It says something about Cricket that he's more upset by the idea that he might have killed someone than the fact that he was attacked, himself. Upset enough, in fact, to seek out law enforcement of some sort, when he's been burned by the authorities in his own world and has every reason to mistrust them. In a few days, maybe, he'll settle down and be able to view what happened rationally, to articulate why he made the choices he did. Self-defense is a pretty legitimate excuse, under the circumstances.
At the moment, though, he's just horrified by the idea of someone dead on the floor of his bedroom. It's not like he hasn't seen violent deaths before. Technically he's held a candle to a few just by working for the Bondurants, and once or twice he even helped wash blood off their clothes. Didn't ask where it came from or if whatever shed it was still living. Didn't want to know.
But there's a difference between seeing violence and committing violence.
He starts slightly at the hands on his shoulders, looking up at Steve with wide blue eyes. Dimly he recognizes the face in the PSA, vaguely he wonders why he hasn't seen him in the flesh before if he's been here all this time, but he knows he's being handled and is willing to trust it's by someone well-meaning. He takes a breath, leans into the support, and closes his eyes for a moment.
He shifts a little from one leg to the other, and the braces clink softly under his clothes. "Not quite a half mile," he says, voice still shaky, but the support is clearly helping to calm him. "Same place Harley Quinn lives, only she ain't been there on account of tryin' to help out. I was the only one home."
"There was two of 'em, and I reckon I hit both of 'em, because there was a blood trail on the doorstep. The one that ran away can't have been hit as bad, but I don't know about the one that passed out." There's a spasm of distress across his face, but he manages to fight it down and opens his eyes again.
"It's a Webley .455 Mk VI, sir," he says. "That I shot with. In case that matters."
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At the moment, though, he's just horrified by the idea of someone dead on the floor of his bedroom. It's not like he hasn't seen violent deaths before. Technically he's held a candle to a few just by working for the Bondurants, and once or twice he even helped wash blood off their clothes. Didn't ask where it came from or if whatever shed it was still living. Didn't want to know.
But there's a difference between seeing violence and committing violence.
He starts slightly at the hands on his shoulders, looking up at Steve with wide blue eyes. Dimly he recognizes the face in the PSA, vaguely he wonders why he hasn't seen him in the flesh before if he's been here all this time, but he knows he's being handled and is willing to trust it's by someone well-meaning. He takes a breath, leans into the support, and closes his eyes for a moment.
He shifts a little from one leg to the other, and the braces clink softly under his clothes. "Not quite a half mile," he says, voice still shaky, but the support is clearly helping to calm him. "Same place Harley Quinn lives, only she ain't been there on account of tryin' to help out. I was the only one home."
"There was two of 'em, and I reckon I hit both of 'em, because there was a blood trail on the doorstep. The one that ran away can't have been hit as bad, but I don't know about the one that passed out." There's a spasm of distress across his face, but he manages to fight it down and opens his eyes again.
"It's a Webley .455 Mk VI, sir," he says. "That I shot with. In case that matters."