Disclaimer: I do not own nor did I create the characters or the world of Defiance. I'm just playing with them for fun, and not for profit.
Author's Note: It's strange to be writing a chaptered fic. I feel committed now. I have to say, Alak's POV is much more fun to write from, but I enjoy playing with Christie's character, since her time on the show is so brief. I don't think any woman could grow up in a town like Defiance without some street smarts. Enjoy!
It felt like everyone knew.
Maybe my friends knew. If my friends knew, then my brothers knew. Nothing was kept secret for long in this town.
I tried to resist the temptation to wring my hands, to twirl my hair around my finger. To look nervous in any way. Even sitting here, in a chair in a dark corner of the club, I felt exposed.
Alak Tarr, showing up at the diner four days a week. Alak Tarr, staring at me, talking to me, asking me to dance. And the more I rebuffed him, the more he seemed to pursue me, which only seemed to confirm that he had ulterior motives. Any other guy would've long given up by now.
I shouldn't have talked to him, I said to myself. I shouldn't have talked to him. Maybe it had made me feel good, getting a little bit of attention, and that was why I'd felt the smallest twinge of disgust when I'd seen him dancing with that overeager Castithan girl. Their dancing was always a little bit hypnotic, but watching him .. and then I'd said something.
There was always the chance that he'd given up. Why drag some girl out to dance if he hadn't? He never did that. He always just sat there, playing cards until he could catch me alone.
If he does talk to me, I thought – and he probably won't - I'm going to end this.
I wanted a chance to end this. Surely this was why the thought of him avoiding me now left me feeling so cold.
I stood up to go to the bar. I needed another drink.
"Change your mind?"
I'd come to recognize his voice. It was distinctive, fluid and a little low. I held in my breath, turning around.
"My mind about what?" I asked. It was arrogant of him to think that I'd remember him asking me to dance two weeks ago, even if I did.
"Trying something new?" he asked. He smiled a little. He was incredibly hard to read. Maybe it had something to do with his eyes, so light that they seemed to shift color along with the lights in the club, like mirrors. Sometimes he seemed so full of himself, but at others, he seemed a little nervous. Maybe he was just a bad actor.
"You mean trying out a new guy?" I spat. I wanted to sound angry, disgusted. I needed to send a clear message.
"I meant trying out a new dance," he said, and it had worked. He sounded warier of me.
"Listen," I said, keeping my voice low. Already I felt a thousand pairs of eyes on me. "Why don't you just tell me what you really want?"
He tilted his head slightly to the side, his hair slipping down across his shoulder.
"I thought we had already established that it isn't to fuck you," he said, and his smile was back, but barely. I hated that he was telling jokes when I felt so nervous.
"I'm serious," I said, swallowing hard. "Tell me what you want or leave me the hell alone."
This seemed to do the trick, wiping the smile off his face in an instant. But then he looked confused, which made me feel confused, which made me angrier.
"It can't be that I just want to dance with you?" he asked. How stupid did he honestly think I was?
"Fine then," I said, picking up my drink. I turned to walk back to my corner.
I was shocked, frozen in place when I felt his hand on my arm, stopping me.
I spun around, breathing hard. I didn't think it would really go this far, not in the middle of the club, this public place.
"Don't touch me," I hissed, shrugging his hand away. His eyes widened, and he took a step back.
"Can I just talk to you, then?" he asked, his voice oddly insistent. It almost sounded as if he were pleading with me.
"No, you can't talk to me here," I said, gesturing to the people dancing and drinking around us.
He paused for a moment, considering.
"Can we talk somewhere else, then?" he asked.
I sucked in my breath. This guy was on a mission. It was clear he was never going to give it up. I could throw my drink in his face, I could say no a thousand times, I could leave the Need/Want and quit my job. Or I could try to figure out what he had planned, what he wanted from me and why.
"Fine," I said, and even as I said it I couldn't believe the word was escaping my lips. "Meet me at the diner, a half hour after closing. Tomorrow night."
He looked genuinely surprised. Pleased, even. I tried not to think how I felt about that.
"Fine, then," he said. His illusive smile was back for a moment. And then he drifted off, disappearing back into the crowd.
I took my time cleaning up, lingering until everyone else was gone. I turned off most of the lights, then waited, trying to ignore the pressure increasingly building in my chest.
He was right on time, rapping his knuckle softly at the door. I looked at him through the glass panes, taken aback by the way his skin was almost luminous with the bright light directly above him. I didn't think it was ever something I could get used to.
I opened it, terribly conscious of his eyes on me, looking me up and down. He smiled, and I fought not to return it.
"We can sit over here," I said, gesturing to a booth. He slid into it across from me, clasping his hands and resting them on the table.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Maybe he wanted to continue pretending to flirt with me, but knew we were past that.
"Did you bring a knife?" I asked, suddenly.
His face fell, and for a moment I regretted what I had said, though I wanted to know. I was afraid, meeting him here alone. I was taking a risk.
His face became emotionless, though his eyes continued to stare into me, hard.
"I always carry a knife," he said, his voice grim. "These are dangerous times. You never know when you might have to protect yourself."
"Can I see it?" I asked.
I thought he might argue with me, but he took it out of his pocket immediately, laying it down on the table with the same devoid expression. I stared at it between us, the blade glowing an eerie blue.
"You are afraid of me," he said. It was not a question.
"You were just saying how you needed to project yourself," I replied lowly. I paused. "Can I touch it?"
He seemed taken aback by this, but pushed it toward me none the less.
"It sounds stupid," I said, picking up the weapon and weighing it my hands. It was heavier than I thought, the brushed silver curves unmistakably alien. "But I always thought these were a little .. beautiful."
"You mean, a little exotic?" he asked.
I couldn't believe I'd said that. I'd agreed to this hoping to be a voice of reason, and now I sounded like a freak.
I dropped the knife, pushing the hilt back towards him.
"It's okay," he said. He slid it towards the salt and pepper so that it was no longer between us, but still well within sight. "You shouldn't be afraid of the things that can hurt you. You should be familiar with them."
"Is that something your father taught you?" I asked coldly. He met my eyes again, sealing his lips.
"It's good advice," he said, straightening his shoulders.
I took in a deep breath. I didn't want to be caught saying any more stupid, unnecessary things.
"Just tell me," I said, slowly, "What your father wants with my father."
I waited. If he was acting, he was brilliant at it. His mouth fell open. He looked down at his hands and then up at me again. The confusion on his face was blatant, though I tried to doubt it, to see otherwise. Another long moment passed.
"Who is your father?" he asked.
I felt myself getting heated again. If he was playing dumb, he had played it to the point of absurdity.
"You mean to say that you've been following me around this whole time, and you don't even know who I am?" I asked, incredulous.
He stared at me as if I were crazy. I felt crazy, feeding him lines that only led him back toward playing innocent.
"I was hoping you'd tell me yourself, at some point," he said. He stared at me, his mouth open, waiting.
"I'm Christie McCawley," I said, crossing my arms and leaning back.
He considered this, a wave of recognition washing over his face. He looked away, opening and closing his mouth as if unsure what to say. He finally looked back at me.
"No wonder you were freaked out that I was talking to you," he said, slowly. "More than your typical human girl would be, anyway."
I bristled at this mention of 'human girl' even as I tried to sort out what I was hearing. It didn't really seem possible.
"So you're telling me that your father didn't put you up to this?" I asked fiercely. "Nothing along the lines of, 'Get close to the Cawley girl, so that I can ..'"
"So that he could what?" he asked in turn. I had expected anger, but instead his voice was genuinely questioning. Maybe even a little hurt.
"I don't know," I said. Manipulate me? I didn't know what the reason would be, but then again, how would I?
Silence fell between us again. I didn't know what to think, let alone what to say. In my head, I was still convinced that he was up to something, that he had some kind of alternate motive. But my gut was pulling me toward something else.
"So let's assume that you didn't know who I was, and your father didn't put you up to this," I began. "How can I trust you?"
He leaned back, considering this. He turned his eyes away as he did, and I thought, perhaps mistakenly, that they looked pained.
"I guess you can't," he said finally. He turned his eyes again to meet mine, staring straight into my face. "I guess you just have to get to know me. Like you would anyone."
But you're not anyone, I thought. You're never going to be just anyone here.
"I don't know if I can," I whispered.
I felt torn. He seemed so sincere. But, then again, that would be the idea. To catch me off guard, play with my emotions.
"I wish you could," he answered, finally.
"This still doesn't answer the question," I began again, hesitantly, "Of why you wanted to talk to me. If not to .. I still don't understand."
He smiled wide, and I thought he might laugh at me, but instead he just let out his breath in an exasperated sigh.
"I just want to, you know," he began haltingly, "Get to know you. Find out what you're into, what you like. What you do when you're not working and partying."
I wanted to ask why, but I knew why. I suppose I'd fought against knowing it, not thinking it was possible. It still seemed impossible, even now.
"But I can't just meet you anywhere," I said, speaking fast. "I can't. If someone saw .. if my brothers found out, or my father .."
I glanced toward the knife, sitting motionless so near us. He followed my gaze.
"We don't have to tell anyone," he said, his voice low and serious. "We can meet wherever you want. I'll meet you wherever you want."
And now suddenly the reality of what was happening hit me, and I felt flustered, blood flooding my cheeks. I could look at him now not as an enemy, but just as another person, because I believed him. Most of me believed him. And even in the dim artificial light, he was suddenly terribly handsome, alien and alluring to me in a way that no one had ever quite been before.
I felt my breath quicken. I was still scared, but for different reasons.
"Okay," I said. I was afraid to look at him, but I raised my eyes. I was surprised to see that he looked a little frightened too. Frightened, but also somehow in awe.
"Okay," he repeated.
He reached out, taking my hand, folding his fingers gently around mine. Somehow, I'd always imagined Castithan skin as being cold, but his hand felt warm and strong. Everything had happened so quickly, and yet this didn't feel wrong. None of it felt wrong.
I stared at our hands, then over at the knife. I needed to be careful.
Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review the last chapter! It was really motivating. Every time I got a new review in my inbox I freaked out and tried to savor it. Every bit helps with a ship that's not so popular. Defiance is no Harry Potter :)
Thank you! xoxo