A HTJ double drabble

Scotty peered into the kitchen. Kelly sat half-hunched in the chair by the table, bad leg out before him in an attempt to ease the pain made by the remaining shackle; the wound was still seeping. He was loading a small caliber rifle, .22, Scotty guessed. He didn't look up, just concentrated on his task, slowly taking a bullet from the box of cartridges and then slipping it into the chamber. Taking another and doing it again. He seemed all right, but…

In the bedroom Scotty put some items he'd been juggling in his hands onto the bed. "Wire up that window," he directed to Harry Miller.

Back in the kitchen he placed the last two items in his grasp onto the table– ammonia and nitrate fertilizer. And felt that stir again, that sense of change in Kel, something new…better.

"We can combine this to make some bombs," he explained to Kelly's bowed head. "Think you can ignite them with that?"

Kelly nodded. He put the rifle down, took a breath, and looked up.

Scotty saw the tiny relief gleaming through the wash of stress and pain.

"He said…" Kelly rasped, then swallowed. He tried again. "He said… welcome home."