What Good Guys Do

When you don't have the motivation for your first two unfinished novels, it's time for... working on your THIRD unfinished novel!

"What's wrong?"

Estelle's eyes searched my face in confusion, and there was a certain naivity in her failure to grasp the gravity of the situation that made me wish I'd never gotten her involved. She wasn't thinking the way I was; despite what had happened in our mutual past, her world was still a PG-13 movie. The good guys always won, and when the bad guys went down, it was fast and peaceful and the blade didn't have a speck of blood on it. I knew well enough by now that "winning" doesn't exist in reality, at least not in the clean way most people think of it. How her brain managed to block that knowledge out while mine could think of nothing else was a mystery to me.

"It's just... this isn't what good guys do."

It sounded so trite, but it was true.

"Good guys don't rescue their friends?"

Her expression was going from innocent to just plain baffled.

"If you saw your neighbor's house being broken into by an armed robber, would you call the police, or sneak in around back and hope the stray bullets don't hit the kid next door while you deal with it yourself?" I frowned. "Vigilantism is gratifying, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's the right choice. If this happens, anyone present could be hurt or killed, and not everyone is fairytale good or evil. Some of them are doing this to put food on the table for their families. Some of them are going to be kids brought there by misguided parents. Some of them are going to be preternaturals caught in the crossfire."

"Then why are you doing it?" She had a puzzled dog head-tilt that seemed more befitting to one of my proclivities. "Preternatural fighting operations are illegal; wouldn't the police be obligated to bust one of this magnitude?"

I nodded, eyes closed and fingers pressed to my forehead.

"They'd be more than happy to take down one this big, absolutely. And do you know what happens when armed police officers flying high on adrenaline and bravado come face to face with terrified, drugged wereanimals?"

Finally, an understanding. Estelle propped her head on her hand and looked out the window with a sigh.

"So basically, you can follow the law, call the cops, and risk innocent therians dying... or you can go in yourself and risk bystanders dying on your conscience." I didn't think a smile could be exasperated, but hers was. "I think you should call the police. Can't it be someone else's danger for once, someone else's guilt?"

I reached out and laid my hand gently over hers.

"It's my guilt either way."

And damnit, I believed it. I believed it like the whole thing rested in my hands, like my action or inaction was so important that it could sway the outcome entirely. How foolish. How arrogant. How... me.

The scrape of Estelle's chair across the floor as she scooted closer shook me from my thoughts. I looked up to meet soft, compassionate blue eyes. She squeezed my shoulder firmly.

"That's why you're a good guy."

She leaned forward, lips slightly parted, mouth hesitating over mine as if waiting for Mr. Good Guy to live up to his namesake and stop this. I cradled her face in my palms, listened to the quickening throb of her heart, cursed myself, then pressed my lips to hers. My arms folded around her, a perfect fit - envelope and letter - and I let myself get lost in the sensation of her warm body pressed to mine.

This isn't what good guys do.