Title: Compulsion
Summary: We're all drawn to things, and some of us are more drawn to danger than anything else, in all of its forms.
Pairing: Scam/Sam
Rating: T
She runs in. She finds him waiting for her. Not really, waiting for her, but waiting there, with his back to her, watching, not her, but something in front of him. Something she can't see. Flickers of red and orange leap up over his shoulder, from what she can see, and the heat finally reaches her, in it's black smoldering grip of nausea or breath-taking, literally breath-taking, smoke and the air is threatening to close around her.
He slightly turns his head towards her, his eyes almost glaring at her, wanting to glare at her but they don't, they can't.
"Get out."
His words are simple and short, but she ignores them. She knows better than to leave him alone, to listen to his brash haunting words that has their own dash of horror added to each syllable. She walks forward instead.
He sighs. "I don't think you know what you're dealing with here", he says as a warning. A warning? Of what? He was the scariest thing in this room.
She only tilts her head as she walks closer to him, her ears intently listening for the sounds of her friends' footsteps as they run in. They don't run in. She wonders why not when he turns his head towards her again, "They aren't as agile as you, I suppose", he says, somehow answering her question without her asking it, "Or perhaps", he turns his head to watch the scene in front of him again, "You just know me better. You know where I would put the traps in."
He's right, she guesses as she walks to the side, trying to see what was burning. She does know him, understands him, more than she would like to, she supposes, but she does and she doesn't know why.
"Maybe we're just like each other", she says, hesitantly of course because she's not sure if that's what she wants to say, well it is, maybe it's just what she's afraid to say.
He puts his hands in his pockets and watches the burning. "Maybe", he says with slight satisfaction, or perhaps she just imagined that, her heart longing to hear something of worth involving her. "But even so, you still don't know what you're getting into here."
"Is that so?" she asks, surprised at herself for sounding so interested in what he had to say, in what he would show her, in the confusing reality, the warped one, that he would be bringing her into. She was surprised that she didn't mind it. She wondered what was happening to her, what was it about this room, about him, about that burning that she could feel but could not see, that could warp her into feeling normal in a place that reminded her of Hell, with the Devil himself being the temptation that would bring her into this world.
The temptation is right in front of her, standing without a care in the world-- except he did have a care. Something about her, her innocence? that he did not want to be captured in this burning sensation.
She wonders what is happening to her.
"Would you like me to show you?" he asks quietly, still not turning around to show her his full face. Would she? Would she like to know what was burning? Was there anything burning? Or was he just taunting her, toying with her, leading her on?
Did she want to be led on?
She wasn't sure if she nodded or shook her head but found herself walking towards him anyway, her feet walking forward, left right left right, until she was right behind him, her hand only centimeters, millimeters?, away from his broad back. He's too tall, she realizes, but doesn't bother to tip toe or sneak around him. She isn't sure if she wants to see what would make temptation smile so much.
The corner of his lips is still upturned. He continues to smile.
She doesn't say anything, just breathes, and hopes it'll knock some sense into her. Here she was, with her fated enemy, with her friends stuck in whatever cruel and sneaky trap that he had planted, that she had avoided, "You just know me better", he said, and she blushes, full of pride and confusion as to why she would feel pride. He's her enemy, has been since he broke her heart without a care, he's still without a care, and she shouldn't be feeling pride on understanding him, on knowing him, on being "just like each other" even though they were.
She gulps before closing her eyes, letting his hand glide her to the front, in front of him where she'd be seeing what he's been amused with all this time.
They all weren't sure why he was in this place, this abandoned factory as cliche as it sounded. They split up and she was sure she heard Clover's desperate cry for help. It was when she and Alex separated, "You go find Clover. I'll find Scam.", and now she was here, with him, with Scam of all people, holding his hand and letting him guide her to whatever he wanted her to see.
His hand is warm, she notices, her senses on fire (no pun intended) from his touch. He pulls her closer to him, her back hitting his chest, and she felt the flames lick her spy suit, just getting a taste but not really tasting the cloth. His body seems to sway and just for the heck of it she sways with him; it's like they're dancing, she thinks, and can't help but enjoy it even if that isn't the case.
She doesn't want to let go, of anything, she realizes, and it scares her, of how compelled she is to his touch, to his beliefs, to him, to everything he was saying.
She opens her eyes, and can't say anything. Is she afraid to open her mouth? She doesn't know; she can't move though. Is it because of fear, what was that expression, paralyzed by fear? Or is it because his hand, still burning to the touch, is still gripping her tightly, holding her close to him, not letting her turn around.
It's a flickering flame, she sees, resting on a pile of bones, the redness encoating the ivory bones in its grip just like he is holding her in his grip, his own hand like the fire before her. On top of the fire, the bones? she means? they're the same aren't they? rests a heart, a once beating heart that is now burning, just like her heart is burning from the way his chest presses against her back, his thumb rubbing her hand in soothing circles--Ironic--but it comforts her anyway.
"Still think you're like me?" he whispers in her ear with a tinge of regret, or is she imagining that too? Does Tim Scam ever regret? "Still think you're like me?" he asked-- did he want her to be like him? To find amusement in this burning that is eating her alive? She watched the heart burn up in a flaming roar, and at the same time she felt her own heart get chewed up, licked and swallowed by the temptation that fire brought, the temptation he brought as he grippded her hand tighter. She closed her eyes, trying to see if she felt that amusement-- why? Did she want to feel the amusement? Did she want to be like him?
She felt that shiver of excitement, she told him so and watched him smile sadly, slowly; she didn't tell him that the excitement was from him, with the way he kept her close to him, the way he rubbed his thumb against her palm and rubbed her skin in circles, massaging her stress away, bringing her comfort. She wanted to be like him, why, she didn't know because she didn't know what she was turning into. She knew she abandoned her friends to enjoy a fire, a burning of bones and of hearts, with Tim Scam, and for some reason she couldn't pull herself away and let fire play with fire. She wanted to enjoy the warmth, the sweaty sooty air that fire brought, that compulsion brought, that he brought.
She couldn't leave, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to.
Weirdness to the extreme. I know. I'm not really expecting a lot of reviews for this one. They would be nice, but I don't know if it's too "weird" for most people's tastes. It's not my usual writing style but it's a nice breath of fresh air. I do expect confusion though. :P
Review if you want to make me smile. :D
Love,
Ivy