Semblance of Eden 2 ~ The Proposition

"I am aware of that." His voice is low and lethal, and he takes a single measured step toward me. God, he's so beautiful when he's dangerous. "I do not, however, recall ever giving you permission to leave."

Oh, right. That.

"Urgent personal business." I tilt my chin back just enough, so that he knows he'll never find out exactly how personal. Not unless he asks me really nicely. "What seems to be the problem?"

"You don't have personal business anymore, Dominique." If only he knew how close to the truth that really is. He takes another deliberate step forward, and he was a little in the shadows until now. Not so dark that I couldn't see his face, but then he steps toward me, into the light, and everything falls into place. Like a clip locking into a gun, I'm whole again. Complete.

"I know, sir. I'm very sorry." My throat tightens in reproach. I'm not sorry. Whatever petty transgression he thinks I've committed, I'll never be sorry for it. But that isn't the lie that pains me the most.

I look down. Coupled with the words, it's a ridiculously humble gesture, and I'm surprised he doesn't laugh aloud at me. Hell, I'd laugh if I could. "It won't happen again."

He's quiet for a minute, and I think sincere thoughts. Just to be on the safe side. Even so, he's probably trying to figure out which arm he wants to dislocate this time. That seems to be his favorite mode of communication lately.

But nothing happens and the silence turns thick as a cloud between us, so I finally look up. That was a mistake. It's the eyes, the heat lightning eyes. It must be. The thousand-yard stare. The way he's looking right through me, like I'm not even here at all. "Do you want to go inside?"

"Go… inside?" He repeats it slowly, but it's not because he's confused.

"Yeah. Go inside? Sit down? I could buy you a slice of pie?" Hell, I'm the last person he wants buying him pie. He probably still thinks I'll slip some arsenic in it while he's not looking.

"Don't try to change the subject."

I watch him close, just waiting for his eyelid to twitch like it always does right before my body twists out from under me, and I'm on my back in the dirt, trying not to scream. I like to pretend it hurts less if I know it's coming.

But it never does. "Change the subject, sir?" I manage to sound a little frightened, even though I can hardly even hear myself over my own racing pulse. I wonder briefly how I've managed to stay alive just this long. When I can't even think straight. When all I know with any clarity is that I want to fall against him, pull him down with me as I sink to my knees right here in the street. "I only thought you might want to talk about this over a drink."

"There's nothing to talk about, Dominique." The wind shifts suddenly, as though the entire planet has just tilted on his axis. Because he steps closer to me one last time. I have to look away again; he's like a Siren up close. "I talk, and you listen. If I ask you a question, you may answer. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He's silent for sometime after that, and his words almost seem to make a sound as they sink into the air between us. The hissing of water on thirsty ground. "Do you think I… trust you?"

That word. Trust. He sounds entirely too amused when he says it, as though the whole idea is something childish. Unimaginably naïve. "No, sir, I don't." Of course not. I don't dare ask for his trust. He doesn't trust anyone, does he? At least, no one he should.

"Do you know why?" His eyes are on me again. Twin rivets, molten glass cooling against my skin. Taking my shape. Then something forces my chin up and I have no choice but to meet his gaze.

"I suppose you have your reasons, sir." And I realize he's not holding me anymore. But I don't look away. His eyes shift, swirl in the light like whirlpools of contaminated water. This is the first time I've noticed it, I've never watched this long before.

"Trust, Dominique, is a very frail thing. Do you understand? It must be earned, not given freely." He's lying. He trusts more freely than any of us. His is the trust that lures children into the backs of unmarked vans. That leaves fourteen-year-old girls knocked up, penniless and bruised on the side of the road…

The corner of his lips curls a little. He heard that, damn it. Clearly as if I'd spoken it aloud. For the third time in five minutes I'm waiting for the pain that never comes. When did he become such a pacifist? "I know, sir. I don't presume to ask for your trust. But if only you knew how devoted…"

He nods slowly, as though he's pleased. But I doubt that. "That's good to know. But, how can I believe that if I can't trust you? And how can I trust you if I don't know where you've been, Dominique?" His voice twists on the last word, an upward curl of sound. And my right arm is behind my back, straining awkwardly toward my left shoulder.

"Legato!" If only my voice sounded a little steadier. But I can feel him around me like heat waves, and the sound of his breathing echoes with my own

My shoulder slides out of place much easier than it used to. Bone only bends so far; this won't be the first time he's broken my arm as cleanly as a bit of sun-dry kindling…

And then he lets me go. Rushes out of me like a tide. It's so abrupt that for a moment I still have the taste of him untainted by pain. Then my hand falls limply back at my side, and I have to press my shoulder tight to my side to keep it from sagging. "Legato…"

"Why did you come back here?" he asks suddenly, sharply.

I shake my head a little. I can't think, damnit, I'm still trying to catch my breath. Can't he see I'm no threat like this? "I told you I was devoted." But he doesn't look away, and I'm prone as a butterfly in his collection beneath that gaze.

"Babylon."

The voice hardly sounds like my own. Too jagged. Too much of an edge. But his eyebrow lifts… might be intrigue, might be disgust. Either way, I can't leave it at that. "Do you know a town called Babylon?"

"What about it?"

"Legato…" For a moment I'm caught by the feel of his name in my mouth. The curve of my lips to fit it, and the way everything else spills out in its wake like the tail of a kite. "I need your help."

He's shaking his head faintly. "Why would I help you?"

"Because you owe me." It's no good trying to appeal to a sense of justice I know he doesn't have, but it feels good to say the words aloud. He owes me. He has no idea how much, and I'm not going to tell him. I've already promised myself that, when I die, it at least won't be by his hand, thank you very much.

"Is that what you think?" The look he gives me goes down about as smooth as a handful of broken glass. "Are you so valuable to me?"

He's right, of course. He doesn't need me, not in this. But damn him for bringing it up, because it's not my pride he hurts. It's something different, so new and raw that there isn't any armor to cover it yet. "Look, they know me too well there. I just need someone who can get me some information."

"Concerning what?"

I squirm a little with the next words. I don't mean to, it's just that he almost sounded interested. "I can't tell you. Come with me tomorrow and you'll see."

"I can't leave this town so easily." The pitch of his voice, I know exactly what he's talking about. Damnit, I know better than to argue with him when Knives is in the picture too.

I've never met him, you know. The man behind the curtain. I used to be curious, but now… Now, I've seen the bruises on his face, the ones he thinks are pale enough that no one will notice. The way it hurts him to move sometimes.

"Ask him, then. He'll know. Ask him what happened there."

"I can't." And for a moment, there's a hint of something indescribably in his voice. I can't quite pinpoint it, but it's there, in his eyes too. "Forget about it, Dominique. It doesn't matter now."

"It does matter. If you'd just listen to me—" But I won't beg him, I won't. I don't need anyone that badly, so if I can't keep the pitch of my voice from rising that way I won't say any more to him.

"Go inside," he tells me, but there's no friendliness in the words. "I've kept your room at the request of your comrades." I look up. I don't mean to stare so blankly, but I'm sure I didn't hear right. Is he taking me back?

I should know better than to trust an offer like this, one that sounds so good, but I've spent the last three weeks with one hand permanently on the hilt of my gun, watching the shadows for movement and checking my hotel rooms for wiretaps. You don't really get tired when you're on your guard like that, but I'm home now. The closest thing to home I've got. I feel like I've been biting back a yawn ever since I stepped into town.

I'm sleepy. He's offering me a bed, and that isn't helping. I could sleep here, really sleep, secure in the knowledge that this is the only place no one would dare come look for me. I watch him, searching, but there's nothing in his expression. That's fine. I'll go back without him if I have to, and pray that there's a shred of understanding in him.

Not that I'll live long enough to find out.

"Wake me up if you change your mind," I say after I've realized I'm staring, and then I turn. Towards the hotel, the yellow half-light halo that spills from its windows and into the street. "Goodnight, Legato."

But I don't expect an answer.