Crimson Surrender
A/N: I hate my computer. I had half of this thing typed up when it decided to restart, thus meaning that---as I hadn't saved yet---I was going to have to start allll over again.
GRRRR.
It's a bit of an apology/gift for Lyra, who's had to put up with me being slow and lazy and never finishing Monochrome In Blood for her. ::sweatdrop:: I'm going to work on it, I swear!
Disclaimer: Will kill computer for ownership of Weiss...
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Crimson Surrender
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Pain.
It burst through his wrist like a demon's fire, scourging and burning the nerves and tendons therein. So too did it bite and gnaw like the most tyrannical of oppressors, ripping out of nowhere to torment his very soul.
The feeling was enough not only to tear him out of slumber, but into the waking realm of the fiery hell-on-earth feel of the small, blackened room.
One gasp left him, empowered by the sheer force and velocity of the air now sucked into his lungs once more.
His left hand, adept at such orchestral movements at such a late hour, clutched at his burning, opposing wrist with a force that rippled pain throughout.
This timne, the noise that escaped his parched lips was the most sibilant of groans as his eyes closed, the pain ricocheting through his arm and head.
His eyes opened, their gaze rivoting on the bedside table. His hand still throbbing, the one source of possible relief gleamed by the light of the digital clock, illuminating upon the room its time---3:04 AM.
It---the handgun.
Forcibly removing his left hand from the right, he wrenched the gun into his grip. The tender caress of the metal was---for a moment---enough to help subside the pain.
Aiming at the door---still shut tight---it fell with a thud to the bedspread as the fire rose up again, devouring his will in its flame.
"Are you always so willing to take what isn't yours, Crawford-san?"
Looking into the light, he saw the outline of the speaker's body first, noticing only afterwards that the room was flooded with light from the now opened door. She stepped forward, drink in hand, and the world went dark once again, a single lamp flicked on in its wake.
The female before him took her gun from the comforter and kicked open the bedside drawer, disposing of the weapon idly inside. Her heel kicked it shut, and she sat next to the man and offered him her glass of water.
"Awake, at this hour?" he questioned, merely holding the glass as her oceanic gaze met his.
"You are as well."
A thin sneer, and he clenched his right first, the blood circulating the liquid brimstone to his entire form. She noticed it, of course, and smiled.
"I see... "
"'It is always three o'clock in the window of the soul,'" he muttered, nodding. Looking at, but never touching, her red hair, it was a cruel irony for the life that pulsed through his veins.
"Tell me," she asked, "did you think to shoot to kill?"
The razor-thin smile flit over his features, and the glass was raised to wanting lips.
"Oh, never to kill, Manx," came forth the bitter reply. "Only to repay you for this."
His hand was raised, and her eyes shone in the backness. As tenderly as only a woman could manage, she brought the offending limb to her lips, looking over the appendage to the man's eyes.
"There are better ways to go about such things," she murmured, and the same smile caught its reflection in his eyes.
"And so there are," was the agreement, and as she leaned forward so too did he.
Unnoticed, the glass fell to the carpet, its contents spilling across the rug to match the color of Crawford's bloody pain.
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FIN
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A/N: Somedaaaaaay, my priiiince will coooome... to take me to the loony bin. XD And when that happens, I will proudly explain the references to Keith Ablow's Psychopath and my obsession with blood. XD
---Gangsta Videl