerned rather than that venomous, melting thing he'd found by father's stone. Things hurt, but they were all also falling into place. He wasn't afraid of the fractures in his upholstery, if the ones in her were healing. Pink tongue to start scrubbing the scabbed corner of his cut up-mouth. He nodded with a head that just might not be concussed.<br/><br/>"Sure. I can stand. But I don't want to." If he laughed there'd be more bloodspill. His fingers tried to stay on her face but the bones of his wrists clattered against the enamel by his legs, anyway. He sighed and already missed himself. He's chin had dropped. Perhaps he died. He still answered her. "I had to." he objected. If there was anything that was his, it was to help Reno when bigger boys came to bully her. This had all been for him anyway. A Burning Bear welcome. Volk sounded bitter about it. The guilty like to disperse blame. It wasn't for her though, even if it sounded like it.<br/><br/>He knew what would have happened. Either they hadn't come, or Reno would be much more familiar with her guests. The hatred gave him a welcome brook of strength. "You're welcome, princess." His tongue stuck against everything in his mouth. Volk scrambled some nerves and sinew, and had it lift his arm so a finger would touch his own cheek, where he signaled her to kiss it. "Now, give me something to drink and smoke, would you?" Jacket, bag, really anything of his that had pockets should also host his needlessly fancy brand of rolls. Black filters and white paper - he really was an asshole. And he'd even take that cinnamon poison now. He knew she put food on tables for money, but he figured this was overtime, since he'd done some of the work already, tonight.<br/><br/>If she did try for the cigarettes in his bag, she'd discover a generous number of rolls. White paper and green ink, the kind people broke their backs for. It wasn't impossible for him to have it, depending on how she suspected he lived his life away from here, but it should put at least a few questions in her mind. There are images that come with duffel containers and greater volumes of cash, after all. If she thought brother was pristine when he played with her in the woods, she should see the shadowy tail now. Things are complicated with heroes that do a villain's work.<br/><br/>If she didn't go, Volk would treat her to the three o'clock special. The kind of deer he hunted in heart-poor, neon rich forests were preferably always harder to come by. A woman at some career zenith that crossed his walk from cafes, a good daughter lost down town by his showroom. Affections that were locked-up tight and meant for someone else, or for no one at all. Even after adventures with a witty stranger with a short name, they could be prone to resist. And when they were at their last possible impasse at the bluest depths of the night, he'd sell them something about the mountains, and how he didn't have a home here, where everything was asphalt, and visit some true longing in him so that it would look like the shrugging kind of sorrow on his face. It unfurled them, so they could be unspeakable together. It was out of place that he should try that kind of trick on his sister for cigarettes and a drink, but he was aching for those comforts now, and his selfishness in the wake of backwater miracles was returning.<br/><br/>Volk of course had enemies in his newer home. He was a contender himself. All things that have value have callers. Sometimes it was a matter of political things, a continuation of the finery that started in high-school. He did what he could there, towering when he needed to command, and lonely when they had something to give him for free. But on the sidewalk outside of buildings with violent music, or in alleys where brutes with good shoes found him for any sleight he was most assuredly guilty to, he'd been brought back to Burning Bear, where his dishonest style of fisticuffs and lightning deceits were sampled by one or many cologne cubs. It was good to taste authentic again.<br/><br/>If Reno came back, with any of the things he'd asked for, she would see her brother had recouped a little. He was sitting better against the enamel, and eager to wash his blood down with her father's poison. It's not so good to be lighting things up indoors, but he'd expect her to do it for him anyway. Tile and faucets are precautions, and little girls with their hearts out usually like to put a flame to their guest's face. He hoped to be breathing lighter with tendrils coming out of his nose while his tongue was clinically clean - thank you lingering cinnamon ghost - with a warring arm slung over tub side, pinching a needlessly elegant roll with its ember end. Again he'd come from broken poet to a rudely provocative hooligan, after his great collision.<br/><br/>He'd relish in the downtrodden epic for a few pendulums. Always the narcissist ready to enjoy if never write his own scenes. And then, if sister would have it, since she was part of this too, the cigarette V would point to his legs, where he meant for her to climb in and sit, so he could start playing with her as well. Did you think I saved you for free, little girl? Bad attitude that tried to hide itself inside whatever stupor he relied on - battery or booze. Using up years on his liver and lungs was lovely and all, but teasing Reno was better. All of Burning Bear would agree to that. He put the roll in his mouth so that his words were italic.<br/><br/>"How do you know Collin? I never introduced you to him." Like one fight hadn't been enough. He'd loved her enough to die in headlight deeds, why was he seething a little, now?