Trust
derek/ms. blake oneshot
Silence coats the air, thick, heavy, and not at all comforting. She can hear the sound of her own heart beating too-quick and frightened. She breathes in and out, the little puffs of air short, soft, and laced with fear. She can't make any sense of it—of the glowing eyes, the claws. But really, she doesn't want to make sense of it. Not now, not when it's so silent her ears ring as she waits.
For what, she's not sure.
Her fingers curl around the cold metal of the shelf, lips bitten in her nervousness, her trepidation. She swallows, eyes wide, shocked open as the first scuffs of feet against grimy concrete greet her ears. She peers around the shelf, unsure, and still all but vibrating with the cold uncertainty of what she's just witnessed.
And then she sees him, covered in blood, shirt ripped to shreds and her heart squeezes, but not from fear.
She should be scared of him—of what she saw. But she isn't. She finds her heartbeat evens out as he walks towards her, deliberately slow, as if she's a wounded animal and he needs to be careful of her. She wants to smile at that, but the fear pulsing through her is still too fresh, so she merely stares instead.
He doesn't say anything, not really. But his face speaks volumes. He strikes her as lonely, brow beaten and soft, somehow, even covered in blood—blood she's not sure is just his.
But as he holds out his hand, the gesture comforting and kind, she finds that she trusts him, almost instinctually. The feeling floods through her and she finds that—to her own surprise and astonishment—her own hand is reaching out towards him. His grip is strong, sure, and warm, if a bit slick as he intertwines their hands.
He helps her to her feet and she merely stares, not sure of what to say. What do you say in this sort of situation? Is there proper, thanks for saving my life, good sir, but I don't know what the hell just happened, etiquette?
She supposes not.
She lets him guide her from the boiler room, and tries not to notice how her hand tingles where his hand grips her. She stares at the back of his head for a long time, watches the way his muscles move as he walks, leading her out of the building. She frowns suddenly, adrenaline spurning on her moment of insanity. "I suppose I should thank you," she says slowly. He cocks his head to look at her, expression still open, still raw and vulnerable.
He frowns, but doesn't say anything, just inclines his head slightly, looking decidedly constipated.
If she thinks it's charming, well, she'll blame it on the stress.
"But I have some questions, and I'd like you to answer them," she manages, only slightly shocked when he releases her hand suddenly and steps back to look at her. He stares at her for a long, intense moment, liquid eyes flashing a thousand different emotions she doesn't quite know how to identify.
"Not now," he says in a voice that's surprisingly light, not the deep baritone she was expecting.
She crosses his her arms, the gesture more protective than obstinate. "Okay," she says patiently, foot tapping out the rest of her jitteriness.
He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something further but goes still suddenly, frowns, and then glares off to the side. "I have to go," he says tersely, and then he's gone, just like that, leaving her alone in the parking lot to question her sanity.
She blinks after him, and then sighs as she bites at her lower lip, frowning.
It's been a weird sort of morning, that's for sure.