Blonde. There was a pattern emerging, getting blonder. And Bo didn't think she had a type. Dyson was dirty blonde, Lauren delicate. She's brazen. Even drunk and breaking. Dishevelled and doused in days of dirt. Clumsily sinking, fully-clothed, into her bathtub.
'Why didn't you ask me?' Blue ice – the cool equivalent paradox to her own – bores into her face, and Bo knows instantly what she means.
'There was so much going on, I – '
'You're lying.' Her expression is unchanged.
'No, The Dawning, the Sqonk…Lauren's – '
'Stop!' She allows the bottle she'd swiped from Bo's kitchen to slip, shattering on the tile beside the bath. She's allowed her mask to slip also. Just for one excruciating moment.
Though she feels the need to continue, Bo can't speak. The blonde moves towards her again, resting bare forearms on her knees.
If the electricity were literal, they'd both be dead.
'Quite the quota you're racking up. Light, dark, Fae, human, male, female, animal.' She tips her head to howl at the cracked ceiling then for a split second an almost maniacal laugh escapes her lips before the solemn expression returns as though she'd never spoken at all. 'You're in the clear for the dead hottie though. The last one anyway; the doc's still missing.' Her eyes flare the blue of Bo's hunger now, distracting from her words. She raises one pale brow in coaxing challenge and Bo shifts beneath the weight of her upper body where it remains positioned on her knees.
'We're on a break…' she mutters weakly, suddenly concerned about the dissipating bubbles and the other woman's breath on her skin.
'You must have known it would end up like this.'
'Your bender ending in my bathtub? Nope.'
'She…' Cold fingertips trace her collarbone, eliciting an involuntary shudder. '…was never going to be enough for you…like gruel when you're craving red meat. You've been hungry for months…' She walks her fingers slowly up over Bo's shoulder and around to the nape of her neck where the loosely gathered hair sticks in damp strands to her skin.
'I love Lauren.' Her voice is breaking in the undeniable way she wishes she could break off this conversation, this contact.
'Maybe. Or maybe you just longed for love, for purity of feeling that transcends hunger, the need to feed. Something that deep down, you know we can't have.' The hand that had remained on Bo's knee begins to glide down her thigh, into the water. 'In the hierarchy of needs, we're stuck right…down…on the bottom.' Her fingers are wrapped around the curve of Bo's hip, wedged between flesh and porcelain, thumb reaching up to traverse bone.
Desire ripples through the wet in such a complicated exchange that Bo isn't sure which one of them is the origin. It's this sensation that scares and thrills her. She's so used to being the source; the control even when she's not in control.
Blonde hair, hot breath and soft, soft lips follow the path her fingers led behind Bo's ear and down into the delicate dip between neck and shoulder. Bo's knees part, her feet replanting to bookmark the body that now leans so precariously closely into her own. She doesn't even attempt to convince herself it's a matter of physics – that two objects cannot occupy the same space – because this is unequivocally chemical. Biological. Her mouth wraps itself around the silent shape of Lauren's name as her mind fleetingly offers up the association before teeth on skin tear it away.
There's a left hand on the base of her back, a right hand on the back of her neck, both tugging her forward.
'Ask me,' the blonde whispers.
You think you've seen everything and then you see you.
'Tamsin what are you doing here?' Bo's voice sounds strange, almost as though one or both of them has slinked beneath the water. 'Tamsin!' she snaps, grasping her arms and…something isn't right.
Their positions have been reversed; Tamsin's on her back and Bo is leaning into her. The warmth of the water has gone and she's suddenly sobered up enough to have a hangover. Her eyes had been open the whole time but now they see, and the pain radiates from head to toe, throbbing at every joint and pulse point. The truck. Her home. The smoke.
She bolts upright, wincing at the sharp spike along her right cheek but perversely enjoying the giddy dizziness that follows. She raises a hand to her face, gingerly exploring the stickiness with her fingers.
'How bad?'
'I gave you enough to close it, the bleeding's stopped.' The mixture of emotions on Bo's face are as open and genuine as ever, and for a moment Tamsin gets lost in reading them all.
She's scared, worried, relieved. Confused, alert and edging towards enraged. Tamsin wonders if she's maintained some sort of residual link from whatever that little fantasy bathroom scene was, because she's still experiencing Bo-by-proxy. She's had so much to deal with in her – thus far – short life; in Fae years, Bo's practically still a child, an innocent. She's bordering on had enough and Tamsin can't blame her. In all her cycles, she's truly never encountered anything like Bo. She can't – won't – be a part of her undoing.
'Are you hurt?' There's not a blemish in sight but they can't afford to leave any injuries unaddressed. 'You shouldn't have given me your chi if you need to heal…the crash must have – '
'What crash? Tamsin how did you get here? Where is here?' She helps the blonde to her feet, steadying her as she brushes away the excess dirt not yet clinging to sweat, blood or other bodily fluids.
Tamsin knows all too well where they are but she takes a moment to scan their surroundings, using the time to figure out how much – and just plain how – to explain. The sun is scorching, the sand glittering gold under its rays eliciting imaginings of Oz, but there will be no munchkins to sing them off on their route to the wizard. In fact the wizard is the last fucker they want to see in this place and they'd better get moving before his warped, less friendly version of the Lollypop Guild really does show.
'Tamsin! Will you stop with the space out! We need to get back to The Dal before World War Fae starts over this triphead-Taft stuff. Kenzi's – '
'Dyson!' Tamsin's head whips around, scanning the area where she'd come to, but before she can move further afield, Bo loses patience and grips her wrist.
'No! I don't think Kenzi's Dyson. What's going on with you?' The frowning makes her so cute in concern and absorbs Tamsin completely, rendering her momentarily useless, open. She smiles at Bo, reaches up to trace the lines that furrow her brow. Bo's lips twitch in frustration then falter.
'Did you drop acid?'
A sound like scraping metal and a puppy yelping comes from somewhere unseen and Bo's cheek turns in Tamsin's hand, warming her palm as she seeks out the source of the noise. She squints against the assault of the ethereal glint coming from everything the sun touches. The sense of unreality crawls under her skin, clawing upwards towards her brain for recognition. She turns her head back to re-establish eye contact with her only link to anything real and asks, almost hopefully, 'Did you spike me?'
Tamsin feels her protective cocoon begin to return and though it still feels wrong – draining almost – she slowly drops her hand from its resting place, cupping Bo's face.
'I wish, Sweetcheeks.' The smirk isn't quite back to form but Bo seems to relax a little at the attempt.
'You know where we are, don't you?' It's not an accusation. It should be, but Bo's looking at her with nothing but optimistic concern.
She trusts Tamsin. How can she possibly shatter that now, after everything?
'I – '
The metallic scraping is louder this time, and the puppy is older, bigger and majorly pissed off. They turn simultaneously in the now obvious direction, poised to bolt both towards and away from it. One more strained growl is enough for Tamsin to make the connection and she takes off sprinting, the mask that was mending contorted in pure, unadulterated fear.
She's a good forty feet away before she realises that Bo isn't directly aside or behind her. It's ridiculous – really, if she had time right now she'd ridicule herself – but she misses her. Physically, mentally, emotionally, she can feel that she's no longer close and the yearning she's been trying – and failing – to ignore for almost a year now, threatens to tug her back. There's an almost tangible tearing where logic and longing pull at her insides. She can't turn back, she has to keep going, but she knows she needs Bo with her.
'It's Dyson! Move your Succubutt, now Dennis!'
When she glances back there's no one there.