Separation was going to be a bitch. All those little hooks and fibers sunk into his body and brain… he wondered if McClane would maybe simply tear him apart when he broke free.

I’ll be gentle, McClane said immediately, and Riley almost choked on his beer at that, because really, how empty a promise was that?

“Yeah,” he murmured, “sure you will.”

Lord, save him from those with good intentions, for they tended to leave the worst damage. The booth felt too small suddenly, cramped and dark. He needed a distraction; he was well on the way to getting maudlin.

“You ever play darts?” he asked, sliding across the bench and out into the open.

McClane huffed, sounding grateful for the change of topic. Is that a trick question?

“You’ll like it,” Riley assured him, words lost in the general din. He made his way to the bar, mostly steady on his feet, and asked for the darts and a shot of tequila, because he seriously needed to get hammered after that morbid bit of introspection. The bartender, pock-scarred and whiskered like an old dog, grunted and handed over a glass and a scuffed and blunted set of darts. At Riley’s doubtful look, he shrugged a bony shoulder.

“Got knives, if you can handle them.”

Riley smirked. “I can handle them.”

He downed the shot, shoved the useless darts back at the man, and stretched a bit. Moving around had done the trick and shaken him out of his

dark musings, and thanks to McClane’s internal massage, his muscles felt nice and limber.

“Yeah,” the bartender grinned, “that’s what they all say,” but he leaned down and rummaged around under the bar only to resurface with a set of throwing knives he unwrapped carefully from the folds of a soft cloth.

He didn’t hand them over but led the way over to the dartboard where he curled his hand at Riley. “That’ll be ten bucks.”

Just for trying? McClane complained, which made Riley grin. Stingy alien. He could feel eyes on him, some of the other patrons taking an interest. Didn’t feel hostile, mostly curious, and he didn’t mind the audience. McClane grumbled when Riley forked over the money, then shut up expectantly when Riley took one of the knives. Riley hefted the weapon for a moment, finding it well balanced, noting the etchings along the blade.

Custom-made. Sweet.

This was going to be fun.

He hit the board on his first throw, not a bull’s eye, but more than enough to show he wasn’t going to injure himself or others. He wouldn’t have even with worse equipment. His father had taught him to throw knives when he’d been a boy and he’d kept up the practice over the years. It was fun and easy, and a lot cheaper than shooting guns.