Summary: When Amber goes in search of a hit, she finds more than she bargained for...
Ships: Gramber
Rating: T
"GraveRobber…!"
Amber drew closer to Graves' favorite dumpster and looked in. He lay there, back turned to her. Not moving. Either he was sleeping, or he was still pissed off at her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out enough credits for a hit. Then she rubbed the coins together. A usually enticing sound for the city's number one drug dealer.
"I'll pay like a normal client, I swear," she said. "Just… Gimme a hit."
No response. Amber threw the coins at GraveRobber and they bounced off, landing somewhere in the dumpster. He didn't move.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" she said, putting her hands on her hips. "What does a girl have to do to get a hit around here? Strip naked and merengue for you?"
Silence.
"That's what you want?" she asked. "Seriously?"
The same stony silence. Amber rolled her eyes.
"Look, I'm sorry, Graves," she said. "Okay? I'm sorry I was such a cunt to you last week. I was just playing around."
No forgiveness came.
Amber sighed and began to swivel her hips. Fine, she thought. He's playing hard to get. I can respect that. But as she strip-teased for him, GraveRobber didn't dignify her with a response. He didn't even look over. Not even when she moaned his name and cupped her breasts.
She zipped up her top and dropped her hands to the side, marched over to the dumpster and seized him by the shoulders.
"Enough of this horseshit!" she snapped. "I said I was sorry-!"
But when she flipped him around, Amber saw why he'd been so silent.
His smirk was slack. His vibrant eyes dulled. His skin paler than usual, with a strange purple blemish on one cheek. A roach crawled across his lifeless skin.
Amber screamed.
She released him and scuttled backwards. He couldn't be dead. Not GraveRobber. Especially not like this. He was destined for a blaze of glory. Not to die in his dumpster like some common street rat. This was a joke. A cruel joke. Payback for all the times she teased him too much. She inched back to him.
And as she brushed a finger across his cool cheek, realization struck. Dead. Dead. GraveRobber… Her GraveRobber… was dead. A lump welled up in her throat. She tried to swallow it. She couldn't.
"You can't be dead, you bastard," she said, cupping his face in her hands. "I still need you…!"
But of course, Amber was met with silence. She clambered into the dumpster, like some common guttersnipe, and she picked up the roach – which had now crawled to his chest – and she threw it as far away as she could. Nobody was going to touch him now. Nobody but her.
She'd never dared to wrap herself in his arms during life. Scared of what he might think, what he might do. She had no such fears now. She held him for the first and last time, the way a grieving widow might: Crying into his chest, tenderly stroking his skin with her fingers. Desperately seeking a heartbeat under his chest. Hoping for a fairytale miracle.
But nothing happened.
Minutes ticked by. Maybe an hour.
"I loved you," she confessed to him when her tears had dried. "God only knows why, you mangy mutt, but I loved you. Almost as much as I loved myself. Maybe more… sometimes."
She smiled at him. Expecting a droll response that wouldn't come.
And then a gleam of silver caught her eyes. His Z-gun.
She'd come here looking for Zydrate. She wanted it. Even more badly than she had when she came.
Three days later, there was a press conference. A funeral for the city's Robin Hood. Amber Sweet dressed in black out of respect for her fallen adversary. The only pop of color glowed from a silver chain around her neck. A little glass vial. Bright blue. Shimmering. The last hit of Z she ever got from GraveRobber. A symbol, she told the press, of her commitment to get clean once and for all.
A symbol, she told herself, of her commitment to Graves.
A/N: This one was written for my RP partner (weirdlittlefamilyofrp) for the prompt of "Your character finds mine dead".