milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

death,
sands

(no subject)

Sands is actually looking a little cheerful today.

He’s smiling, at least, though frankly that could mean anything.

Whatever the case, he’s currently sprawled on the sofa, with his sunglasses in place and a cigarette in hand, his head tilted slightly as he listens to the general noise of the busy bar.

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Clomp, clomp, clomp.

Combat boots on the hardwood floor. Clink of ice. Somewhere is the rhythm of shells hitting the ground from a fully-automatic weapon. The scrape of knife blades.

"Hey." The voice is familiar, somewhere in distant memory. Like swan song. "This seat taken?"

Sands cocks his head, curious. This is a voice he knows. How he isn’t sure, but-

“Nope,” he says at length, dragging thoughtfully on his cigarette.

The smile is felt the way one feels a blood clot moving towards the heart.

The sofa shifts with her weight. It's not that much.

"Those things'll kill ya, yanno." This sounds like the voice of experience.

Sands smirks, exhaling slowly and vindictively.

“Nastier ways to go.”

His, too, is a voice of experience.

"I know."

She's seen 'em all.

"How've you been? I mean. Considering."

Her question is met with blank stare of opaque black plastic.

"Do I know you?"

It comes out a little less rude and a lot more curious than intended.

"You do. Kind of."

Again, he can feel the smile. like a knife against the throat
the sound of wings
"I'm Death."

you’re dead
“Right,” says Sands, eventually.

You really can’t argue with that kind of thing.

Especially not here.

Clink of ice.

She remembers the blood from his eyes. Like tears.

"How long have you been here?"

She may remember, but Sands can’t forget.

“A few months,” he mutters tightly.

Another drag on his cigarette and his fingers, almost of their own accord, begin to drum on his knee.

Of course he can't.

Shifting of weight on the sofa.

"That's rough. Must be frustrating."

She goes where she likes. Where she's called. There's practically nowhere that can keep her out.

That may be the case, but Sands isn’t going down without a fight.

“I get by.”

Pause. Clink of ice.

"You know. I'm not here for you."

Is there a smirk in her voice?

“Gee. That’s just peachy.”

A few days ago, and he probably wouldn’t have cared. But today? There is perhaps a tiny hint of relief in his face before it’s hidden by his cigarette.

"Well. Thought you should know. Most people, they get kinda... jumpy. When I come around."

She knows. After twelve billion years, one becomes rather adept at reading people.

Lightly,

“Oh really? I wonder why.”

His fingers still.

"I really can't imagine. It's totally beyond me."

Laughter hides in her voice, the way a mugger hides in an alley.

Sands’ gaze turns away, he drags idly on his cigarette.

“Word of advice for next to time? There’s probably gentler ways to land the blow than ‘hi, I’m Death.”

He, admittedly, can’t think of any.

"Probably. But the look on your faces is rather priceless."

Of course, it is anyway, most of the time.

You can’t not laugh at that, so Sands does.

“I’d pay good money to,” a falter, “see that.”

His lips thin and his fingers begin, softly, to drum agin.

Her voice is soft.

"Bet you would."

Pause.

"You must know by now that there's people that can help you with that."

Cool fingertips against his temple, brushing a lock of hair away from his face. Cool like gunmetal, gentle as the brush of feathers. There's something maternal in the gesture.

For a few seconds, he thinks she’s going for his eyes. He doesn’t move, has somehow forgotten how to, but his breath hitches and his fingers freeze and all he can do is wait.

Just a few seconds, and then it passes. Frowning, more at himself than at her, he bats her hand away.

“I know. There are. Just a few more days.”

I hope.

A small breath of a sigh. Exasperated, a teensy bit. Not so you'd notice.

Still, there's a smile. Grim, perhaps?

"You always were resourceful."

He grins, awkward and pained but real.

“Top of the class.”

the sound of
"That's m'boy."
gunfire
Sort of.
and mighty wings
She loves him, as she loves all things. As she loves all killers.

“Just didn’t know what to do with me, once they got me,” and he could mean all manner of people at that.

"You're a hard one to categorize."

She's proud of him. A little. In a fucked up sort of way.

So is Sands, sometimes.

“It comes with the job description.”

A job description. Maybe not his, but there’s bound to be one out there somewhere, if he looks hard enough.

"A lot of things do."

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