of vultures.
all standard disclaimers apply. this is a work of fanfiction and therefore the author claims no legal rights to characters or implied storyline. no profit is made from this posting. the author does, however, claim all rights to the permutations of the words herein; this is his story of a story. warnings: harsh language, explicit male homosexual relationships, implied heterosexual relationships, emotional and sexual abuse, coercive sex, explicit and implied violence, intense angst. semi-canon. inescapable verbosity. you know how i roll.
01: scavenge.
"It's never about love."
Unsure what to make of this sudden confession from the erstwhile silent man beside her, unsure if she'd even understood his words, Faye Valentine simply glances sideways at him in surprise.
"It's never about love," he repeats, soft baritone voice muffled by the shotglass against his lips, curled into the barest of knowing smiles. With a swift tilt of his head he downs the amber liquid, thick trails of sugared whisky oozing down the interior when he sets it deftly atop the bar.
"What?" Faye responds in curious wonder, eyes raking over the slim masculine form crouched elegantly on the next barstool. The jazzman, she realises after noticing the length of his black hair, the one playing sax. "You were good up there."
"Best three martinis of your life, huh?" His eyes are shaded by those ebon locks, only thinly smirking lips visible in the dim club atmosphere.
Faye's eyes, unshielded and a little too bright with the drink, narrow. "Were you watching me or something?"
A low sound of mockery escapes his nose, barely a chuckle. "Of course, we don't often see new faces in this dump that are worth watching."
"Hmph," she murmurs, returning to her previous position; cradling a half-empty martini with both olives still present. "A girl comes to this kind of dump to disappear, not be seen."
"A girl like you couldn't disappear if she wanted to." He tilts his head forward even more, shrouding his entire face with a curtain of black. "What are you running from?"
"A lot of men who think like you."
"So you know how I think, do you?"
Faye lets herself enjoy a familiar smirk, plucking an olive between twin manicured nails and popping it into her mouth. "All men think like you."
The stranger smiles, teeth glinting like shards of scrap metal against the shadows covering his face. "If that were true, you'd have no reason to run."
"Is that supposed to be comforting or insulting?" Faye drawls with more swagger than she feels, tipping back the last of her fourth drink.
When she sets the wide glass down, he is gone.