Honey Springfield was called the Handlers 'favourite' - a nickname she despised right down to the bones of her very existence - almost as much as she despised the woman herself. No one ever looked closer enough to realise that it was given to her fo...
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Honey didn't know why she did it.
But Five was busy taking care of their target when his two friends had followed them into the alley from the bar, looking for their mate who had shoved some other guy (Five) and looked like he wanted to fight, too drunk to think clearly.
Five had let it happen, waiting by the door for him to exit to strike.
Honey was waiting in the car at the end of the alleyway.
When Five dropped their target with a gunshot to the chest, the blaring sound masked by the booming nightclub music swarming half the street, she had seen the danger coming before he had.
The music blocked the sound of the door opening again, and she had spotted the glint of a knife and for a split second, he hadn't, so he turned and fought - expecting them to be drunk and easy to subdue - but they were stocky and sharper than a man in a teenagers body.
Honey had ran and intercepted from the side, jutting herself into the space where the knife was angled down for his back as he wrestled with the gun from his attacker, unaware.
An involuntary hiss left her as he blinked, wide eyed at having attacked a teenage girl before there was a gunshot, the other body dropping at Five's feet.
Honey kicked her attacker in between the legs, dropping him to his knees. She grabbed his wrist, twisted the switchblade from his grasp and jammed it right into his carotid artery before he could make a sound. He fell to the floor, eyes wide as saucers, blood coating his front and puddling on the concrete below.
Five and Honey met eyes briefly, before they left the car and he grabbed her shoulder and in a dizzying blink, they were back in their motel and Honey snapped her eyes shut at the awful, stomach wrenching sensation as she clutched her arm tightly.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Was the first thing that flew out of his mouth.
She stood there, holding her forearm tightly, blood dripping through her fingers and onto the floor, astonished at him, wide eyed.
"What?" Was all she could ask. He hadn't even bothered to switch a lamp on, the only thing illuminating his enraged expression being the moonlight drifting through the half closed blinds behind her.
"Why would you do that?" He asked, no, demanded of her as though he genuinely couldn't fathom the concept.
He was in front of her, then, exceptionally angry at her, and she fought the urge to shuffle away from him as it practically radiated off of him in waves. Suddenly she was little kid, not knowing what she had done wrong and her arm was burning and she felt a bit sick.
"I-" she paused, not actually knowing what had come over her, just an instinct she didnt think twice about. She swayed slightly and shifted her weight, hoping he didn't notice. "I don't know..."
