She is laying in the hall when he comes next, an apple - his first gift to her - core discarded near her hand and her hair spread out around her face like a black halo. She feels him coming first, the rumble of his boots on the hardwood, shuddering under her cheek when she turns to press her skin to it but hears him next. His foot falls are heavy, the leather of his jacket creaks, the zydrate in is bag rattles and chimes together. Shilo sees him in inches.
The dirty toes of his boots, all those buckles, leather pants, hideous belt, worn shirt, skin and hair and pulse point. Dark painted lips.
She hangs there for a minute, imagines that she sees fangs where his mouth has fallen open in a pant. Her hand slides down, away from the apple core, to rub her fingers across one of those big metal buckles. She's been making a slow progress through the house, reacquainting herself, she thinks, with each room as it is alone and in her freedom; without father, doctor, keeper, jailer, best friend. She waits in each room, she realizes, until he comes and brings life back into it with the stench of death still on his skin.
"I see Rapunzel is getting in on Snow White's action today," his words are mocking, warm and familiar and there is a twist on his mouth because - and she's sure of this by now - he actually likes her. His gaze stutters though, drops from her face to her thighs and, belatedly, Shilo can feel that her skirts have ridden up, that there is pale flesh exposed to him and the frilled edge of her bloomers, "or maybe Eve."
"fuck off" she can feel the heat of a blush on her cheeks but she stubbornly keeps her eyes on his face, shoves her skirt down with finely trembling hands. He cackles when she swears and there is no other way to describe the rumble of his laughter, the hard edge, the crackle of electricity. Kitchen, dining room, hallway, all breathed back to life and there is still so many rooms to do and God only knows how long before he gets bored of these visits of his.
"She's swearing now, ladies and gentles, look out," his hand is hard and calloused in hers as he drags her up to her feet as if she weighs nothing. And to him it's probably true, she remembers the ease with which he man handled that corpse about. More dragging her around, though, really going to need to have that conversation. He smiles, one side of his mouth lifting before the other so it looks lopsided before it's complete. "I'm rubbing off on her."
"You're so gross," She touches that corner of his mouth, the one that always goes first with two soft fingers and the smile fades, in parts, in reverse. Still lopsided. She smiles then, lets her fingers fall away because they still tremble with the feel of his skin even after she rubs them on the silk of her dress. He opens his mouth, as if he's going to say something, to make some smart mouth crack and she smiles blithely, "I'm not that sheltered, Graverobber, I understand the concept of innuendo."
"Just stopped by to use your laundry services, kid," he says it as if he actually believes that, as if he actually means it and Shilo's stomach goes hollow again. Sheltered, lonely teenage girl all alone in a big empty house with money and no one to keep men like him - well not quite like him because no one can be - from taking advantage of her. But he toes the apple core, his nose wrinkling as if in disgust even though she knows that he digs through worse every day on behalf of his junkies and she shakes the thoughts away.
She nods wordlessly, picks her way around the apple core towards the staircase, in the direction he just came from. Anyway, he helps himself to everything else so it's not as if he came up to ask if he can use the laundry. He is a hovering shadow behind her as they descend the steps, make a quick trek through the dark hall and delve back down dark stairs.
The basement is a subterranean dungeon, ill lit, poorly heated and mostly forgotten. A bare lightbulb swings above the washing machine and it casts dancing light as she flips up the lid on the machine. She should probably do some laundry herself, it's been more than a little while and she is likely not smelling her best.
Shilo knows, before she turns what he is doing and yet she does it anyway. His coat is abandoned behind him on a forgotten, never repaired rocking chair and he is tugging his shirt up and over his chest. It leaves his hair in a worse state then it was when he started - not that she quite believed that possible - and she reaches out to touch it, to smooth all that wild colored hair back into place. Her hands find the buttons on his vest, small nickel things that are cold on the pads of her fingers but his skin is warm when she pushes the fabric back off his chest. It joins his shirt, with nearly silent collapse, in the bottom of the laundry machine. He bends at the shoulders, his hair spills forward and they are breathing the same air, panting against each other to share a breath. Her hands twist on his belt and his join them, stilling the flutter of movement for a space of heart beats. He doesn't quite kiss her and she doesn't quite want him to but their noses brush together, their foreheads bump awkwardly and he helps her unfasten his belt. He's the one who drags it out of his belt loops as her fingers find the zipper of his pants. They both stand there, her little hands at his hips, lower, his pants undone a dark line of hair drawing down from his navel to lower - better, she thinks - things.
There are zydrate vials strapped to his thigh, boots buckled to the knee and his pants aren't going anywhere until those are dealt with. She's loathe to go, however. When her knees hit the ground she thinks she hears him whisper her name but she can't be sure because the blood is roaring in her ears and it is a damn good thing daddy isn't poisoning her anymore because she doesn't want to blank out on a second of this. His boots are easy, buckles are simple and he steps out of them for her, hands hanging innocently at his sides, fingers spread as if to prove he's no danger. Which is a lie.
It's the little vials that are difficult, not because the leather is stiff and the buckles are rusty and ill kept but because her fingers brush his leather covered thigh as she works and his hips flex. Were she not so close - just a breath away, really - she probably wouldn't have seen the way the muscles in his abdomen ripple under his skin.
The vials fall away and she cushions them in her lap, careful of them because they mean something to him.
"I can fit your dad's stuff, go grab me a pair of pants," his voice is light, easy as if his heart is not hammering in his throat the way hers is. She startles at it, almost sneers because it seems so out of place but he arks a dark eyebrow, gives her a look that says she should already be on her way to do his bidding and, damn it, she goes. Shilo scrambles to her feet without any grace at all and makes her way up the stairs, long limbs - gawky, ugly, things she thinks - sending her in a stilted progression up and up and away and
"Shilo," his voice is almost lost under the rumble of the machine. Almost. She freezes, listening to the slither of leather on skin and almost doesn't turn to face him. When Shilo does turn, in parts, at the waist, hips frozen where they are she is clutching his zydrate to her chest like a child would a favourite plush. Or, more accurately, like a junkie. He has his back to her, is tossing his pants in the large sink to wash them - leather probably doesn't do well in a washing machine - and even bathed in shadow as he is she can make out the unbroken line of his side. He tips his head up and back, catches her eye on the curve of his jaw, "there's a six pack on the kitchen table. Grab me one, kid."
The door to the basement closes behind her and she sags, her strings cut. Her spine bows against the wood and she sinks to her haunches, the air coming out of her with a sound like wings and her head bumps the wood. She can taste her pulse and she thinks she can still feel the heat of his breath on her face, the electricity of his skin. When she finally scrambles up to find a pair of pants and get that beer for him it is with baby bird grace, awkward and fumbling and brand fucking new.
AN: I'm looking for a beta. Any takers? I'm looking for someone who can help me when I muddle pronouns and use the wrong their/there/they're as well as keep my Graverobber from turning into a romance hero.