Note: Not exactly what you'd call sequential. Notes are much the same as the first chapter, onesided Mega+Jay, only with the addition of Mega being weird and more than slightly suicidal.
The mother of pearl-inlaid handle of the revolver is warm as I press it into his hands. He resists at first, taking the gun from me only as my own fingers slide towards the trigger. There's a sort of fear in his eyes, nearly overriden by his obvious confusion. It makes my heart beat in double-time, to see him look lost like that, but then again every sight of him makes my heart hammer against my ribs. It's a shock I haven't died of this yet. I smile, quick and predatory as always, and lift his hands, pressing the cold barrel of the ancient gun against the spot between my eyebrows where the "T" tattoo we both bear lies. I glance up from the gun as I hear his voice.
"Where did you get this?" It wasn't the question I had been expecting. Not why. Where. I give him another smile - mysterious - and shrug.
"I have my ways." I hold the smile a little longer, and no, he still doesn't understand. Poor Jay. I reach up, again, loving what I am sure will be the last brush of my fingers against his as I pull the hammer back with a loud click. I hope the rust-encrusted thing still works. I couldn't bring myself to touch it apart from buying it from the dubious street vendor some months ago, and now, shoving it into his hands.
I am dismayed when, a minute or two later, I am still alive.
"Do you want me to shoot you?" I swallow my first impulse, to snap back at him, clever and bitter, and choose to answer simply.
"Yes."
"Do you want me to kill you?" It was getting harder to resist. As smart as he was, Jay could be a perfect idiot sometimes. He had an unusual talent for stating the obvious.
"Yes." Clear and concise. I don't want to spend my last moments on Earth despising him, but if he keeps asking such stupid questions, I might do.
"Why?"There. That was the question I had been expecting, one I had an answer for.
"Don't you want to?" I pause, allowing him time to answer. He doesn't, and I continue. "Don't you loathe me?" Still more silence from his corner. I'm afraid to glance up and see what might be lurking in his eyes, and so I keep my eyes trained on the toes of his boots. "For enslaving the city, for trying to delete you, for deleting Ved?" The gun jerks and I flinch, against my will, realising for the first time that I've been trembling.
"Ved isn't dead." I glance up at him, out of surprise and reflex, and am surprised to find no hint of anger in his eyes, only something soft and warm that makes my stomach twist.
"How would you know that?" There's no point in keeping the bitterness, the long-ignored emotion out of my voice anymore, I tell myself. I'll be gone soon. Deleted. Dead. Splattered against the wall behind me.
"That guy you sent Lex to told him, that TaiSan and Ved aren't dead. That 'DELETED' doesn't mean anything more than their files being lost." I reach out to steady his arm as the gun begins to slide down my nose. I want this, I remind myself, ignoring the tiny bead of sweat trickling down my forehead and around the barrel. "You knew that. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have believed me?" He thinks before he answers me in a nearly inaudible syllable.
"No."
"That's why. No point in trying something so futile, is there?" I attempt a flippant tone and fail utterly, disgusted at the catch in my own voice. As always, my words have a double meaning, one I can only hope will die with me before he can figure it out. I have always found hatred easier to stomach than pity. My hands are still wrapped around his wrists, trying to steady both of our hands and doing a terrible job of it. I squeeze the delicate bones slightly, my eyelashes brushing the inside of my glasses as my eyes slide halfway shut. I can't look at him any longer. I wish he'd kill me already.
"No." The same word, in a completely different tone. I think he was agreeing with me until I notice that I had spoken my wish aloud. I forget to stop him as he lowers his hands and drops the gun with a dull thud onto the floor. I'm still clutching his wrists, I notice, my knuckles turning white, and I can't bring myself to let go of him. He doesn't pull away from me. I'm too cynical, too scared to take this as a good sign. My pulse is racing, and I can feel his beginning to match its tempo.
"Don't you want me dead?" Dead. Not deleted. I notice my slip too late to correct it, my eyes trained on the contrast of my hands against his skin.
"No." I'd never imagined that one word could bring about such a reaction in me. He's said little else for the past few minutes, and yet he still manages to seem more eloquent than I am. I notice, not for the first time, that I've become something of a wreck, at least by my own standards. My heart has leapt into my throat and will allow passage of little else, including words and air. My breath is coming in short gasps, and as a result, I am becoming lightheaded, gravitating slowly but surely towards Jay. My trembling has, if anything, increased. I am a nervous, twitching, wreck.
"I do." I am acutely aware of the jagged scars running the length of my forearms that sometimes catch on the inside of my shirt when I pull it off at night. The words are out of my mouth before I notice them, and I don't care. Somehow I am still deluded enough to hope that he still might kill me.
He twists and pulls himself out of my grip. I have only a moment to mourn the loss of his warmth before I find myself in the center of it, the tiny metal teeth of the zipper that bisects his chest digging into my cheek. I bury my face against him before he can move away, which he does not do, and put my arms hesitantly around his waist. Miraculously, he does not object. The frame of my glasses is digging into the bridge of my nose. It's a little irritation that I am more than willing to endure for the sake of what is likely my only chance to be held by Jay.
"Mega." He won't let me pull away from his embrace, and I don't really want to, so I have to do some twisting to look up at him. He looks like a saint, almost, with that sad look on his face. It's an expression I've seen on him more than I would care to, and am shocked to realise that he is wearing it for my sake. I want very badly to kiss him, but I know that would be pushing my luck, and I only wait. His fingers brush my cheek, warm and gentle and wet. Am I bleeding? I look down at his hand, searching for a dark smear, and see nothing. His voice is little more than an awed whisper with a faint undercurrent of fear. I taste salt and am relieved that I don't have to meet his eyes as he speaks. "You're crying."
