"Brigitte Snaps Back"
Chapter Twelve
"A Moment of Brandon Lee Calm"
Sam first takes her to her own house, but the moment she realizes that that's where he's going, she steers him towards the greenhouse. He doesn't ask, but suggests getting her a fresh set of clothes – her only two outfits have been spent, one of them sitting in the clothes hamper with dried blood on them. Brigitte reluctantly agrees, but gives him instructions and sends him in her stead.
(you coward)
Sam returns with a duffel bag, throws it in the back of his van, gets in and drives... all without a single word.
The street lamps lined up on both sides, shedding dead, yellowish lights onto the pavement guide them as Sam bites his tongue. He allows her this little escape, going to his grave instead of her own. He knows that there will be a day when she will go back, and some part of him absolutely refuses the idea. The mere thought of it seems too much like a doomsday scenario.
Once they're inside, they go straight to the living room, Brigitte carrying the take-out sandwiches they bought on their way to Leland Street to see Pam. She takes off her coat and sweater, left with her v-neck, long-sleeve t-shirt that Sam likes more than some of her other clothes, as it is a bit tighter than the other items in her oversized ensemble. He sits down next to her and as she unwraps the sandwiches, turns on the TV. Knowing the channel configuration, he dances around news channels, instead cruising for something ridiculous enough to distract himself with.
The image of a thin, androgynous Adonis in leather pants with long, shiny fangs cutting an impressive figure in mid-monologue stops him. Brigitte's hands that are holding her sandwich freeze.
"Wanna watch?" Sam asks.
"Whatever."
"Whatever it is, then."
"It's supposed to be a metaphor." Brigitte says, "Alienation, isolation, loneliness, melancholy – not showing off in trying to be what, exactly? As sexy as possible? As Goth-chic as possible?"
"Wait, so you're fine with vampires being real, but you take issue with the way they dress?"
"A vampire's supposed to blend in! How is anyone supposed to be the silent predator when they walk around like this? Everything about him screams trouble!"
"Trouble. Not vampire."
"They're supposed to be anonymous – it's very hard to blend into a crowd when you look like you used to be Brandon Lee's stunt double and you miss the good old days."
"He was in other movies, you know."
"Don't change the subject. And the other ones sucked. Just so you know."
"Oh, so we have a Brandon Lee fangirl here!"
"No? I just – look, The Crow was really good, okay?"
"Now who's changing the subject?"
"Shut up!" Brigitte can't hold back a giggle. Sam grins.
"Not in your life."
Sam mentally kicks himself. One word, and there is suddenly the spectre at the feast. It takes one word for Brigitte to disappear behind her bangs, to instinctively hunch and make herself smaller – Sam has seen some animals do that, in order to make themselves less apparent to predators.
He decides to take a jab.
"Penny for your thoughts, B."
Brigitte shakes, as if she has just been stabbed and Sam raises an eyebrow. It is a classic trick, it has a very high success rate, it should work, so why-
"Don't call me that. Please?"
"Uhh..." Sam feels confusion set in, "Sure?"
"Just... don't."
(remember the names they used to call you, the other names that bit and scratched)
"Well, that was good while it lasted." Sam says and reaches for what's left of his soda. It's warm.
Brigitte glances at him sitting there, lighting up a cigarette to wash everything down – the dinner, the movie... isn't that what they call a date, she wonders for a moment. It fits the mould of all those chick flicks she used to make fun of with Ginger – and here she is, living one, in the faux-break up scene, telling him that it's not him. It's her.
It sickens her. Dancing around him is making her sick. She knows the human circumcised dick and knows that she's running for her life from it.
(I'm nothing without a crisis)
"She called me that." Brigitte murmurs, "Ginger... called me that."
"Okay." Sam says, "It won't happen again."
Sam feels that he's constantly telling her that something-or-other will not happen again, but he's not thinking about what, because there, be dragons.
"Why are you nice to me, Sam?"
"What, do I need a reason or something?"
Brigitte doesn't answer. She hides behind an old trick: if you just keep quiet, people usually start talking of their own volition.
(it comes naturally to you)
Sam shifts. He folds one leg on the couch and faces her.
"Wait. Oh, fuck me - you're actually serious..." he says. He considers it. "Well, not for the reasons that you're ever gonna think of."
"You know what I think before I think it?"
"No. It's educated guess."
Brigitte eyes him curiously.
"Educated?" she sneers.
"Look, we can sit here and self-deprecate for as long as you want, hell, I'll supply the lubricant, but the point is, I care about you." Brigitte raises an eyebrow, "Mm-hm." Sam says, taking a drag from his cigarette, "I know, right? Call the men in white to drag me out, kicking and screaming. Fuckin' certify me."
"That's not what I said."
"Educated guess. Brigitte, I don't have to be crazy to care. If that was the case, then I know everybody else around here is way too sane for their own good."
"It just comes naturally to you."
"That's 'cause I'm fucked in the head."
"I don't think you're crazy. You're just unlucky."
"Oh for fuck's sake... Look, you were right, alright? You didn't put a gun to my head. You didn't force me into anything, I came along for the ride, and not because I was going where my dick pointed at, either, just so we're clear on that."
Brigitte bites her lower lip.
"...sorry about that."
"You and nobody else." Sam counters, "So shut up and-"
Brigitte's arms fling themselves around his neck and she pulls him in, spider-leg fingers gripping a handful of his hair. Sam feels the muscles in her arm flexing, trembling slightly as they try to keep him there. He returns the hug, and puts his hands on her back. There are small tremors under his palms.
He never gets to tell Brigitte what she should do after shutting up. Instead, he holds her as she holds onto him for dear life; she shakes, sobs and cries, everything leading up to the Brandon Lee moment of calm pouring out of her. Sam wonders as he stares at the wall, the cheap wallpaper peeling in thin strips in several places, if they're going to make it out alive.
(I've lost nothing, everything's lost me)
Brigitte stops crying after what seems like an eternity. Sam provides her with a Kleenex, for which she is grateful. She breathes. Her entire body feels sore, as if she's been through a meat grinder and came out of the other side in one piece. She finds Sam staring. She wonders what he sees.
(people make me sick)
Sam sees something that prompts him to cup her cheeks with his hands and gently –cautiously- pull her in for a kiss. She's surprised at first, stiffens up, but after a moment of two, her eyes flutter closed and she relaxes. She slides onto his lap and settles in, comfortably, and they begin to chase each other around the contact point.
Sam gets into the groove and his hands start roaming, from the small of her back down to the curve of her ass, fingers pressing against the denim. She breathes heavily and her lips trace a line down his chin, to his neck. The prickling of Sam's 3-day old stubble tickles her lips as she tastes his skin. Her fingers tap on his shirt and expertly undo the buttons, practice gained from having to dress Ginger when she didn't want to wear something.
(you play with your new friends and I'll play with mine)
Sam's fingers curve underneath her sweater, but searching, he also grabs the hem of her long-sleeve t-shirt. Brigitte's hands are all over him, feeling around his body, exporing, while her tongue traces his jawline, the rugged dune of his chin and enters his mouth. He shifts, letting her push his shirt down and pulls at her clothes, trying to get them off of her.
Brigitte breaks contact. She lifts her arms up and waits.
"You don't..." Sam murmurs, catching his breath, "...you sure?"
(mom... what to guys want?)
"Aren't you?"
Sam pulls her sweater up, and Brigitte reaches down to help him. She takes off her undershirt. Sam follows suit. As Brigitte reaches behind herself to unhook her bra clasp, Sam takes in the dark circles around her eyes, her pale cheeks, the mess of her hair he has to periodically adjust... so unlike the others, so much more than.
The droning of the TV in the background, her thin neck that he then reaches forward to taste, eliciting a pleasant moan that he can feel vibrating beneath the skin. He captures a small strip of flesh and gently bites down on it, causing her to inhale sharply.
(some of them might seem cool or different, but they're all pretty much the same)
Brigitte looks up. She can see the very edge of the round lamp hanging from the ceiling, the light painting the beams with gradient hues, growing darker the further they spread. Thinning out.
Sam's mouth closes over her nipple and his tongue feeds the electric surge inside her, dispersing her thoughts. Pleasure, if this is what it is, spreads throughout her, and she can feel it vibrating inside her in little tremors, building up to an earthquake, lazily tipping the scales.
(killing is like sex, you don't stop in the middle)
She's unaware that she's grinding against him. It's painful for Sam, straining against his pants, feeling the warmth between her legs pressing down on him. He decides that he can't take it for much longer and withdraws his hands from her back to reach for his pants' button, or at the least the goddamn zipper. That's when the scramble begins. She kisses him, touch-and-go, and stands up. She looks down, but the toes of her boots only tell her that they're not even supposed to be there.
(throw the pieces away, you've picked them up for long enough)
Brigitte sheds her skin. The filth of the world, she remembers, don't let it touch you. Layers upon layers and what she has underneath, she doesn't want to look at. Thin lines of blue and faint purple reveal themselves as she lowers her jeans and steps out of her boots. Traitor veins that carry the Curse.
(the ugly of it all)
She stands there, thumbs hooked into the waist band of her panties as Sam sits there, completely naked by the time she's there, covering himself up with his hands, watching her intently.
"You need help with that?" Sam says, his voice carrying the slightest hint of humor. She flares up for a second, but then sees that he's not making fun of her hesitation. Not entirely.
Brigitte gives him a look.
"No." she says, "I got it. It's just..."
"Yeah?"
(I can't tell you everything)
One swift move, Brigitte stands naked before him, embracing herself. She takes one step forward, and is nearly there. Nearly. She inches closer. Sam's hands move, and they rest on her waist. He leans forward and kisses her just below her belly button. He looks up to find her looking down.
"You're beautiful." He says.
"I bet you said that a hundred times."
(to a hundred faces, to a hundred bodies, to a hundred Trina Sinclairs, all buried in shallow graves)
"...doesn't make it any less true now."
(you only hurt yourself)
Brigitte pushes him to climb on top. Sam's head falls back. He feels her fingers gently taking hold of him as she adjusts herself. He feels the heat radiating off of her and after a moment of near-obligatory pause, she sinks down, slowly.
For both of them, the other seems to go on forever in that moment, if forever was just a stray instant. A Brandon Lee moment of calm, suspended in time. She then starts to move, very slowly, and he holds her and buries his face into her neck, surrounded by the cascade of her hair.
Everything after blurs into the clarity of flesh, of despair in the middle of the room and sweat and abject sensation. For Brigitte, the feeling itself, the glimpse of the supernova she's heard about once, is blinding on its own and suddenly, she sees the gears that fed the breeder's machine she once had nothing but contempt for.
(sex. not even once)
She starts laughing as her hips keep a rhythm of their own, a rhythm that he delightfully matches, sending shivers across her poison body with every thrust. One of his hands rests on her waist while the other plays with one of her breasts, and as he adds his mouth to that hand, she can feel his fingers roaming her body as his hands slide down and trace a line towards her leg; touching, kneading flesh and brittle bone into the shape of wanted, the shape of beautiful.
It feels like dying inside.