milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sands by the fire, with his feet on the coffee table and an arm sprawled across the back of his sofa. You’d almost think he was comfortable, if it weren’t for the way his lips purse around his cigarette with a scowl.

It may be worth noting that, from where he’s sitting, one has a near-perfect view of where a door should be.

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Well, that’s just swell, because Sands certainly isn’t looking at her.

The scent of smoke and tequila and warmth as he saunters past, a flicker of a smirk. Wasted, of course, as Mal isn’t looking at him. Humming under his breath.

And then he’s gone by, heads to Bar and slides into a stool.

And it's funny because she sn't looking at him at all-

-and yet, she knows.

He's humming the same song she is.

Mal stops, and smiles.

Fingers tapping on the bartop, he orders tequila and drinks it.

His back is to her, shoulders a line of tension. Spring coiled tight.

And it's her turn to watch.

Watch the shoulders, remembers bruises and bites and blood on pale skin in the moonlight.

(Mine)

She finishes the coffee, and waits.

She’ll be waiting a long time. Sands is still on his stool, shows no signs of moving save to spin his now empty glass on the surface.

It must be easy to imagine, when faced only with the back of his head, the way his jaw clenches tightly, eyes fixed on nothingness. Or perhaps he’s smiling his secret little smile, not-quite turning to glance across at her.

There’s only one way to find out.

Gets up, moving with easy, predatory grace, stalking across the room to the bar to deposit her empty cup on the surface and request a cigarette.

She doesn't look at him, because when she does all she sees is him, bloody, bruised, laughing.

Sees herself in his eyes.

Hates it.

She takes a long drag, and shuts her eyes.

She’s spared a glance, quick and out of the corner of his eyes. Nothing more. Raises his own cigarette to his lips and inhales slowly, luxuriously.

Tap-tap-tap go his fingers.

He’s waiting.

She can wait as well.

Disracts herself by starting to sing again, very softly, under her breath.

But he looked.

He looked.

He always does. It’s what he does.

(you have only seen too much)

A faint, humourless smile, head tilted.

Mirrored in her face, in the set of her head, in the way she toys lightly with her empty cup.

Slender, white fingers wrap around the cup, and her eyes are dark and quiet.

Sands matches her, silence for silence, eyes dancing with mirth.

Mouth twists into a smile and, calm and pleasant, “How’s Italy?”

"Fine."

As calm as he is.

"Rather nice."

“Swell.”

Taps a finger to his mouth, brushes it across his bottom lip. Watches her like he’s trying not to laugh.

“And Audrey?”

She's stiff and tense because he's laughing at her and she doesn't know why.

"Aubrey. He's fine."

A grin, all bright teeth and sharpness.

“I prefer Audrey.”

He face is set in a mask of calm until he smiles like a knife and rips it to shreds.

"That's not his name, and I'd prefer if you didn't use it."

His finger brushes back across his lip the way it came.

Thoughtfully, “He looks like an Audrey.”

She breathes in, quiet, calm, one hand white-knuckled on her lap.

"You're being very immature, Sands, and I wish you wouldn't."

He cocks his head on one side. Raises his cigarette to his lips and takes a drag, long and slow.

Holds the breath, lets it out, and,

“Since when has wishing gotten anyone anywhere?”

"You wished for your eyes back."

Lightly, tapping ash from her cigarette.

He’s already tense, always is; so the reaction is barely noticeable. It’s in the way one finger- just one- slips off the edge of the bartop where his hand was resting. It’s in sudden, quick tightening of his jaw.

Silence.

“No. I didn’t.”

Calm. Always calm (right up the moment where he plants a bullet in your fucking skull).

"No? Funny, that's not what I thought."

Lightly, knowing that just for the moment, she's got the upper hand.

But all Sands says is, “No-”

(first was the denial. the waking up in the middle of the night and trying, trying, trying to open your eyes. open your eyes because they’re not gone. scratching till you bleed all over jorge’s nice, clean sheets. don’t wish for them back, never wish for them back because shut up shut up they’re not gone.

after that, you’re too busy wishing death on them to think of anything else.)

“- I didn’t.”

"I see."

Inspects her nails, for a second.

"Of course, dear."

And she smiles like a blade.

“Mm.”

He wipes the rim of his empty glass, licks the remnants of tequila off his finger.

Pleasant, with a smile, “What’s the name of your godson? John, wasn’t it?”

"Jack."

And sudden tension in her back, but she doesn't say anything.

“Jack,” he repeats softly.

A pale, thin-lipped smirk.

"Yes."

And then, soft, musing, "Why are you doing this?"

“Well.”

One final drag, short and sharp, before he grinds the cigarette out in the nearest ashtray. Lights up another, automatic with his eyes fixed on Mal’s.

“It’s a funny thing. I seem to have gained myself something of a… reputation, as it were. And I’m beginning to think I may have to start… living up to it.”

Exhales, and grins.

She stiffens very much, now, her hand clenching into a fist.

"Tell me, Sands - "

And then gets up, standing.

"Did you scream when they took your eyes?"

And leaves.

It’s a while after she’s gone that Sands lowers his cigarette, slow and deliberate. Stubs it out, not even half smoked.

His grip on the bartop is white-knuckled, mouth a thin, white line.

Softly, he begins to laugh. And slides out of his stool to trace Mal’s path through the bar and out to the lake, still laughing.

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