The beer is cold in her hand, beads of condensation slicking between her palm and the aluminum. In comparison to lingering heat on her skin, the only-just-slowing drum roll of her heart it is soothing. But she still can't seem to pull open the door and descend, down to him - down to his level? - where he waits for her in the semi dark. A pair of her father's pajama pants are tucked under her arm, the zydrate still cradled against her chest. Her thumb rubs across the cap of one little glass vials and she draws something like strength from the unforgiving edge of glass against her skin. Shilo feels as though she can sense the heat of him through the door, as though she can feel his heartbeat and her mouth is dry.
There are no words in human speech that prepared her for him, no book that told her that all of the carefully contained chaos of his life would sweep into hers and leave her... Leave her what? Breathless, speechless, gasping? Her finger nail catches on the edge of the cap, jars uncomfortably and she draws herself together, gulps down the musty air of a home that has not seen enough open windows and bright days. The door comes open easy enough, washing her with the rumble of the machine, the metallic clatter of it and the purr of running water. Shilo can feel slivers in the wood under her feet, lit by the wash of blue glow and she focuses on that, watches each foot fall as if it were vitally important.
That's why she is almost at his side when she is knocked breathless. He has obviously taken the liberty of using the sink to wash up a little and his skin is shined with it, water dripping from his long hair to track glistening lines down the play of muscles in his back. He senses her - or maybe she says something to him, Shilo can't recall when she relives the memory later - and he tilts his head towards her, smirks and it is a baring of fangs. She follows the slow progression of a single bead of water down the curve of his spine, watches as it catches on lines of muscle and detours, slides across his hip and descends over his thigh. His chuckle is a warm burr in his chest and his shoulders shudder with it.
Still he does not turn to face her and Shilo hasn't quite decided if she's pleased or disappointed.
"That you, Kid?" he half turns to face her, twisting at the waist and she can make out a badly healed scar over his chest, over his heart and she wants to touch it. He lifts a wicked eyebrow and she tears her gaze away from his skin, focuses on the bridge of his nose. Safe, innocuous, sexless. He has washed all of that make up off and without it he looks almost handsome, in a traditional sense rather than the raw, heart pounding, blood and bone sense that she's been finding increasingly ... inescapable.
"No," Shilo can taste the sarcasm on her tongue, feels the weight of it, the bite of it and she enjoys it. She has to shuffle close, half turn so that he can snag the pants from the curve of her elbow and his bare thigh presses against her hip for a second. And then a second more. His body turns, his weight shifts and he presses against the side of her body with his thigh, touching hip to knee so that the bare patch of skin between socks and the hem of her skin can brush his. He is on fire, she is sure that she will ignite with it and she gives a full body tremble. The heat in his eyes makes her look away.
He swears viciously when she presses the cold beer can against the curve of his spine and she takes control of her body back, skips back a step so that she can no longer feel the heat radiating off his skin. Graverobber tugs the beer out of her hand and pops the tab one handed. He is scowling at her when the head starts to spill up out of the can, drip against his fingers and he seals his mouth against the opening, knocks his head back to drain the spilling head in a long swallow but his eyes are dancing.
Shilo turns her back on him, sets his zydrate down near his coat, only half surprised that he let her walk out with it. They both know she's had more than enough chemical dependency in her very short life. She wraps her arms around her stomach when he puts down the beer can, moves to pull on his pants. Her head falls back and she is panting for breath between chapped lips. Somehow her chest is tight, constricted and for a moment she sinks into the quiet of her mind, the shiver of heat on her skin where he has touched her.
She conjures the cool taste of him on her skin.
When he touches her arms she sags back against his chest, lets him brush his thumbs across her shoulders and rest his chin on the top of her head. His heart beat hammers against her chest and his hands slide lower, until his fingers twist between hers. His head shifts, his forehead bumps against the back of her throat and she feels the way his chest caves in when he curves his spine to do it. His skin is damp, his hair cold where it touches her shoulders but she lets him nudge her head to one side, gives and inaudible little sigh when his lips find her throat, not kissing her, not really, just breathing along the curve of her neck. She thinks, for a moment, that she feels his tongue flicker - snake like- on her pulse point but the moment is gone before she's certain of anything. Time slows, her focus narrows to the places he is touching her as he guides one of her hands to the side of her thigh. It is her fingers which curl into the hem of her skirt, dragging up so that his calloused hand can brush the skin revealed there.
His teeth find the curve of her shoulder, pressing but not demanding and she mewls. There is nothing to be done for it. The sound spills up, unbidden from her mouth and her head tips, turns back so her cheek brushes the wet of his hair. Blindly her mouth finds the curve of his cheekbone, the oval of his eye. The edge of his jaw is rough with stubble under her lips and his mouth is warm, amazingly warm like the rest of him. His lips are chapped, dry and they catch at hers, drag oddly. She has never tasted beer before and she knows - knows it like her heart beat - that she will never taste it without thinking of him.
"Yes," the word comes as a hiss, a whisper, a demand against the hollow of his mouth, echoing against the stutter of his breath and his hand flexes on her thigh, nails catch at her skin. And then he is gone, too far to reach out for, too quick to stop. He hovers at the edge of the stairs, drags one hand through his hair to pull out the tie that keeps some of it back, shakes like a dog.
He is looking anywhere but at her and when she says his name - plaintive, needy even to her own ears - he is reluctant, he looks at her bit by grudging bit.
"Kid," Shilo thinks that she can see him putting himself back together, thinks that she can see the way he slides into arrogance and detachment like a favorite coat and her mouth still tastes of him. He cracks a roguish smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes and he ascends the steps, tossing his words over his shoulder "I'm going to grab a little shut eye before the laundry's done. Throw it in the dryer when it's time."
He vanishes into the shadow of the hallway and Shilo tips her head, follows the tread of bare feet on hardwood as he makes his way through her home as though he has the right to it. Alone in the basement her skin feels tight, painfully tight and she fists frail hands into the fabric of her skirts. But really, a part of her thinks sneeringly, what else did she expect. Her body folds in on itself, sinking down onto that long abandoned rocking chair where his coat lies and she wraps herself in the scent of it. The chair creaks when she moves, it won't rock anymore but she doesn't need it to, she just needs his jacket to smell like him. When the laundry is done she'll fold it, set it at the top of the stairs for him and go to her own bed but in the moment, alone with the flickering light and the rumble of the dryer she can wrap herself in the way he smells, the way she can still feel calloused hands on her thigh and feel like a normal girl, all hormones and hapless crushes.
The buzzer of the dryer is startling, shakes her out of a half sleep that drew images of water tracking down pale skin through her mind and pulls a little shriek off her lips. But she is alone with the frantic hammer of her heart and no one is there to see her blush of embarrassment. Brave Shilo Wallace, faced down Largos and an angry Repo Man and she's jumping at shadows. She snorts and it is as far from ladylike as she can manage.
Dad would have scolded her, like he always did when she was vile, and yet there was always a little dance in his eyes, there was always a "so like your mother" that followed it.
Thinking of her father still hurts, still makes the hollow in her chest, where her heart ought to be feel achingly large and empty, as though it can never be filled. Sometimes she wonders if she has a heart left at all but no, Gravedigger's mouth on her skin sends it hammering in her chest like a caged beast and there is no more denying it. Part of her feels guilty, as she carries still warm from the dryer laundry up the stairs in a neat pile - leather pants on the bottom because they're still sort of damp and never got thrown in the dryer - clutching them to her chest. His boots hang from one hand at her side and she picks her way to where he is sprawled on the couch.
His legs have fallen haphazardly, one spilling off the edge of the couch he is far too tall to sleep on and his arms spread wide. Moonlight peaks through cracked curtains and spills across the pale of his face. He doesn't move, doesn't even stir when she drops a blanket across his chest, tucking it around him as best as she can and Shilo wonders at that. Can't be safe to sleep that deeply, not in his line of work. She hesitates before she goes, crouches beside him, his clothing left at the foot of the couch for him and her fingers brush the curve of his eyebrow, follow the high planes of his cheeks.
"It sparks," his mouth is soft, pliant under her lips and somewhere in his bone deep slumber he is aware of her because he comes inches closer to awake, leaning up to return the kiss now. There is a mumble off his lips and he's still too deeply asleep for her to make out what he's trying to say but it doesn't matter. When she stands and lets herself out of the living room, makes her way up to toss out the apple core she abandoned in the hallway she knows that he will not be there when she wakes up in the morning.
She also knows that she will go out and see the world tomorrow, see that it is still standing and maybe it'll be enough to keep her occupied until he makes his way back.
bAN:/b I want to thank everyone who offered to beta for me, I've found a great beta who I'm just adoring but I really appreciate everyone who offered. Also? It's so nice to have the login working properly isn't it?