milliways_bar | (no subject)

She's thin, yes, but she knows how to move, and only half-shifts, eyes narrowing, mouth opening-

-oh.

Oh.

And she's not alone.

Sands’ hands drop unnoticed to his sides.

Fifty-four years of memories have just settled on his shoulders, of a life that isn’t even his.

Just on the edge of conscience, his lungs let out all their oxygen in one long, slow hiss, the sound strangely distant in his ears.

“Shit.”

A blind step back, and another, and somewhere along the way he ends up on the floor with a hand pressed to his temple.

She's pressed back in the booth, eyes shut, and the thing is she isn't even trying to stop it, really. She's letting him have all her thoughts, all the pain and the pleasure, letting him have her life.

Eventually, she manages to slow the thoughts to a trickle, not really aware that she's bit her lip and blood is trickling down her chin.

And slowly begins to pull herself upright.

“Stop it,” he manages to grind out through gritted teeth, still on the floor.

Any pretence of calm has gone, and he’s shaking.

Whether from anger or fear is hard to tell.

“Stop it before I make you stop it.”

"Make me."

He gets random flashes of thoughts now, picutres, memories - the strongest a combination of lust and rage, blood and hands on her wrists, a tree by the lake.

Soon replaced by anger and fear, hands on her face, cold, naked, something white-hot shoved down her throat, sending poison into her body.

"Make me."

Quite how Sands ends up on his feet, he doesn’t know, but there he is anyhow, with blood in his mouth and his whole damn body screaming out out get out.

So he does, fists clenched and jaw clenched and mind pulling, with a whoosh of clarity that leaves his head spinning.

Only for a second.

Only for a second and then Mal, vampire or no, is slammed back against the nearest wall with a hand wrapped around her throat.

And she doesn't even notice, not breathing so the hand doesn't have to matter, just alone in her head and alone with her thoughts and damn if it doesn't hurt.

So she watches him, and one hand comes up, slowly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

"I didn't know you were afraid of the dark."

And Mal’s head is knocked sharply against the wall.

“Shut up.”

The anger has left his voice, cold, calm blankness in its wake.

“I know how to hurt you. I know how to kill you. I know all your secret little fears and doubts, and all of what goes on in that pretty little head of yours-”

She may recognise the scissors suddenly pressed against her throat. They’re a lot sharper than they were last time she saw them.

“-so shut up before I put it to use.”

One eyebrow lifts, just a little. Other then that she is perfectly, perfectly still.

"My dear, it goes-" and switches to speaking in his mind, 'both ways'.

And then maybe she smiles.

And again Mal’s head is struck against the wall, harder this time with his fingers clenching tight.

Sands shakes, and whatever doubt there once was, it is now long gone. This is anger, pure and simple.

Hissed low and gentle, “Maybe so. But I am the one with a pair of scissors pressed against your fucking throat.”

It makes a nice noise, and her eyes glaze for a second before she shakes her head and looks back at him, watching without caring.

"You're threatening me after breaking into my mind?"

Makes a light tsk noise.

"I can help you, dear."

And one hand venturing towards his face.

Somewhere in the darkness of Sands eyes, a light flares up and then goes out.

“No.”

Perhaps the scissors- open and gripped so tightly blood trickles unnoticed down his fingers- slipped. Perhaps they didn’t. Either way, they jerk sideways, forwards, twists and

slide

into the fleshy part of Mal’s shoulder, blade slick with blood.

A breath of laughter, fingers loose against her neck.

“You can’t.”

And she gasps for a second, then looks up, leaning forward, and her eyes are just daring him to dig them deeper, to twist the blade.

"Maybe I can."

And this time her hand, her other hand, is quick, and lightly brushes his cheekbone.

And perhaps Sands was pushing it deeper, but at that he- freezes.

The bar fades to grey, to black, to the whir of a drill and the echoes of screams (his) faint in his ears. Blood dripping hot down his face.

The bar fades and he staggers backwards, releasing his grip to clutch at his own throat with a strangled half-sob, because he can’t quite breathe.

“Fuck you,” he whispers.

Maybe he’s actually talking to Mal, but maybe not.

She kneels, yanking the scissors out, and bites her lip for a second, watching him. Places the scissors near his hand.

"Fight."

His eyes are tightly closed, fingers clutching at his forehead, but at the sound of her voice Sands snaps back to reality.

It hurts- oh God, it hurts- and he just doesn't want to, but he’s back, he’s there.

And in the blink of an eye, the scissors are back in his hand.

She just watches him, back on her knees, one hand over her shoulder which isn't bleeding

-exactly

and she shakes her head.

"Hey."

The scissors slip through his fingers, rattle on the floor.

He draws in a long, shaky breath, and slowly opens his eyes.

Dully, neither regretful nor satisfied, “I stabbed you again.”

"You did."

Softly.

"If someone sees, there's going to be an issue."

“Very true.”

If by issue, you mean ‘people beating the crap out of Sands again’.

It may just be the grin that’s slid back into place, but he doesn’t sound like he cares too much.

"Yeah."

Stands, shakes her bloody hand, drops spattering on Sands.

"I should go."

Holds lightly onto the side of the booth, feeling tired and drained at not at all wanting to go back up to her room.

Her skin is very, very cold.

He climbs to his own feet, rubs a hand across his face. Blood, forgotten, smears across his cheek.

“You can come to my room, if you like. It’s closer.”

Even with the blankness behind his eyes, he somehow manages to work in a leer.

"Yeah?"

And she sees. And maybe rolls her eyes. But maybe smirks back.

"Swell."

His words, her body turning, stumbling toward the stairs.

Sands leads the way in silence.

Drawing to a halt before door 103, hand drifting almost automatically over the numbers, he pulls out his key and turns it in the lock.

The door swings open (http://rigthegames.livejournal.com/1703.html).