WHEW! Boy, this was fun to write! I hope you people love this lil'piece of literature, featuring my 2 favorite Charles Angels characters, and also my fav. Couple. ^_^.
BTW, I don't own thin man (Anthony) ooor Dylan, so I don't want anyone getting onto me about that. LEAVE ME ALONE MR. FBI MAN!! LEAVE ME BEEEEE!!
Ok, on with dah story. ^_^
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It was quiet. Abnormally quiet.
Dylan closed the door to her apartment slowly, as to ease the door away from creaking. The apartment house (about the size of a very large living room with a kitchen) was completely dark, aside from the moonlight that shown through the tiny kitchen window. Everything seemed so peaceful, but it wasn't quite right. Everything was so still, as it should be, but a sort of unnerving still. Lifeless.
Dylan took the small leather purse off her shoulder that she had been carrying and set it down on her circular kitchen table and made her way to the light-switch. She flicked it on, but instead of being welcomed by light, the switch gave off a few sparks and hissed madly.
"Damn! A busted wire…" Dylan trailed off from her exclamatory and gazed at the entire scenery. Aside from the unnatural silence, she noticed that there where a few things out of place. Nothing large, but oddly misplaced things; her picture frames had been turned westward, where as they where facing eastward when she had left, a few new indentations in her faded green carpet from shoes she didn't own.
That was all she needed to see. Someone had been there, or was still there. Dylan quickly ran to her kitchen drawers and pulled out whatever she could grab to use as some sort of defensive weapon. She pulled out a Spork.
"Ok…whoever is in here better be getting out now!! I mean it! I…have…utensils!!" Dylan crept slowly toward the living room switch and flicked it; again, sparks and an unpleasant hiss. The moonlight would have to be her visual aid now. Tripping over a magazine here, a dirty shirt or pair of pants there; blinded by the darkness that shrouded her sight she begged that no one was in her apartment under such slight imparities: lack of good visual and weapon of choice being a pronged spoon.
She reached the center of her living space, bordered by her couch and a small coffee table. Everything else was lit up to a dull gray, and still remained untouched and dead. Dylan reached into her coat pocket and reached for a smoke and her trusty lighter, this was too much for her. Even though, compared to all the other crazy shit she had done before, this was unnerving her far too much. And, also, though she didn't take to her smoking habit quite that much, she felt like one was acceptable to her current mood.
Just as Dylan had raised the cancer stick to her mouth, she heard it. A faint breath, not her own or anyone's that she knew personally. It was a deep, faint sigh, or perhaps a moan. It whispered though the gray light of the room, and floated to her ears. Dylan's head turned sharply to the direction the moan came from, arched her arm back, and flung the Spork toward it. A loud "THUNK" came when it finally hit something, and Dylan ran over to the sound.
"Hah! Gotcha yah little…" But her words where cut off by a hand enclosing around her lips and pushed her against the wall. The hand was cold and bony; she recognized the smell of nicotine from an expensive brand of cloves wafting from the fingers. Another hand stroked her cheek lightly, the nails grazing her flesh and sending a shock of different sensations down her spine, those of fear…and those of fascination.
She could hear another sigh emerge from the shadows. The smell of smoke and strawberry (from another clove) drifted to her nose, filling her more with the same sensations. The hand that held her mouth shut had moved slowly down to her neck, it rubbed the flesh softly and warmly, her entire face suddenly turned hot. Dylan closed her eyes and feared the worst: she had lost all feeling, so she couldn't run now, she couldn't move at all. She began to realize who this was, she knew who he was. But now she didn't care, because this was what she had wanted.
Ever since he fell from that building, Dylan wished longingly that Anthony (thin man) would return. He had before, so why wouldn't he now? Because she had lost hope, because he was pronounced dead more than a year ago, because she was afraid, But now, 15 months later, here she was, pinned to the wall of her own apartment, face to face with someone whom she had dreamt about countless times since that night, since that kiss.
Anthony held her head in his hands, cupping her face as though he was going to drink from it. And so he was. He had waited long enough for his night, dreaming of her frequently and watching her obsessively. Except when she showered, he was too courteous to do something like that. But it wasn't as though he wasn't tempted. He had followed her successfully for the past 9 months, off and on, amid his duties and missions that he had to accomplish in spite of his yearning to look at her every second of the day, yearning to touch her, to feel that golden glow that she gave off so effortlessly. He wanted her to be his own. His angel…
He dipped his head to hers; he would taste that radiance once more. His lips caressed hers, carefully and perfectly, tasting her. He could smell her hair; his only distraction was her hair. It smelled so lovely; it was soft to the touch and smelled entirely of her, but more. He moved one hand to her hair, the silkiness of it through his fingertips sent his mind racing madly. But he needed to taste her, just taste her. His fingers rebelled against his own will and clutched a small wad of her hair, but he fought and let go. He just wanted to savor her for now, for as long as she would let him.
Dylan found feeling in her hands once more, and reached up to his face. She felt his smooth, cold visage and held it. It was soft and thin, she could feel his cheekbones and reached further to the back of his head, feeling his soft black hair through her fingers.
"So…this is what a real kiss is like? A kiss filled with fear, dread, insecurity, and fulfillment. But is there love in it?" Dylan's thoughts where floating to the top of her mind and disappearing. All she cared about was that he was there; he was her own. She didn't want him to go, but she knew as soon as she stopped kissing him he would turn and leave, he would run away again.
Dylan let go, and leaned her head on his chest; she could hear his heart pounding quickly through the silk and cotton of his suit. His right hand was still in her hair, and she was aware of what would happen when he pulled his hand out, but as the song goes, "Pain for pleasure".
"Please, don't go" She whispered. Dylan clutched the back of his suit with her hands, she didn't want him to leave her, and she needed him. Inhaling the mixture of cloves cigarettes and a brand of men's cologne that she didn't recognize, Dylan wished deeply that he wouldn't leave her again.
"Please, don't go". He had heard her say it, but he couldn't place it in his mind easily. She wanted him to stay, he couldn't fathom it but he didn't hate the idea of it. But was this really what he was hearing, or merely what he wanted to hear. Maybe he was forcing himself to think this. Perhaps it was all too much for him right now, he had ever been this physically close to anyone before, and maybe he was having some odd mental reaction to it all. But she was close to him, he could feel her head on his chest, he could smell her hair beneath his nose easily. The scent, oh that beautiful scent.
His hands where being disobedient again, his fingers latched onto her hair once more and tugged, lightly though.
"No." he thought, and let go. But, oh that smell, that delicious smell of hair teased him, it was taunting him with that silky texture and blissful scent. It drove him insane, insane with ecstasy and admiration. He had to have it, hold it; he had to rub it into his flesh. His fingers grasped the auburn strands and tugged hard, then harder, then harder again. He heard her moan with pain, but he had to own her smell, so again he pulled.
The stands came loose. He held up his hand behind her head and let the red strands glisten in the moonlight. His rage settled, he had what his mind had been screaming at him to obtain, and there it was in his hands, but what about her? He turned his head down to her; she was looking directly at him, a strained look on her face, filled with pain and discontentment, but also with yearning. He had hurt his angel; he had pulled from her what made him attracted to her. He couldn't bear to look at her with such distress on her face.
"He's going to leave again," She thought quickly. He had taken what he had wanted and now he was going to leave again. How could he do this to her? She wouldn't let him. She looked up at him and met his face to hers. He looked so confused, she thought he'd be screaming or laughing but he wasn't. His grin had faded to a blank stare, but his eyes told her everything. He was sorry; she could tell he was sorry. Whatever had possessed him to yank her hair was completely out of his power, and he regretted it. She looked at him thoughtfully and wished he wouldn't leave. She didn't want him to leave thinking he had upset her. She took his hand that held her hair and placed it in his pants pocket.
"There, no harm done," she whispered and gazed at him, smiling coolly and comfortably. His face relaxed, but remained confused.
"What should I do now?" he thought. If he ran…it would be like every other time they met, but if he stayed…what if he stayed? He'd wake up in the morning next to her and then join her for a cup of coffee? No…he couldn't do that yet, just not yet. He let go of her, then turned, and headed towards the door. As he turned, however, he could feel a hand grasping his wrist, and a sharp, soothing voice calling.
"Please don't go!" she cried. Dylan couldn't let Anthony leave, she just couldn't. She didn't know why but she loved him. Everything and yet nothing about him made her love him, she needed him. She needed his touch, his being.
"Please…don't leave me Anthony…I need you…it sounds odd…but I do, so please don't leave me again." She tightened her grip around his wrist. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes, and though she tried desperately to suppress them, she could feel that they would come out. She just couldn't let him go.
She called him Anthony. No one had called him Anthony in years, until this night. He turned to her and looked at her eyes. She was about to cry, no one had ever cried around him either unless it was in pain. Was she in pain? No…she was sad. She was crying for him, not because of him. The inside of him swelled and became warm. What was this feeling? It made his stomach flip and his entire body felt alive. He had felt it before, every time he had looked at her the sick, hot tension in his stomach would come and wouldn't fade until she was out of sight. Was it love? It must've been.
But he knew he couldn't stay, he wanted to, but he couldn't. Something inside him told him he didn't belong there yet. But time told him he would stay one night, one night he would find himself with her, and one morning he would be in the same place. But tonight was not that night.
Anthony took from his pocket his medallion that held an engraved image of the Virgin Mary, and taped to the back of it was a small piece of paper. He went and reached for her hand and placed it in the palm, then turned her hand over and kissed the back of her palm. And, with that done, he turned for the door and walked out into the night.
He was gone. He was gone and she didn't know if he'd return. Tears ran down Dylan's face, until she realized he had placed something in her hand. She looked down at her own fist and opened it; realizing whatever was in it was cold and hard.
It was his medallion. It shone in the moonlight brilliantly like a small star against her flesh. She turned it over and saw the small piece of scrap paper taped to the back of it and tore it off. There, written in black cursive where the only words she needed to read from him to know he'd return.
I'll want this back.