A/N: Chapter twoooooo!
Grrr. I feel like I deviated even further from the character in this chapter at the end. Issues, issues, issues people. *sigh*
Part Two
Later that week, he has Obie dig up what he can on her.
The other boy looks confused at the request for a moment, not sure what the connection is with this girl to the activities of The Vigils. He follows the orders though, because Archie is Archie, and Archie always has his plans, even if it might not seem like it at first. Not this time though, Obie. This time, it's a personal matter. Archie keeps this to himself however as Obie scurries away, his pride-and-joy notebook tucked safely under one arm. They work on a need to know basis, he and the rest of the world, and this certainly isn't something Obie needs to know.
The information comes back plentiful, not that he expected anything less. They sit in the bleachers as Obie lists it off, reminiscent of a time that he tries not to remember now. The problem is over. Renault is gone. Defeated. He focuses on Obie's words.
"…she's not in any clubs. Keeps to herself mostly. Has a little brother she picks up every day after school, and then heads home. Oh, and I heard round about that she just got out of a relationship, too."
Archie ignores the pause in Obie's very being, the waiting for him to say something, and mulls over the information in his head. They're all so stupid, aren't they? The comment makes more sense now. She makes more sense now, and somehow it disappoints him a little. She's just another broken heart, as they say. At the same time though, it calms him. He's still on top. He's still Archie Costello: the man, the undefeatable, the great.
He leans back against the row of seats behind him, and stares out, not really seeing. "Hey. You know what?" he asks, and he can feel the boy's anticipation coil up tighter inside him.
"What?" Obie replies.
He picks at a frayed spot in the cuff of his jacket, staring into nothingness. "I don't think we've done anything in a while. What will the boys think? We should do something Obie. Give me a name. A name, Obie."
He's given a name, quietly. It's one of the first since the whole fiasco with the chocolates.
They sit in silence for a moment after that. It reminds Archie of the party, of the girl and her broken heart, and the chocolates too. It reminds him of the quiet after he'd beaten Jerry Renault, and plucked out the very last ounce of his resistance. It reminds him…
"Assignment?" Obie asks.
Archie sighs and stands up. "Let me think about," he says, and then he walks away, leaving Obie on the bleachers with his all-knowing notebook—the notebook that chooses fates and unravels human conundrums.
He's not surprised when he sees her at a mixer between Trinity and one of the girls schools, but he can't say he's been expecting it.
This time she doesn't sit on the sidelines, sullen and quiet, but fits in quite nicely with the crowd. The music is a far cry from that of the first party, but it is a school function after all.
He watches her move, mindlessly now, like the rest of them, her hips swaying back and forth. Tonight, she's loud, her voice rising up across the others as they yell at each other and tumble around, giggling. He wonders if she'd scream this time, if he took her. Ah, and there it is again, that word. He's wondering.
He wants (needs) to know.
When she tumbles off the dance floor in a flurry of limbs and high pitched, grating, laughter, searching for the punch bowl, he catches her eye. A smile, a wave, and there's the recognition. She seems to recoil for a moment, curling into herself, but then forces her face back into something happy. He waves her over, and she comes without a word, plastic smile glued to her lips. It's not unusual. Plenty of the girls don't like to remember that they made their "indiscretions", or want the boys to expect more. With her though, he doesn't think that that's why. More than likely was that she associated him with the aftermath of the breakup, associated him with crawling her way back out of that black little hole. He's certain that he can fix this though, simply enough.
Another smile, a brush of his hand against hers. She looks at his fingers touching her skin for a moment, and he thinks he sees something more than a ditzy, heartbroken girl. For a moment, he thinks he sees her judging, assessing, knowing exactly what he's doing, but then it disappears and she's smiling up at him tentatively. He stores this for later consideration, and leans in close.
"You want to get out of here?" he whispers, quiet, assuring. Her perfume is stronger tonight, and it makes him want to pull back, crinkling his nose, but he doesn't. He stays close, letting his breath waft across her skin.
She shrugs in response, an action of haphazard acceptance more than anything, but he takes it. They slip out through the bouncing students, avoiding the watchful gazes of the chaperones.
This time, they do it in a supply closet a floor above where the mixer is taking place.
She's much more pliable than the last time, letting him push the dress up over her head and discarding it on the floor. She closes her eyes as he touches her, palms pressing against her plush, weighted curves. She doesn't say anything though. She doesn't make noise and conform, like she seems to be doing with everything else tonight.
He has her pressed against the wall, supported against a precarious stack of boxes as they move, breathing rapidly. He presses her, strokes her, in all the right ways, yet nothing comes of it. She's silent. He doesn't understand it.
"My name," he orders. "Say it." She says nothing.
He slows, head resting against her shoulder, shifting tactics. "I want to hear you say it," he murmurs, his voice soft, caring. He takes care to keep a pleading tone out though, because Archie Costello doesn't plead. "My name," he murmurs again.
There's a hitch in her breath, a pause in her demeanor. "My name," he urges again, and holds still, only shuddering with the effort of restraint. He can feel her heart slowing, fingers unsure on his shoulders now.
Then: "Costello." It's gasped, quiet. It's noise. Sweet, sweet noise. Normality.
He moves again, and grasps her tightly, listening as she chants the three syllables over and over again, meaninglessly, until he arrives and they collapse against each other in a boneless heap.
This time, it's him who gets up to leave, quickly smoothing out his clothing and turning away, content with the triumph he's made. His hand is on the handle, turning it, when she says tiredly, "Costello, let's not do that again. I'm tired of your game. You've won, anyway."
"Of course not," he says, keeping his shock buried, and walks out, feeling that somehow he's stepped onto the wrong track once again. He wonders how much longer it will take for him to figure this stupid girl out.
Still wondering. He curses himself.