Disclaimer: See chapter 1. Lyrics belong to Daughter.
AN: Thanks again to CBK1000. This story was not supposed to be anything but a one-shot, but, well, just like the summary says, it became a little more. Enjoy.
Sometimes he likes to be alone.
He was always alone, in some sense, although rarely Rude is able to pierce the shell he has subconsciously and efficiently constructed. He doesn't know if his partner is even aware when that happens; when he feels the slip, the curtain drops protectively, and he is an island again.
A quick, anonymous fuck certainly doesn't constitute quality Reno time. He thinks these frequent, mindless exchanges of bodily fluids and shared breaths are perhaps even more isolating than sitting alone in his empty apartment, nothing but a pulse and a puff in the dark.
This multitude of empty, hungry faces doesn't know him. The thought chases him out the door in the early morning hours after. He doesn't want them to really see.
It helps him forget, though. Feels good, too, usually.
But not as good as...
He sits on the edge of his bed staring at the closet, feeling his vision blur for lack of blinking.
Somehow, he knows she saw.
She sees too much...
He is not scared or angry at the thought. Pleased, maybe?
The cigarette in his hand is mostly ash as he stands, balancing it on his pursed lips as he moves forward. He pushes aside a few long forgotten garments hanging on bent and rusting wire hangers, sees the dress, hovering and shimmering like a ghost. His bright eyes squint as he takes one last, long drag.
Most days, he has to remind himself it hadn't been a dream.
"The fuck we doin' here?"
He hates jobs on the plate. Can't take a single fucking step without feeling a thousand pairs of eyes. At least suckers in the Slums knew better than to just stare.
Sorry to piss on your pretty little party you call life, but we're the ones that dress it up for you, you ungrateful, vapid fucks.
Rude only shrugs silently, shrouded gaze diverted. It pisses him off even more.
Another interrogation ends in a death. It's the fourth that month, for him. He says it's just because he's loyal.
Rude says he's just being plain mean.
He tells him to go fuck himself.
"See?" Eyebrows soar above perfectly perched and polished shades. Reno has to hold himself to his chair to keep from reaching up and knocking them off his partner's self-righteous face.
He knows he's right. He just can't be any other way.
The girls find out, too, but only after he's fucked them so hard they bleed.
It's not fun anymore. It's catharsis. Every wet hole, every inch of exposed skin, every mouth belongs to her.
He tells himself it'll get better with time.
It keeps winding down, and it changes nothing. Life is laughing at him, and every day that he wakes up after that last morning is just one more closer to the grave.
He's been honing the art of picking her out of a crowd for nearly half a year.
So when he actually catches sight of her, he doesn't trust himself. Rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, stars exploding behind his lids.
He's back on the plate, and Rude's in the john, and Tseng's thinly veiled threat of "Less punches, more patience" keeps him still as a statue as she glides not a hundred yards from him. The clothes, the hair…a little different in the light of day.
But he can never forget the way she moves.
He's off duty in less than 20 hours. He makes note of his location after she disappears into a nearby high-rise, not noticing the tremor in his hands as he fetches a cigarette from his pocket to bring it to his mouth.
Takes him five rapid-fire flicks before he can light the fucking thing, and he chokes on the first inhale.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He's lets Rude do the interrogating this time.
He's never rehearsed what he would say to a woman before in his life.
He's not about to start, but he comes close.
Three nights in a row he stakes her out, always making sure to ditch his suit first. Fucking upper crust.
For good measure, he snuffs the flame on his head with a backwards dome piece that he stole from a rookie's locker.
The fourth night, she doesn't show at the usual time. He waits three more hours, shoves his hands deep in his jeans' pockets, teeth grinding, a growl in his throat.
Later, blocks away and waiting on an empty platform for the train to take him to Sector One, he toys with his EMR, wakes up an hour later with a killer headache and a burn mark on his chest.
He tells himself it was an accident, and in a way, it was.
He shouldn't have woke up.
He hasn't been staying at his place for over a week.
The on-call shift rotates, and he doesn't feel like coming up with an excuse.
Back to his couch, and that fucking closet and those fucking bedsheets.
On the elevator ride up he chews an unlit cig, his head against the wall, lids closed, mind alive with what's next, what's next, please, fuck, let it come already.
He pauses in the hallway, two doors down from his, sensing her before he sees her.
It's just like the first time he saw her, but now her back and one stiletto-clad foot are propped up against his door.
Black ink swirls at the edge of his vision before he thinks to take a breath, and when he does, she opens her eyes.
He takes a moment to calculate. Maybe he's giving her one more moment on top of those six months.
Casually, he tosses her his keys, and, as liquid as ever, she catches them at her waist, no hesitation as she turns. She doesn't bother a second look before she disappears into his apartment.
He doesn't bother to collect himself before he slides in after her.
It's only after the first rip of clothing and the first noise from her throat that he remembers to kick the door closed.
His purpose is not pleasure, and when she cries out in pain the first time it is a fire in his veins that is more potent than any drug.
He thinks with each cry he is that much closer to what he'd been before he ever met her.
She is soft, and submissive, and her blood is sweet on his tongue, and it's then that he realizes the harder he plows the deeper he goes, and he is drowning.
He decides it's not such a bad way to die.
She lies shuddering beneath him afterwards but makes no sound, save for her breaths, rapid and shallow. She makes no move to extract herself, and he isn't in the mood to accommodate. He knows she has to be sore, that the dead weight of him is making it that much harder to breathe, but he can't find it in him to care.
He wants her to hurt as much as he does, has, will...What the fuck did you do to me, you fucking cunt?
He is still inside her when he drifts off moments later.
She is still beneath him when he wakes, and he's not sure if he has passed out or truly slept, so unsure of the passage of time. He aches all over. He thinks it's the best fucking feeling he's ever had.
He stares at her profile, her eyes closed, lashes wet with tears. In the dim light, he can see the uneven swell of her lower lip, knows that he is responsible. He knows he'll never be sorry for it.
He wants to do it again.
Her eyes open then, staring unseeing at the ceiling. Her breath hitches, and he realizes then that he's still inside her, getting hard again.
He positions himself so that her eyes meet his, his arms shaking from the effort, body protesting when he gives a subtle roll of his hips.
Her head falls back, but her eyes stay with him, and he knows that he is all she sees. Her thighs open wider to him. His hands find hers, fingers lacing and knuckles white.
If he's gentler this time, he tells himself it's not because he wants to be.
He's moved from the floor, but she hasn't, and he watches her, perched on the edge of his couch, naked from the waist down, his shirt wrinkled and sweat-soaked and unevenly buttoned. The cherry of his cig burns bright against his retina, the smoke smoothing the shakes in his limbs.
His voice is raspy, his tone monotonous, empty. "You shouldn't have come back."
Perhaps, he thinks, he should have said that earlier. A warning.
Her head moves, turning to face him, and he hates that she is still so fluid, so graceful, so still, in spite of him, in spite of what he's done.
Briefly, absurdly, he wonders if this has been her way of saying she's sorry.
Her voice is a brush of velvet in the dark. "I know."
This is torturous electricity
Between both of us
And this is dangerous
'cause I want you so much
But I hate your guts
I hate you