Chapter 6:
Warnings and Disclaimers, see Chapter 1. Thanks for the reviews/encouragement!
"Home sweet home," Seraphina exclaimed as she held the door open for a more than slightly suspicious Lyle.
"I thought you were taking me back to the Centre."
"In a rush to meet the inevitable, are we?" She could only muster up just enough energy to smile as she said this. After 4 hours total of driving and a 6 hour flight with a largely less than communicative Lyle, she was really getting quite sick of projecting the sweet, delightfully eccentric and effervescent individual she pretended to be.
They had landed in Delaware an hour ago, and had just arrived at Seraphina's latest pied a terre – a largish, two story structure reminiscent of a Provencal farmhouse. She smiled as she watched Lyle, standing beside and slightly behind him to facilitate the cuffing of his right hand to her left. He could not conceal an appreciative look around at the tastefully appointed, understated elegance of the house. It was a long way from Dry River, that was for fucking sure.
Almost 24 hours after their first meeting, Seraphina was still not sure about Lyle. Usually she could flesh out peoples' character almost immediately, but Lyle was unpredictable. Whenever she felt his guard slipping, as soon as she sensed it, it seemed he would sense it too, turning abruptly away. For instance, he had fallen asleep on the plane, leaning into her, almost leaning his head on her shoulder. Fucking adorable. Would have been more so if he hadn't smelled. He awoke not two minutes later with a growl and started aggressively grilling her again on everything from what the Centre wanted with him to why on earth someone as tall as she was would want to wear heels, though she could tell his heart wasn't really in it. He was weakening. He had to be. He was tired, anyway, and probably in some pain, which she could use to her advantage.
"You must be exhausted, I know I am. Come on, let's get you to bed." He raised an eyebrow at this. She simpered. She was getting a little disgusted with herself. She led him upstairs and into one of the house's several bedrooms. She could feel him sag a little at the sight of the bed. He was tired. Be careful. Make nice now. She reached into her jeans pocket for the handcuff key, took it out, unlocked the cuffs.
"Sit," she said, indicating the bed. He sat, rotating his wrist, watching her intently. Massaging her own wrist, she went into the adjoining bathroom and located more first aid supplies. She half expected to see him checking the window upon her return, but no, there he was, where she had left him, rubbing his eyes, his face.
"Do you want to take a shower?" she asked, in what she hoped was a shy voice.
"What, together?" he smirked. Again, she could tell he was toying with her out of habit, but he was truly exhausted and didn't look as if he particularly wanted to pursue it. She smiled coyly.
"I think I'll sit this one out. I'll be right outside – I need to re-bandage you when you're done, and check on that hand."
He nodded, and she stepped back to allow him into the bathroom. He stopped halfway through the door, his back to her.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?" She inquired innocently. This was it. This was the break she was looking for. He was starting to really feel sorry for himself, she could tell.
"You're being very tolerant of me. You've taken care of me. They're just going to kill me anyway, right? Why bother?"
"Well, you wouldn't want to die smelling like that, would you?" This was definitely it. It wasn't quite a laugh, but she could see his shoulders move as he exhaled through his nose. Close enough. She backed off and sat down on the bed.
"I'll be here when you're finished."
"Thanks." His voice was quiet, so quiet, as he closed the bathroom door behind him. A little too quiet. Shit. This had better fucking not be a trick. Not after all this work. But just in case…
She rose, removing her sweater, and then her shoulder holster. She removed the gun, removed the clip, checked it again to be sure. Yep. Blanks. She put the gun in plain sight in its holster, on top of her sweater in the chair beside the bed. Then, sitting again, she removed her second weapon from its ankle holster, placing it under the pillow, within easy reach. She did not want to shoot him, if only because it was frustrating to shoot someone whom you had just finished stitching back together. She did not trust him. Not for a minute. But this would be the test, to see if they had enough of a rapport to be getting on with. This was the best opportunity she had seen in a long time, and the only one she was likely to see any time soon. She just hoped she could convince Lyle of the same.
So. The plot thickens. Who the fuck was this woman and how could she afford to live like this? She could not possibly be as good or as sweet or as dumb as she was playing, although he had yet to find a crack in her exterior. What was her fucking deal? She seemed to harbor no illusions about the Centre, at any rate.
Lyle caught sight of himself in the mirror. Jesus Christ. I look fucking awful. I think I smell too.
He was faced with a desperate character, hollow eyes, unshaven, looking as though he had just returned from a war. Okay, so it's definitely not that she's responding to my boyish charm.
Lyle began, slowly and rather painfully, to undress. Thankfully she had cut that damn tie off him at some point. His shirt, bloody now at the side and shoulder, trousers, shoes, socks, all in a pile on the floor. He stared at his naked reflection, assessing the damage Kyle's last shot had done to his shoulder.
Kyle's probably dead, he reflected absently. Jarod'll be pissed. Joke's on Jarod though. I did him a bit of a service. He would have found out sooner or later that Kyle was just like me, completely incorrigibly sociopathic, and it would have destroyed him, I'm sure. Saved him from that. I'm just so thoughtful.
There was some blood on the bandages Seraphina had put in place the night before – he might have pulled a stitch or two. She seemed to have done a good job, though; as he pulled back the gauze on the knife wound in his side, he noted the fine, even stitches, not causing him any discomfort. Probably wouldn't even leave much of a scar. Bruise from where Parker had hit him with her gun there, though. Fucking psychotic bitch.
He sighed, turning the shower on, running his fingers through his filthy hair as he stepped in. Felt So. Fucking. Good.
Well, he thought, leaning his forehead against the tiles as the water washed over him, so now the Centre knows I'm alive. Though, not for long, if they have anything to do with it. But who, who is this woman? She's more than a hired gun. She wouldn't appear to even be a very good hired gun, all the time she's let me keep to myself. I could have killed her, hell, several times over.
But you didn't, his mind whispered nastily. Why not? Something stopped you. Why let her live? She's being nice to you. She's treated you decently, at least. But when the fuck has that ever stopped you from killing someone before? You've killed people a lot nicer than her, that's for damn sure. And furthermore, every moment that passes she is taking you closer to when the Centre can exact its final revenge on you. She is herding you cheerfully to your death, and you, you silly bastard, are just going right on along with her. So what is it with her?
That look. He vaguely remembered it through the haze of drugs. She was definitely more than she was letting on, and he had seen it in that moment. She was not afraid of him. She was not disgusted with him, or by his actions. He was biding his time, and she, it would appear, was biding hers. That look of Jarod's, of a superior intellect that fully recognizes its superiority and all the implications. And come to think of it, the singing, the waffles, that utterly infuriating smile, it was all kind of overkill.
He was going to go back out there and figure out what the hell was going on. He was still tired, but he could feel his strength returning. He always had strength for this. This was survival. It was the only thing he cared about.
That is the difference between Kyle and me. He didn't care if he lived or died (though he would apparently have liked to decide, as he frequently asserted). All he wanted was revenge, he would do anything to get it. I'm different. Revenge is nice. So is golfing. But more than anything, I want to live. To survive.
And that, Lyle decided, was what he would do. If she could help him, fine. If not, well then there was going to be another proverbial notch on his gun.