[It's instinct more than a clear thought-process that alerts Durham to the constriction around his chest and urges him to act accordingly. Those now weak tendrils of sleep slip out of his reach and though he's fought hard to stay sleeping, consciousness returns to him alarmingly quickly.
Some people, on hearing about the Order for the first time, proceed to assume that it's all based and set in a James Bondesque sort of world with vodka Martinis and a Walther PPK slid under a pillow just in case. Some of them may go on to play that kind of role but, for Durham, his own role doesn't really follow along in those lines. For half a second, Durham wishes it did if only so he could slip his hand under his pillow and pull a weapon out, the panic and terror that freezes his blood cold in his veins for that millisecond before adrenaline kicks in unmistakable. It's simply Cambridge's very good fortune that he speaks before Durham finds something solid to grab on to behind him, arm already drawn up to do far more damage to one side of the other man's ribcage than he needs to.
His hesitation is framed by the relief that crashes through those same veins to settle his bubbling blood, heart thumping hard against his own ribcage and pulse point in his neck throbbing even at the back of his tongue. The pause, though only a few seconds, is followed up by a struggle, his hand clamping down over the other man's forearm to try and prise it away from his torso, legs trying their utmost to use the mattress as some form of leverage to get out of bed.
When he speaks, finally, his voice sounds loud and angry even to his own ears:]
no subject
Some people, on hearing about the Order for the first time, proceed to assume that it's all based and set in a James Bondesque sort of world with vodka Martinis and a Walther PPK slid under a pillow just in case. Some of them may go on to play that kind of role but, for Durham, his own role doesn't really follow along in those lines. For half a second, Durham wishes it did if only so he could slip his hand under his pillow and pull a weapon out, the panic and terror that freezes his blood cold in his veins for that millisecond before adrenaline kicks in unmistakable. It's simply Cambridge's very good fortune that he speaks before Durham finds something solid to grab on to behind him, arm already drawn up to do far more damage to one side of the other man's ribcage than he needs to.
His hesitation is framed by the relief that crashes through those same veins to settle his bubbling blood, heart thumping hard against his own ribcage and pulse point in his neck throbbing even at the back of his tongue. The pause, though only a few seconds, is followed up by a struggle, his hand clamping down over the other man's forearm to try and prise it away from his torso, legs trying their utmost to use the mattress as some form of leverage to get out of bed.
When he speaks, finally, his voice sounds loud and angry even to his own ears:]
What do you think you're doing?