Disclaimer: As usual, they aren't mine.
"You want to get out of here?"
Her tone is casual, like she's making the suggestion for his benefit, but he recognizes the signs. She's been bouncing off the walls for hours now, every movement a little too quick, unable to stand still. He's aware of the outcome of today's mission, but he would have been able to figure it out even if he had not already known.
He has been pretending to be absorbed in the text he's been trying to read for at least 30 minutes. He hasn't turned one page since opening the book, but he makes a show of closing it anyway.
"Okay."
* * *
She is only pretending to be intoxicated, and he is only pretending to believe her.
For him, two drinks became four, and there might have been more after that. He has always been able to handle his liquor well, but this isn't an upscale establishment; the drinks are watered down, and the water in this country is similar to sludge. She wisely limited her consumption to just enough so that he and all other casual observers would believe her judgment was impaired. He was not so wise, and she had watched him drink without advising caution, merely observing with a bemused, tolerant smile. The gesture was nearly maternal, and when that thought occurred to him he felt compelled to order another round.
She asks him to dance without saying a word, and he stares at her hand around his wrist, his mind blurred slightly by cheap liquor and bad water. He can see the outline of veins beneath the skin, and remembers pressing his mouth against the blue one night, trying to feel the blood pulsing beneath his teeth, maybe to test its temperature.
They are almost lost in the crowd of anonymous bodies moving in time to an unremarkable beat, damp with sweat and propelled by inebriation. They are almost as faceless as the others, but not quite. He struggles to make out her features in the near-darkness, and when he is finally able to focus, he almost forgets that he swore the last five times he fell before this would be the last.
Over the speakers, a woman purrs in the language of this country, but he can't make out the words or even the melody beneath all the noise.
He places his hands gingerly around her waist, showing uncharacteristic restraint. She grips his shoulders tightly, and moves with her eyes closed. Like this, she could be anyone, and it occurs to him that no one who sees her here tonight will ever know the truth about her. That's probably why they're here.
His mind is drifting again, away from her, away from this scene, when the incessant noise and the familiar feeling of fingers pressing hard into his flesh jolt him into a scene from the past: other, younger, crueler hands, shoving him down, again and again. Driven by instinct, he pushes back the way he never did before.
Her eyes open, but his remain closed as they cease the charade of dancing and she leads him away from the crowd, into a dark hallway. Back here, the heat fades just slightly and an almost imperceptible breeze breathes across bare, wet skin; her shoulders, his neck. He suppresses a shudder as a chill passes through and finds her suddenly staring back with something curiously close to concern, her senses mysteriously sharp again. "Are you all right?" she asks, placing a gentle hand on his arm.
He blinks hard before answering. The automatic response, of course, is a curt "I'm fine," but he bites it back; she actually means well. "Just a bad trip," he says, offering a brief smile.
"We should get back."
He nods, but does not move to leave. Neither does she. Instead he leans back against the cold concrete wall, waiting for his pulse to slow, which it does not. She mirrors this gesture, and he is surprised by the uncertainty in her stare, but he does not say what she wants to hear. Instead he lets his eyes drift closed, just for a second. Soon her bare skin is beneath his hands, and both of her hands are clutching his face. In his haze it occurs to him that she would never let anything like this show if she thought he would remember the next day.
A small noise rises in her throat; he doesn't hear it, but he feels it, and he's surprised to find that he is the one who has moved, pressing her against the wall. She is not resisting, but he eases off anyway without breaking contact. When they retreat to their corners, equally aware that this cannot happen here or now or ever again, he looks to her for a cue as to what to do next.
She just smiles at him and walks away.
He will, of course, follow.
* * *
Every time this happens now he thinks it is her way of saying goodbye, but it never is.
They barely make it to the car.
Afterward, when they arrive, he casually places his hand on her back as they walk toward the door; he will have this to remember during daylight, when such contact is forbidden.
He leads the way inside but stops suddenly. She lingers in the doorway, and he wonders if she will stand her ground or take the opportunity to make one of her famous escapes.
The room is dark, illuminated only by errant strands of light streaming in through the open door, which just barely illustrate the profile of a figure sitting in the chair he vacated hours ago. When the man speaks, his voice is not angry or petulant; instead, his tone is clipped and careful.
"Where have you been?"
"You want to get out of here?"
Her tone is casual, like she's making the suggestion for his benefit, but he recognizes the signs. She's been bouncing off the walls for hours now, every movement a little too quick, unable to stand still. He's aware of the outcome of today's mission, but he would have been able to figure it out even if he had not already known.
He has been pretending to be absorbed in the text he's been trying to read for at least 30 minutes. He hasn't turned one page since opening the book, but he makes a show of closing it anyway.
"Okay."
* * *
She is only pretending to be intoxicated, and he is only pretending to believe her.
For him, two drinks became four, and there might have been more after that. He has always been able to handle his liquor well, but this isn't an upscale establishment; the drinks are watered down, and the water in this country is similar to sludge. She wisely limited her consumption to just enough so that he and all other casual observers would believe her judgment was impaired. He was not so wise, and she had watched him drink without advising caution, merely observing with a bemused, tolerant smile. The gesture was nearly maternal, and when that thought occurred to him he felt compelled to order another round.
She asks him to dance without saying a word, and he stares at her hand around his wrist, his mind blurred slightly by cheap liquor and bad water. He can see the outline of veins beneath the skin, and remembers pressing his mouth against the blue one night, trying to feel the blood pulsing beneath his teeth, maybe to test its temperature.
They are almost lost in the crowd of anonymous bodies moving in time to an unremarkable beat, damp with sweat and propelled by inebriation. They are almost as faceless as the others, but not quite. He struggles to make out her features in the near-darkness, and when he is finally able to focus, he almost forgets that he swore the last five times he fell before this would be the last.
Over the speakers, a woman purrs in the language of this country, but he can't make out the words or even the melody beneath all the noise.
He places his hands gingerly around her waist, showing uncharacteristic restraint. She grips his shoulders tightly, and moves with her eyes closed. Like this, she could be anyone, and it occurs to him that no one who sees her here tonight will ever know the truth about her. That's probably why they're here.
His mind is drifting again, away from her, away from this scene, when the incessant noise and the familiar feeling of fingers pressing hard into his flesh jolt him into a scene from the past: other, younger, crueler hands, shoving him down, again and again. Driven by instinct, he pushes back the way he never did before.
Her eyes open, but his remain closed as they cease the charade of dancing and she leads him away from the crowd, into a dark hallway. Back here, the heat fades just slightly and an almost imperceptible breeze breathes across bare, wet skin; her shoulders, his neck. He suppresses a shudder as a chill passes through and finds her suddenly staring back with something curiously close to concern, her senses mysteriously sharp again. "Are you all right?" she asks, placing a gentle hand on his arm.
He blinks hard before answering. The automatic response, of course, is a curt "I'm fine," but he bites it back; she actually means well. "Just a bad trip," he says, offering a brief smile.
"We should get back."
He nods, but does not move to leave. Neither does she. Instead he leans back against the cold concrete wall, waiting for his pulse to slow, which it does not. She mirrors this gesture, and he is surprised by the uncertainty in her stare, but he does not say what she wants to hear. Instead he lets his eyes drift closed, just for a second. Soon her bare skin is beneath his hands, and both of her hands are clutching his face. In his haze it occurs to him that she would never let anything like this show if she thought he would remember the next day.
A small noise rises in her throat; he doesn't hear it, but he feels it, and he's surprised to find that he is the one who has moved, pressing her against the wall. She is not resisting, but he eases off anyway without breaking contact. When they retreat to their corners, equally aware that this cannot happen here or now or ever again, he looks to her for a cue as to what to do next.
She just smiles at him and walks away.
He will, of course, follow.
* * *
Every time this happens now he thinks it is her way of saying goodbye, but it never is.
They barely make it to the car.
Afterward, when they arrive, he casually places his hand on her back as they walk toward the door; he will have this to remember during daylight, when such contact is forbidden.
He leads the way inside but stops suddenly. She lingers in the doorway, and he wonders if she will stand her ground or take the opportunity to make one of her famous escapes.
The room is dark, illuminated only by errant strands of light streaming in through the open door, which just barely illustrate the profile of a figure sitting in the chair he vacated hours ago. When the man speaks, his voice is not angry or petulant; instead, his tone is clipped and careful.
"Where have you been?"