Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine.
"He wants to be alone," she tells him, and he doesn't let his expression betray his surprise that she even detected his presence, let alone his purpose.
He simply stops where he's standing, and even though she doesn't hear him leave the room, she doesn't bother to turn around and speak to him either. She just stands there, staring out the window, clutching her wounded arm with an intensity that belies her emotionless demeanor.
"I don't blame him," he says quietly.
"Nor do I." She pauses. "Have you thought that... that perhaps we're responsible?"
"What do you mean?"
"They couldn't have been aiming for her."
"What makes you so sure?"
She shrugs, and the informality of the gesture catches him off-guard. It doesn't suit her; she doesn't propose anything without preparing the answers to every possible question that could arise.
"I didn't pull the trigger. Neither did you." This time he can't quite keep the coldness out of voice, although he's been trying not to let it creep into this particular conversation.
Although she thinks he can't see, her reflection in the window reveals that her lips have curved ruefully in response, and he can almost hear her thoughts: so young, such a simplistic view, it's not that easy for me anymore.
Except that's bullshit, he points out, because she doesn't think that way. Maybe she's just acknowledging that he's right, or remembering the sight of the woman falling, or plotting her next move. Because she isn't admitting vulnerability, not even grudgingly, because that isn't the way this goes.
He turns to leave at the same time she finally turns to face him. "What were you going to see him about?"
He remains silent, meeting her gaze.
"You're upset with me," she assesses, and it occurs to him: she's only interested now because she's bored, and there isn't any more progress to be made tonight. This is a game. Because of course it doesn't bother her at all that he's irritated, she doesn't want to smooth things over, because she has no good reason to care.
"No," he replies, with the intention of leaving immediately, although his feet remain rooted firmly in place.
"What is it?" She is still grasping her bandaged arm with the other as she approaches him, her tone lethally pleasant.
"Come on," he says, rising to the challenge, stepping forward to further reduce the distance between them. He is careful to keep his voice low, nearly a whisper. "That's a ridiculous question. There are so many possible reasons I could give you, and they'd all be valid, wouldn't they?"
"I don't know. Would they?"
"Yes, they would," is the best he can come up with in response, and he feels ridiculous and inexperienced but he tries not to let it show. She'll probably mistake it for youthful arrogance, as usual, anyway.
He is conspicuously not staring her down as she lowers her voice and tries again: "All of them?"
"You let him inject you with that--I mean, you had to let him, right? I wonder how that happened."
She smirks, and he'd slap her if he didn't think she'd probably bite his hand off. "We agreed--"
"You said--" He instantly regrets the automatic interruption and stops himself before she can.
"We agreed," she repeats firmly, "that no one would get attached."
"I'm not angry because I'm 'attached.' It was clumsy and unprofessional. Frankly, I expect better from you. I expect you to expect better of yourself."
And he almost thinks she bought it, but of course she didn't, she's never caught by surprise, this must all be a plan of some kind. It will all work out in the end exactly the way she wanted it to go, and whether her desire aligns with that of anyone else is of little consequence. This is how she operates. So of course she knows exactly what he's thinking, exactly what he's feeling, exactly what he'll do next. She's always known.
"You're lying," she points out.
What can you say to that? He imagines how it would go: 'Am not.' 'Are too.' 'Am not to infinity.' 'Are too to infinity times two.'
So he decides to concede defeat, to throw this round and hope to come out swinging when the next one begins. He'd settle for winning any round at all, frankly, but even if he did, he'd be plagued by the suspicion that she let him win.
He can't let her see the gears turning, so instead he bridges the remaining space between them, pausing to emphasize the heat generated by proximity but not quite friction yet. Her mouth opens just slightly; her eyes narrow as she surveys her prey. He can't help but feel he's being consumed, even if he is the one who initiates the ritual. "Can you blame me?" he whispers, instead of an apology.
And as he presses his lips hard against hers, he can feel her smiling, evaluating her small victory. One free hand slides down her wounded arm, unwinds the bandage as the other hand distracts her. He knows she is aware of what he's doing, and she might even be anticipating what comes next.
But when he pushes his fingers into the sensitive flesh, working open the wound, he hears her gasp in something suspiciously close to surprise. She does not push him away or pull her arm from his grasp, however. She is allowing him this victory, he realizes, and that should make it less satisfying, but it doesn't. His mouth finds its way down to the wound, and when he looks back at her face he expects to find her staring back at him with the look that says, I know what you're doing, and it's all right, I'll let you have this for now.
Instead her eyes are shut tight, and he stops and draws back. Her eyes open quickly and it takes her a moment to focus on him again, but when she does, he can see the fleeting questions: why did you stop? Was it something I've done?
In that moment, he decides it's time to stop thinking about the other, about what she's thinking, about what everything means. She takes control, almost viciously this time, and it's okay. He closes his eyes and lets himself pretend this is normal, because it's as close to normal as he's ever wanted to come.
"He wants to be alone," she tells him, and he doesn't let his expression betray his surprise that she even detected his presence, let alone his purpose.
He simply stops where he's standing, and even though she doesn't hear him leave the room, she doesn't bother to turn around and speak to him either. She just stands there, staring out the window, clutching her wounded arm with an intensity that belies her emotionless demeanor.
"I don't blame him," he says quietly.
"Nor do I." She pauses. "Have you thought that... that perhaps we're responsible?"
"What do you mean?"
"They couldn't have been aiming for her."
"What makes you so sure?"
She shrugs, and the informality of the gesture catches him off-guard. It doesn't suit her; she doesn't propose anything without preparing the answers to every possible question that could arise.
"I didn't pull the trigger. Neither did you." This time he can't quite keep the coldness out of voice, although he's been trying not to let it creep into this particular conversation.
Although she thinks he can't see, her reflection in the window reveals that her lips have curved ruefully in response, and he can almost hear her thoughts: so young, such a simplistic view, it's not that easy for me anymore.
Except that's bullshit, he points out, because she doesn't think that way. Maybe she's just acknowledging that he's right, or remembering the sight of the woman falling, or plotting her next move. Because she isn't admitting vulnerability, not even grudgingly, because that isn't the way this goes.
He turns to leave at the same time she finally turns to face him. "What were you going to see him about?"
He remains silent, meeting her gaze.
"You're upset with me," she assesses, and it occurs to him: she's only interested now because she's bored, and there isn't any more progress to be made tonight. This is a game. Because of course it doesn't bother her at all that he's irritated, she doesn't want to smooth things over, because she has no good reason to care.
"No," he replies, with the intention of leaving immediately, although his feet remain rooted firmly in place.
"What is it?" She is still grasping her bandaged arm with the other as she approaches him, her tone lethally pleasant.
"Come on," he says, rising to the challenge, stepping forward to further reduce the distance between them. He is careful to keep his voice low, nearly a whisper. "That's a ridiculous question. There are so many possible reasons I could give you, and they'd all be valid, wouldn't they?"
"I don't know. Would they?"
"Yes, they would," is the best he can come up with in response, and he feels ridiculous and inexperienced but he tries not to let it show. She'll probably mistake it for youthful arrogance, as usual, anyway.
He is conspicuously not staring her down as she lowers her voice and tries again: "All of them?"
"You let him inject you with that--I mean, you had to let him, right? I wonder how that happened."
She smirks, and he'd slap her if he didn't think she'd probably bite his hand off. "We agreed--"
"You said--" He instantly regrets the automatic interruption and stops himself before she can.
"We agreed," she repeats firmly, "that no one would get attached."
"I'm not angry because I'm 'attached.' It was clumsy and unprofessional. Frankly, I expect better from you. I expect you to expect better of yourself."
And he almost thinks she bought it, but of course she didn't, she's never caught by surprise, this must all be a plan of some kind. It will all work out in the end exactly the way she wanted it to go, and whether her desire aligns with that of anyone else is of little consequence. This is how she operates. So of course she knows exactly what he's thinking, exactly what he's feeling, exactly what he'll do next. She's always known.
"You're lying," she points out.
What can you say to that? He imagines how it would go: 'Am not.' 'Are too.' 'Am not to infinity.' 'Are too to infinity times two.'
So he decides to concede defeat, to throw this round and hope to come out swinging when the next one begins. He'd settle for winning any round at all, frankly, but even if he did, he'd be plagued by the suspicion that she let him win.
He can't let her see the gears turning, so instead he bridges the remaining space between them, pausing to emphasize the heat generated by proximity but not quite friction yet. Her mouth opens just slightly; her eyes narrow as she surveys her prey. He can't help but feel he's being consumed, even if he is the one who initiates the ritual. "Can you blame me?" he whispers, instead of an apology.
And as he presses his lips hard against hers, he can feel her smiling, evaluating her small victory. One free hand slides down her wounded arm, unwinds the bandage as the other hand distracts her. He knows she is aware of what he's doing, and she might even be anticipating what comes next.
But when he pushes his fingers into the sensitive flesh, working open the wound, he hears her gasp in something suspiciously close to surprise. She does not push him away or pull her arm from his grasp, however. She is allowing him this victory, he realizes, and that should make it less satisfying, but it doesn't. His mouth finds its way down to the wound, and when he looks back at her face he expects to find her staring back at him with the look that says, I know what you're doing, and it's all right, I'll let you have this for now.
Instead her eyes are shut tight, and he stops and draws back. Her eyes open quickly and it takes her a moment to focus on him again, but when she does, he can see the fleeting questions: why did you stop? Was it something I've done?
In that moment, he decides it's time to stop thinking about the other, about what she's thinking, about what everything means. She takes control, almost viciously this time, and it's okay. He closes his eyes and lets himself pretend this is normal, because it's as close to normal as he's ever wanted to come.