Description: But in the end, they are just smudges. Accidental. Because humans need an explanation.
Pairing: Slight ROR/DAN
Rating: M
A/N: Drabble-fest. I have not seen the movie yet, but I have read most of the graphic novel. It's just pure love. Basically, I took some of the most common responses to ink blot tests and wrote little vignettes on them. Hope you enjoy.
This chapter is Fox.
.Fox.
Walter has no words as her hand clasps his own – soft flesh creating friction with the rough contours of his palm. It's his only encounter, a momentary lapse in judgement that landed him here in the dark alley – whiskey slurs foaming on her lips as she smiles devilishly. It was in the middle of running away, but not really running at all. More like walking out the door and no one trying to stop him. He's sixteen and maybe she can't make out the blemishes, the horrid expanse that lays against his face in the poor, eerie lighting of street lamps flickering and walls pushing their bodies together.
He isn't sure where he was when her eyes met his and she raced towards him. Almost a sprint, as if his presence was the paramount cause of such urgency to be near him. It doesn't appear that she cares at all, inhaling deeply, raggedly, even though he hasn't showered for two days time. The odors of the street, of wet pavement and of vendors stick to his sides like molasses, but she licks off the scents just fine – plush lips kissing everywhere but his own mouth that is stubbornly sealed shut.
Walter doesn't look at her at all, letting his body slowly become limp as she searches further for a heart, anything resembling a beat – a rhythm they could both sway to and conveniently forget to. He knows she will come up empty, but try she does; her hands grab either side of his coat collar, tugging him closer, closer because it's still so damn cold on 53rd street. Walter continues to glare at the wall opposite of this filth perspiring in the alley – pretends he isn't part of it at all. Maybe it's her muddy brown locks that stick to her face as she tries to shed his shirt to reveal the scarred body beneath, yet he can't help but be reminded blatantly of black lace and a million fathers-to-be. It's his mother that rubs her leg against his thigh, no matter how hard he tries to remember it's just a misplaced girl. Just him. Just an alleyway that people politely pass by, leaving them to violate the precious pages of the bible and slander the holy name of matrimony...
He only moves, awakens from predestined slumber, when her hands try to creep towards the zipper of his jeans, suddenly furious, a delicious red overtaking him – grabs her hand and feels her bones ache in protest. Walter's only marginally frightened as he discovers he enjoys this so much better – the stopping of violation, the dance of bones and ligaments beneath his fingers, the sharp wheezes that escape her lips that are still pressed to his neck.
"What are you – "
He stops her right there since he doesn't really know, can't answer, and squeezes harder until there's an audible snap. She tries to pull away, a flurry of movement as the instinct to flee clouds both their eyes. Her hair is tangling against the buttons of his jacket and now neither of them can part. He doesn't let go of the broken hand. Walter later laments that perhaps he was too busy trying to extricate himself from her tentacles of ruddy hair, but he later confesses that he had to make her see the wrong, the putrid act that had almost been conceived -- how God would quiver in this malevolent glory.
He lets go and she runs. Walter doesn't watch where the frightened girl escapes to, only leans against the brick – attempting to keep a blank stare even though the snarl and tears of self-disgust threaten to overwhelm him. Rather, he sluggishly slides down the wall to sit among the trash and crumpled wrappers. Alone, with the remnants of a hooker's kiss upon his neck.
This is better.
- - -
A/N: Fox is treacherous, sneaky, conniving. This is how Walter feels as he is about to perform an immoral act.
Instrumentals/Inspiration -- Slow Dance by Framing Hanley
Reviewing is the Muse's muse =)