AN : This week's homework prompt was the first line "can you hear me, Mr Harcourt?".
"Can you hear me? Mr Harcourt. Can you hear me?" Heavy brows drawn, Mira Orador turned from the unconscious man before her to her companion, who stood in the car doorframe with a scowl and his gun still in his hand.
Her eyes went to the weapon and narrowed. "Can you put that away." Her tone made it clear that it was not a request.
Bran's eyes —more blue-grey today— slid to her.
Her gaze burned into him until, with an irritated sigh, he put the handgun in the waistband of his worn jeans.
"Happy?" He asked.
"Not really, bobo. You just shot a man for no fucking reason."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "He was in the way."
"You were trying to break into his car!"
Pushing further into the car, he said, "Do you want to find the Mirror or not?"
Mira swallowed the torrent of curses that rose up her throat. "I want to heal this man first."
A flicker of surprise flitted across Brandon's unremarkable features before he pushed away from the car's doorframe. He glanced over his shoulder at the mostly-empty carpark of the gas station. Suspicion sharpened the shadows beneath his eyes. He turned back to her and sighed.
"We don't have time to take him to a hospital." Bran relented —the greatest display of patience he'd shown in days. Days spent in stolen cars, tearing across highways and backroads alike like drivers possessed, speaking little, if at all. Only the changing radio stations marked the passage of time during those drives.
Too much time had passed already.
Tying back her thick, black hair, Mira replied, "We won't need to take him to a hospital." At Brandon's frown, she sighed, "I have gifts other than fortune telling, bobo. You never bothered to ask." She added, seeing the accusation as he opened his mouth. A mouth which, despite being neither soft or enticing, had become increasingly interesting to her over the last couple of weeks.
Stupid. She was being stupid. And allowing herself to get distracted whilst a stranger bled out over his own driver's seat.
Dave Harcourt, his license had labelled him as.
With swift, sharp movements, she shed her leather jacket and pushed her sleeves back.
Noticing Brandon's attention, she waved him off with a scowl. "Make sure no one comes over here."
Mira wasn't sure if she imagined the offended huff as he turned away but a kernel of somewhat spiteful amusement warmed her anyway.
Then, closing her eyes, breathing in deep, she laid her ring-adorned hands over the blood-slick shirt of Dave Harcourt.
They started to glow.