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aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
dondarrion) wrote in aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
Entry tags:
CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN
 |
prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog. |
I said I got it fuckin' covered, [ she snaps, the words a messy tumble out of her mouth, her whole body turning to shoulder him aside as she spills the contents of the newly-opened tin out onto the table in front of her. It's wet everywhere, rain and watered-down blood, and with her free hand, Polly rummages through blister packets and handi-wipe napkins, alcohol salves and medical tape and gauze, lots of gauze. (She pushes it aside, apart from the rest.)
Two seconds ago she'd been confessing I just need you and now she's as good as driving him out with a glare over his shoulder but even with the adrenaline pumping and her nerves singing with both anxiety and pain, Polly knows which of these reactions is the right one and which is just fear sharpening all of her edges in the hopes that Barry gets snagged. ] Don't look a'me, [ she says, when she catches him watching a short distance behind. ] What're you, fuckin' goddamn deaf—
[ Her whole body tenses and then shudders as she tries to wriggle herself free from her shirt. ] Y'can't do it, Barry, and there's no friggin' way— I ain't goin' to a hospital, just—
[ Get out. Leave. Go away. But that's not what she wants. Not really. ]
I need some alcohol, okay? Can y'get some? Just leave it over there an'— [ A hiss, bitten back. ] —just leave it, an' don't fuckin' look a'me.
Two seconds ago she'd been confessing I just need you and now she's as good as driving him out with a glare over his shoulder but even with the adrenaline pumping and her nerves singing with both anxiety and pain, Polly knows which of these reactions is the right one and which is just fear sharpening all of her edges in the hopes that Barry gets snagged. ] Don't look a'me, [ she says, when she catches him watching a short distance behind. ] What're you, fuckin' goddamn deaf—
[ Her whole body tenses and then shudders as she tries to wriggle herself free from her shirt. ] Y'can't do it, Barry, and there's no friggin' way— I ain't goin' to a hospital, just—
[ Get out. Leave. Go away. But that's not what she wants. Not really. ]
I need some alcohol, okay? Can y'get some? Just leave it over there an'— [ A hiss, bitten back. ] —just leave it, an' don't fuckin' look a'me.
Yeah.
[ A beat. ]
Yeah, sure.
[ He doesn't look. He keeps his head low, like he's afraid of getting snapped at again. (Usually, he gives as good as he gets. But then again, usually doesn't involve her bleeding all over the floor.) There're two dulls thumps as he sets down a half-empty bottle of vodka and a tube of Neosporin down on the table before turning away, shuffling off into the next room.
Finding his duffel bag isn't hard — there's not much in the apartment, and it's more often used than some of the rest of the stuff. (All things told, he doesn't suspect that they're going to be staying all that long — and she doesn't have a choice, this time; wherever she's going, he's coming with her. Whatever'd gotten her had gotten her bad, and if it's something she can't handle, he knows he doesn't stand a chance. And so, as quietly as he can, he starts throwing things into the open mouth of the bag, though the effort is half-hearted at best, his ears pricked for any noise from her. ]
[ A beat. ]
Yeah, sure.
[ He doesn't look. He keeps his head low, like he's afraid of getting snapped at again. (Usually, he gives as good as he gets. But then again, usually doesn't involve her bleeding all over the floor.) There're two dulls thumps as he sets down a half-empty bottle of vodka and a tube of Neosporin down on the table before turning away, shuffling off into the next room.
Finding his duffel bag isn't hard — there's not much in the apartment, and it's more often used than some of the rest of the stuff. (All things told, he doesn't suspect that they're going to be staying all that long — and she doesn't have a choice, this time; wherever she's going, he's coming with her. Whatever'd gotten her had gotten her bad, and if it's something she can't handle, he knows he doesn't stand a chance. And so, as quietly as he can, he starts throwing things into the open mouth of the bag, though the effort is half-hearted at best, his ears pricked for any noise from her. ]
[ She doesn't want to be alone — she never has, but it's always been in the cards — but Polly knows an ugly sight when she sees one and the mess wrapped up tight in the sleeve of her shirt is some of the messiest shit she's seen in a long while. A hiss and then a cough not entirely unlike a laugh, like even she's startled to see it again once she's gotten the sweatshirt off and it falls to the ground with a wet plop. All raw meat and thank god no bone, but ragged, splintered broken teeth running up and down the tear in her in skin, trying to keep it together like so many stitches.
She actually cries when she touches it, the tears rising hot and unwanted in her eyes, bringing bile up in the back of her throat with it which she swigs out with a bit of vodka and spits up into the kitchen sink. She cries when she tries to sew it up too, tries to push those teeth back into her own flesh, the stitches lopsided and too deep in places, the skin still splitting, more teeth filling in the gaps.
Sad, pathetic, strained noises filter in from the kitchen, obscured by the sound of rain and punctuated by the occasional bang of Polly's fist upon the counter.
(Suck it up, Quinn. No pussyfooting around.) ]
She actually cries when she touches it, the tears rising hot and unwanted in her eyes, bringing bile up in the back of her throat with it which she swigs out with a bit of vodka and spits up into the kitchen sink. She cries when she tries to sew it up too, tries to push those teeth back into her own flesh, the stitches lopsided and too deep in places, the skin still splitting, more teeth filling in the gaps.
Sad, pathetic, strained noises filter in from the kitchen, obscured by the sound of rain and punctuated by the occasional bang of Polly's fist upon the counter.
(Suck it up, Quinn. No pussyfooting around.) ]
[ He finishes packing sooner rather than later. (He doesn't have much. Never has.) The bed creaks as he perches on the edge of the mattress, head bowing as he runs a hand back through his hair, still mussed by sleep.
Barry Weiss doesn't quite seem like himself when he calms down. (It's because he almost never does. Most of the time, he's too busy vaulting himself around with a sort of energy that would break bones if he ever hit a wall.) Somehow, it takes years off of him rather than put them on. The focus smooths out the lines that run across his face, turns manic energy in a sharp concentration, strips away the mask — paperthin to begin with — and leaves a pallid kind of fear. Not true fear — a man who has nothing doesn't feel fear — but a vague insecurity, one that doesn't have a true source but which flows through the blood nevertheless.
Still, he sits on the edge of the bed and he waits. Because he can't do anything about the blood or the teeth, can't do anything but do as she's told him.
(Fucking useful, he is.) ]
Barry Weiss doesn't quite seem like himself when he calms down. (It's because he almost never does. Most of the time, he's too busy vaulting himself around with a sort of energy that would break bones if he ever hit a wall.) Somehow, it takes years off of him rather than put them on. The focus smooths out the lines that run across his face, turns manic energy in a sharp concentration, strips away the mask — paperthin to begin with — and leaves a pallid kind of fear. Not true fear — a man who has nothing doesn't feel fear — but a vague insecurity, one that doesn't have a true source but which flows through the blood nevertheless.
Still, he sits on the edge of the bed and he waits. Because he can't do anything about the blood or the teeth, can't do anything but do as she's told him.
(Fucking useful, he is.) ]
[ It takes her longer than she thinks it should but, then again, Polly's working at a gross handicap with only hand worth anything. Even trying to concentrate on the task at hand, her mind keeps wandering to this thing and that. (She should've called, should've thought this through better. Now that she's here and Sparrows' dogs are on the hunt, that means Barry'll have come with her. That had been the plan from the get-go hadn't it? Maybe yes, maybe no; Polly doesn't know anymore.)
In the end, she forgoes the scissors and the gauze and tears the last of the thread with her teeth, wrapping the whole thing up with an old ace bandage an tying it tight with a knot in he hopes that it'll replace the worst pain with a neverending ache and staunch the worst of the bloodflow at the same time. There's a swig of vodka left in the bottle and she takes it before stumbling back to the bedroom. It feels like there's barely enough blood left in her to keep her on her feet, but still she manages, her sweatshirt abandoned and her bare skin prickling against the rain water that cools on it, her dressings already beginning to seep red and her face pale. ]
Barry— [ she mumbles, her previous edge gone, her eyes red and rimmed with the last of her tears. (She's hardly recognizable like this, so small and soaked through and uncertain. Polly's knuckles go white agains the doorframe as she tries to stay on her feet. ] —gotta go.
In the end, she forgoes the scissors and the gauze and tears the last of the thread with her teeth, wrapping the whole thing up with an old ace bandage an tying it tight with a knot in he hopes that it'll replace the worst pain with a neverending ache and staunch the worst of the bloodflow at the same time. There's a swig of vodka left in the bottle and she takes it before stumbling back to the bedroom. It feels like there's barely enough blood left in her to keep her on her feet, but still she manages, her sweatshirt abandoned and her bare skin prickling against the rain water that cools on it, her dressings already beginning to seep red and her face pale. ]
Barry— [ she mumbles, her previous edge gone, her eyes red and rimmed with the last of her tears. (She's hardly recognizable like this, so small and soaked through and uncertain. Polly's knuckles go white agains the doorframe as she tries to stay on her feet. ] —gotta go.
[ Almost as soon as she appears in the doorway, he's on his feet, taking just a few tentative steps towards her. Not close enough to be in her space, but near enough to catch her should she fall. The strap of his back is already slung over his shoulder, pulling at his jacket. He doesn't know much about where she comes from but he knows it's bad news, and yet, when it comes to her, he stays his ground instead of running from Sparrows' shadow entirely. ]
'D you think I hadn't figured that out already? [ The words are forced, like he knows he shouldn't be joking at a time like this but he doesn't know what else to do. ]
Look, you— sit down for a bit, Polly. I'll pull the car 'round t' the front. [ Neither of them are getting all that far on two feet, and Barry's bike isn't exactly going to do them a whole world of good. ] Or y' want t' come with me down t' the garage?
'D you think I hadn't figured that out already? [ The words are forced, like he knows he shouldn't be joking at a time like this but he doesn't know what else to do. ]
Look, you— sit down for a bit, Polly. I'll pull the car 'round t' the front. [ Neither of them are getting all that far on two feet, and Barry's bike isn't exactly going to do them a whole world of good. ] Or y' want t' come with me down t' the garage?
[ He's got a bag already packed and it's slung over his shoulder, not near as heavy as it should be, waiting for Polly along with the rest of Barry in the bedroom. ]
No— [ Polly pulls away from the doorframe, protesting, though protesting to what and why an how doesn't seem to be anywhere in her train of thought. It's a bad idea, trying to tug back so sharply when the ground's gone so soft beneath her feet already. ] No, [ she says again, but it's plaintive now and fading fast and Barry seems very far, far away.
A cold sweat breaks out along Polly's forehead and arms and the world slips dangerously dim as she staggers, new pain blossoming up and down her arm and teeth scraping along one wall as she tries to catch herself and fails, flopping backwards like a dead fish. Polly's head connects hard with the floor in the hallway and thank god that it's carpeted or else she'd run the risk of biting her own tongue off in the process. The world swims and goes quiet and dark and Polly sleeps for what feels like an eternity — the pain in her arm a constant storm that shapes her dreams into something dark and foreboding. ]
No— [ Polly pulls away from the doorframe, protesting, though protesting to what and why an how doesn't seem to be anywhere in her train of thought. It's a bad idea, trying to tug back so sharply when the ground's gone so soft beneath her feet already. ] No, [ she says again, but it's plaintive now and fading fast and Barry seems very far, far away.
A cold sweat breaks out along Polly's forehead and arms and the world slips dangerously dim as she staggers, new pain blossoming up and down her arm and teeth scraping along one wall as she tries to catch herself and fails, flopping backwards like a dead fish. Polly's head connects hard with the floor in the hallway and thank god that it's carpeted or else she'd run the risk of biting her own tongue off in the process. The world swims and goes quiet and dark and Polly sleeps for what feels like an eternity — the pain in her arm a constant storm that shapes her dreams into something dark and foreboding. ]
[ When she wakes up, they're already on their way out of London, Barry's knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. He's laid Polly out in the back seat, a towel underneath her and a ragged throw over her shoulders, the first aid kit haphazardly reassembled and tossed onto the floor, rattling now and then as he drives. He isn't driving as quickly as he usually does, having curbed his usual tendencies in order to make the ride as smooth as possible. (He doesn't need to be responsible for jostling anything else out of place.)
This isn't the sort of situation that he's exactly equipped to deal with. He can run with the best of them, but he's always done it on his own up until this point, and he's never had to care for anyone so badly injured. Looking after yourself doesn't quite amount to the same thing.
It's raining, and the dull rumble of thunder echoes in the distance. Almost as soon as she's awake, his eyes fix on her in the rearview mirror, brow creasing in concern. ]
Y' wake?
This isn't the sort of situation that he's exactly equipped to deal with. He can run with the best of them, but he's always done it on his own up until this point, and he's never had to care for anyone so badly injured. Looking after yourself doesn't quite amount to the same thing.
It's raining, and the dull rumble of thunder echoes in the distance. Almost as soon as she's awake, his eyes fix on her in the rearview mirror, brow creasing in concern. ]
Y' wake?
[ She dreams of dark grey eyes, amused, and a mouth that pinches up at the corners too sharply whenever it smiles. She dreams she's in a car, eight years old and in the back seat, with those dark eyes laughing at her and a hand with white fingers picking at the hem of her skirt. She hates the man with those laughing eyes, hates the hand that looks to touch her. But when Polly goes to bite, there's no snap, no shut. No teeth, just bitter shards of glass crunching in her gut and in her mouth, the sound of it not enough to drown out the smug satisfaction of the man's voice.
Peekaboo, I see you, Polly Q.
She wakes with a start. ]
Barry—?
[ It's dark and the flickering of the passing lights disorients her for a moment, her good arm slung over her face and her bad arm laid out an angle, her hand resting lightly upon a cupholder, her dressings seeped through and stiff. Polly tries to sit up and pain screeches through her body as she does, but she doesn't like the feeling of being laid out like a dying person. Still, her voice is weak. ] —Barry, he's—
[ Her head hurts. Squeezing her eyes shut she leans tiredly against the back of the driver's seat, the fingers of her good hand coming to curl over Barry's shoulder. It's another needy gesture, one that begs for attention, and part of Polly hates herself for it, but fuck it feels good to know that he's there and he's solid. ] —fuck.
Peekaboo, I see you, Polly Q.
She wakes with a start. ]
Barry—?
[ It's dark and the flickering of the passing lights disorients her for a moment, her good arm slung over her face and her bad arm laid out an angle, her hand resting lightly upon a cupholder, her dressings seeped through and stiff. Polly tries to sit up and pain screeches through her body as she does, but she doesn't like the feeling of being laid out like a dying person. Still, her voice is weak. ] —Barry, he's—
[ Her head hurts. Squeezing her eyes shut she leans tiredly against the back of the driver's seat, the fingers of her good hand coming to curl over Barry's shoulder. It's another needy gesture, one that begs for attention, and part of Polly hates herself for it, but fuck it feels good to know that he's there and he's solid. ] —fuck.
'M right here, Poll.
[ On instinct, he reaches up, one of his hands coming to cover hers on his shoulder. (It's too sappy a gesture, probably, but he doesn't much care. She could bite his hands off, but that'd leave them both in the shitter, and he's fairly certain he can take whatever she chooses to dish out in her current condition.) ]
No one else in the car with us.
[ It'd been a hassle getting her downstairs and into the car — it wasn't every day that the people in the block saw a known troublemaker carrying a bloody and battered body down into the garage (they'd never seen that sight before, actually, he'd never been that brazen). He's lucky, he assumes, that they got out of the city before the cops could catch up. It wasn't like they'd believe he hadn't fucked the girl up himself. ]
Y' feelin' any better?
[ On instinct, he reaches up, one of his hands coming to cover hers on his shoulder. (It's too sappy a gesture, probably, but he doesn't much care. She could bite his hands off, but that'd leave them both in the shitter, and he's fairly certain he can take whatever she chooses to dish out in her current condition.) ]
No one else in the car with us.
[ It'd been a hassle getting her downstairs and into the car — it wasn't every day that the people in the block saw a known troublemaker carrying a bloody and battered body down into the garage (they'd never seen that sight before, actually, he'd never been that brazen). He's lucky, he assumes, that they got out of the city before the cops could catch up. It wasn't like they'd believe he hadn't fucked the girl up himself. ]
Y' feelin' any better?
[ She looks around anyway, her eyes hammering nails into her fucking skull with every passing set of headlights and each flickering yellow street lamp. No one in the car, but she can feel somebody looking at her nevertheless, like there's something moving around in the constantly shifting darkness of the cab — something she can't bite or beat or grab with her hands. It makes her skin itch uncomfortably, a sharp spike of panicked adrenaline kicking through her body in an unwanted wave of anxiety. ]
Something's wrong. Just— fuck.
[ Her hand slips from his shoulder even though part of her brain doesn't want it to. (No, she wants to stay anchored to Barry, wants him to be steady for her for a minute, maybe two. If they could both manage that maybe the world would stop spinning so fucking fast for a goddamn minute, but Polly's Polly and standing still means bang, you're dead, so she's begun rummaging around the backseat, trying to find her things, in search of her cell phone. ] Did he call—? [ she asks, her voice heated, frantic, still disoriented. ] Baby, did somebody call?
[ She's never called him that before. Polly doesn't even seem to notice. ]
Something's wrong. Just— fuck.
[ Her hand slips from his shoulder even though part of her brain doesn't want it to. (No, she wants to stay anchored to Barry, wants him to be steady for her for a minute, maybe two. If they could both manage that maybe the world would stop spinning so fucking fast for a goddamn minute, but Polly's Polly and standing still means bang, you're dead, so she's begun rummaging around the backseat, trying to find her things, in search of her cell phone. ] Did he call—? [ she asks, her voice heated, frantic, still disoriented. ] Baby, did somebody call?
[ She's never called him that before. Polly doesn't even seem to notice. ]
[ She is still kissing him when the rise, her own hands fumbling towards his elbows (warn patches on the sleeves of his sweater) as she tries to find her feet, her neck craning to keep her mouth upon his. Though the kiss remains more or less chaste, she can feel something creeping at the very edges of it. What that something is she does not understand (his desire for her, more bodily and base than she's yet to learn), but it glimmers there like some bauble that dewly catches the lamplight and, ever intrepid, Sansa chases after it with her lips, a sigh escaping her as she finally settles at a short distance, the two of their bodies held apart from one another like teenagers in some awkward dance, even though their mouths remain joined.
A noise then escapes her, curious and questioning, those hands traveling up the length of his arms to find the line of his shoulders, curling loosely over the collar of his shirt.
The children are not allowed movies nor radios nor books that remind them too readily of the outside world. (Sansa's magazines had been near to contraband, though her original had been influential and sent them nevertheless.) She has only stories to mimic, illustrations from fairy tales (Snow White, Cinderella). None have taught her how to deepen a kiss, how to make it more than simply confection and sugar sweet, but the curiosity is there. An unspoken bid of teach me, teach me as her eyes remain open and her lashes flutter and a tin-toy drumbeat hammers at her chest. ]
A noise then escapes her, curious and questioning, those hands traveling up the length of his arms to find the line of his shoulders, curling loosely over the collar of his shirt.
The children are not allowed movies nor radios nor books that remind them too readily of the outside world. (Sansa's magazines had been near to contraband, though her original had been influential and sent them nevertheless.) She has only stories to mimic, illustrations from fairy tales (Snow White, Cinderella). None have taught her how to deepen a kiss, how to make it more than simply confection and sugar sweet, but the curiosity is there. An unspoken bid of teach me, teach me as her eyes remain open and her lashes flutter and a tin-toy drumbeat hammers at her chest. ]
[ The niggling itch under his skin is set off more by her own unease than his own perception of any third party. He's not attuned to that kind of thing, having grown up believing that whatever went bump in the night was probably just the neighbor's cat getting out again. There's a pinch in his brow when he glances back in the rearview mirror, head bobbing in a stiff sort of nod.
(Baby, she calls him, and he thinks it either means things are set to get better or she's gone crazy already. He knows how Polly Q works and never once has she bothered to be that kind of sweet, not to him and not to anybody.) ]
Text message, [ he says, free hand gesturing in the direction in which he'd left her phone. ] Didn't try reading it.
(Baby, she calls him, and he thinks it either means things are set to get better or she's gone crazy already. He knows how Polly Q works and never once has she bothered to be that kind of sweet, not to him and not to anybody.) ]
Text message, [ he says, free hand gesturing in the direction in which he'd left her phone. ] Didn't try reading it.
[ (Polly Q works one way, but Polly Q belongs to Sparrows. A little girl with a bad temper whose parents didn't want her, worth more shipped off to nowhere with no return address than taking up the spare bedroom and eating a girl-shaped hole through finances already stripped thin. Polly Q was nobody, and maybe still is nobody; she's never had anything, never needed and never wanted, but the girl hunched over in the back of Barry Weiss' car — she's different. She's something. If only by virtue of the fact that some dumb boy with nothing left to lose was willing to pack his only duffle bag on her behalf. It's maybe not the best bargain, but it's more than Polly Q ever had.) ]
Fuckin' right, y'didn't try readin' it.
[ More fumbling comes from the back of the car, interspersed with some cursing, all muttered beneath Polly's breath. There's a pause when she stops and takes a momentary breather, the pain coursing a little too loudly through her veins to just carry on, but it's not long at all before she's rummaging again, her hair hanging round her face in damp strands, the white too white against her face and her roots near to black in the ever-moving dark. When she finally finds it, and thumbs through to find the message, she curses again (louder this time) and throws the phone at the car door opposite, its battery splintering off and his screen cracking once, indelicately. ]
Jesus christ. [ Exhaling sharply, Polly drops her head into her own hands, that tenseness loosening to something slack and defeated. For a moment it seems as though she's going to cry again, her fingers crawling up into her hair while her arm throbs and throbs and throbs ]
Fuckin' right, y'didn't try readin' it.
[ More fumbling comes from the back of the car, interspersed with some cursing, all muttered beneath Polly's breath. There's a pause when she stops and takes a momentary breather, the pain coursing a little too loudly through her veins to just carry on, but it's not long at all before she's rummaging again, her hair hanging round her face in damp strands, the white too white against her face and her roots near to black in the ever-moving dark. When she finally finds it, and thumbs through to find the message, she curses again (louder this time) and throws the phone at the car door opposite, its battery splintering off and his screen cracking once, indelicately. ]
Jesus christ. [ Exhaling sharply, Polly drops her head into her own hands, that tenseness loosening to something slack and defeated. For a moment it seems as though she's going to cry again, her fingers crawling up into her hair while her arm throbs and throbs and throbs ]
[ It's only once he, too, has found his feet that he tries to pull her closer, his arms carefully winding about her frame. (He nearly pauses for a moment, unsure of the wisdom of his own actions, but the thought lingers for just a passing second.) Gently, cautiously, the pad of his tongue presses against the seam of her lips, a hint as to the embers that begin to glow in his blood and the part of him that yearns for her in a way that isn't quite storybook. The children are not allowed movies nor radios nor books and Mr. Baelish knows as well as any of the other staff to what extent their education is lacking.
He is not confection and sugar sweet but a different sort of gentleness — like the worn patches on his sleeves, like an old hand-knit scarf, like a beloved book. Kind, more than cloying. The very best parts of him. Still sad, still melancholy (still damaged), but kind. ]
He is not confection and sugar sweet but a different sort of gentleness — like the worn patches on his sleeves, like an old hand-knit scarf, like a beloved book. Kind, more than cloying. The very best parts of him. Still sad, still melancholy (still damaged), but kind. ]
[ She isn't certain what it's meant to mean at first, that soft wet pressure against her lips, the slight exhale of warm breath from Mr. Baelish's nose. Startled and uncertain she draws back for a moment, fingers lifting from his shirt as if caught in the middle of some shameful act. Sansa feels the whole of her face flush in response — not the pleasant tingling rush that kissing Mr. Baelish had brought her, but an overwhelming kind of embarrassement. Had she done something wrong? Was her mouth meant to be wet?
Her blue eyes wide she looks at him for a long moment, her hand moving to touch that wetness as she swipes at it once with her tongue. He tastes of mint and something else, more pervasive, like an undercurrent of sadness. Those pleased prickles return again, replacing her fluster with a more modest blush.
Sansa smiles slowly and then tastes her own lips again. Amazed, she giggles. ] I'm happy, [ she says, such a simple statement and yet — for her kind — nothing short of a miracle. Then, without warning, she claps her arms around Mr. Baelish's shoulders and kisses him again. ]
Her blue eyes wide she looks at him for a long moment, her hand moving to touch that wetness as she swipes at it once with her tongue. He tastes of mint and something else, more pervasive, like an undercurrent of sadness. Those pleased prickles return again, replacing her fluster with a more modest blush.
Sansa smiles slowly and then tastes her own lips again. Amazed, she giggles. ] I'm happy, [ she says, such a simple statement and yet — for her kind — nothing short of a miracle. Then, without warning, she claps her arms around Mr. Baelish's shoulders and kisses him again. ]
[ It's a near miracle that he manages not to swerve when she throws her phone, the crack sending a jolt of surprise straight down his spine. ]
Careful where y' throw that thing, [ he calls, though his irritation is feigned at best. ] Haven't got the cash to spend on a new car, case y' hadn't noticed. 'Sides, 's just you an' me now, yeah?
[ The words stop somewhat abruptly, as if he'd realized that he'd just been talking in an attempt to fill the silence (in an attempt to reassure himself).
(Barry Weiss doesn't belong to anyone but himself — himself, and Polly Q, maybe. A little boy with a bad temper whose parents didn't want him, who didn't bother sending him away and didn't bother doing anything else, either. He'd been nobody, a failure in every career path except that of a vagrant, only ever worth as much as he had in his pockets.
But he has her, now. Kind of, anyway.) ]
Know y' don't need lookin' after, but you don't get t' argue this one.
Careful where y' throw that thing, [ he calls, though his irritation is feigned at best. ] Haven't got the cash to spend on a new car, case y' hadn't noticed. 'Sides, 's just you an' me now, yeah?
[ The words stop somewhat abruptly, as if he'd realized that he'd just been talking in an attempt to fill the silence (in an attempt to reassure himself).
(Barry Weiss doesn't belong to anyone but himself — himself, and Polly Q, maybe. A little boy with a bad temper whose parents didn't want him, who didn't bother sending him away and didn't bother doing anything else, either. He'd been nobody, a failure in every career path except that of a vagrant, only ever worth as much as he had in his pockets.
But he has her, now. Kind of, anyway.) ]
Know y' don't need lookin' after, but you don't get t' argue this one.
[ He almost leaves outright when she draws back, suddenly afraid that he's been reading things wrong, that this isn't what she wants in the least. Then, slowly, slowly, her lips curve into a smile, and before he can fully process what she's said (I'm happy), she's kissing him again.
There's a fervency to the way that he holds her now that is equal parts passion and relief (and, perhaps, desperation too). When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed, and he is half breathless. But, most importantly, he's smiling, too. It takes years from his countenance, makes him seem the age he is rather than the age that his features have worn to be. ]
Me, too, [ is what he manages to say, near baffled in too. ] I mean, I'm— I'm happy.
[ And he kisses her again, his embrace tighter than it had been, lips trailing to her jaw, then her neck, his former caution abandoned as that rush — happiness, a stranger to him up until now — strikes him as the waves of the sea strike against the rock shore. ]
There's a fervency to the way that he holds her now that is equal parts passion and relief (and, perhaps, desperation too). When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed, and he is half breathless. But, most importantly, he's smiling, too. It takes years from his countenance, makes him seem the age he is rather than the age that his features have worn to be. ]
Me, too, [ is what he manages to say, near baffled in too. ] I mean, I'm— I'm happy.
[ And he kisses her again, his embrace tighter than it had been, lips trailing to her jaw, then her neck, his former caution abandoned as that rush — happiness, a stranger to him up until now — strikes him as the waves of the sea strike against the rock shore. ]
[ They embrace and they kiss with a sudden giddiness, as if two children suddenly caught at unexpected play. Just as Mr. Baelish seems bemused by his own happiness, Sansa feels every nerve in her body fizzle with delightful exuberance — not heated per say (not yet at least), but warm and warming, like a sip of Christmas brandy travelling from tongue to gullet. With the twine of his arms, with the press of his mouth, Mr. Baelish' kisses grow no longer chaste; instead they chance her chin and her throat, nipping enthusiastically along her jaw, introducing tongue here and tooth there, as if he isn't wholly certain which part of him will do the job best.
The exchange lacks the kind of headiness that comes with full-fledged desire, but that fact seems to quell neither of them in their explorations of one another — hands and mouths moving and tracing, little whispers of encouragement and bubbling laughter the only sound over kisses and cloth and the occasional sigh. Rather than hot and heavy and burgeoning, their dalliance is tempered by the inexperience of youth, an awkwardness and fumbling that makes Sansa laugh again and then swoon happily in Mr. Baelish's arms, clinging to him.
When her eyes finally flutter shut it feels as if she is falling down down down from a very great height, only Sansa is not frightened, she thinks Mr. Baelish will catch her. ] May we be happy together and kiss more? Oh, please say yes.
The exchange lacks the kind of headiness that comes with full-fledged desire, but that fact seems to quell neither of them in their explorations of one another — hands and mouths moving and tracing, little whispers of encouragement and bubbling laughter the only sound over kisses and cloth and the occasional sigh. Rather than hot and heavy and burgeoning, their dalliance is tempered by the inexperience of youth, an awkwardness and fumbling that makes Sansa laugh again and then swoon happily in Mr. Baelish's arms, clinging to him.
When her eyes finally flutter shut it feels as if she is falling down down down from a very great height, only Sansa is not frightened, she thinks Mr. Baelish will catch her. ] May we be happy together and kiss more? Oh, please say yes.
Edited 2012-08-28 03:36 (UTC)
[ And he's there to soften her fall, to keep her from hitting the bottom, his embrace warm and reassuring, cheek pressed to her hair as he hugs her close. A daze clouds his senses, not that of desire but of simple surprise — that she would enjoy this, that she would want him at all. But, that said, he won't question it, and he won't be ungrateful. He knows how precious love is. ]
Of course, of course, [ he whispers, some of that giddiness still readily audible in his voice. ] Yes, a million times yes. For as long as you wish. [ The last part is a fallacy, of course, but a wish that he holds true. As if to demonstrate the point, he kisses her again, one of his hands sliding slowly down her back to rest just above the curve of her backside.
They could be happy, he thinks, the thought fueling his passions. A little cottage by the sea, perhaps, or a flat closer to the city. Something normal. No one would think to question them too long, no one would question the matter of whether or not she could love at all. ]
Some day, [ he manages, the words spoken against the corner of her mouth, ] I'll take you away from here. We'll live together somewhere nice, go wherever we like. Would that make you happy?
Of course, of course, [ he whispers, some of that giddiness still readily audible in his voice. ] Yes, a million times yes. For as long as you wish. [ The last part is a fallacy, of course, but a wish that he holds true. As if to demonstrate the point, he kisses her again, one of his hands sliding slowly down her back to rest just above the curve of her backside.
They could be happy, he thinks, the thought fueling his passions. A little cottage by the sea, perhaps, or a flat closer to the city. Something normal. No one would think to question them too long, no one would question the matter of whether or not she could love at all. ]
Some day, [ he manages, the words spoken against the corner of her mouth, ] I'll take you away from here. We'll live together somewhere nice, go wherever we like. Would that make you happy?
[ They say that surrogates are not people. They are bodily vessels, receptacles that hold an entire lifetime of second chances. They are ghosts and they are echoes — thin shadows cast upon the wall by their Originals, nothing more. But if that were true, how then was this possible? How would the copy of the girl who had broken Mr. Baelish's heart so many years ago suddenly find it in herself to love him now — so freely and so effortlessly, the way any normal girl would.
Sansa feels something strange happen to her then, as the tumult of emotions she feels inside had suddenly come to a glorious, shimmering head. Without warning, hot tears sting her eyes and stain her face, her gaze wet and singular and wholly adoring. There is nothing, nothing that compares to first love — a heavy truth that Mr. Baelish has held in his heart all of these long years — and it is first love that fills Sansa's gaze and spills down her cheeks, the sentiment far too large for her unexperienced heart to hold. Even though he holds her ardently, his arms are gentle and — for the first since knowing him — seem strong instead of earnestly meek. Still, a breathlessness takes hold of her, brought about by their kissing and her crying. ] Y-yes, oh yes, [ she sobs happily. ] Nothing would make me happier, Mr. Baelish.
[ Kissing him briefly, she presses his cheek to hers and twines about him, her shoulders shaking as she sobs again, the sound heartbreakingly joyous in his ear. ] Are we in love, you and I? Is that what I'm feeling right now? Can you promise it will never end?
Sansa feels something strange happen to her then, as the tumult of emotions she feels inside had suddenly come to a glorious, shimmering head. Without warning, hot tears sting her eyes and stain her face, her gaze wet and singular and wholly adoring. There is nothing, nothing that compares to first love — a heavy truth that Mr. Baelish has held in his heart all of these long years — and it is first love that fills Sansa's gaze and spills down her cheeks, the sentiment far too large for her unexperienced heart to hold. Even though he holds her ardently, his arms are gentle and — for the first since knowing him — seem strong instead of earnestly meek. Still, a breathlessness takes hold of her, brought about by their kissing and her crying. ] Y-yes, oh yes, [ she sobs happily. ] Nothing would make me happier, Mr. Baelish.
[ Kissing him briefly, she presses his cheek to hers and twines about him, her shoulders shaking as she sobs again, the sound heartbreakingly joyous in his ear. ] Are we in love, you and I? Is that what I'm feeling right now? Can you promise it will never end?
[ From underneath the dirty mass of whiteblonde hair, she curses again. ] What th'fuck's that s'pposed t'mean?
[ She's not stupid, she knows what it means. It means, from here on out it's the two of them: Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss, the biggest set of fuck-ups the world's ever seen. How long, she wonders, until it all falls apart, until he can't stand being around her anymore and turns out to be just like the rest. It's a miracle he hasn't up and hiked off already and there's a part of Polly that's convinced it would've only been a matter of time for them. They were salvaged by that she could only get off campus every once and a while, circumstances dictating that they'd see each other once a month, if that, fucking and fighting and fucking again before her twenty-four to forty-eight were over and it was back to the Academy all over again. There was no way, no way in fucking hell, that he'd have stuck around as long as he had if she was around all the time. And that's what this was, wasn't it?
Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss. (She frowns under her hair.) Fuck, she thinks. I've fucked this up and we're fucking doomed.
Despite herself she sobs, the sound of it wracking her entire body and sending her into a fit of shivers and shakes. (Fuck you, Polly. Fuck you, you fucking asshole fuck.) Still, she tries to fight, though the followthrough is half-hearted and pathetic at beast. ] Y'don't get t'tell me what t'do, Barry. Okay?
[ She's not stupid, she knows what it means. It means, from here on out it's the two of them: Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss, the biggest set of fuck-ups the world's ever seen. How long, she wonders, until it all falls apart, until he can't stand being around her anymore and turns out to be just like the rest. It's a miracle he hasn't up and hiked off already and there's a part of Polly that's convinced it would've only been a matter of time for them. They were salvaged by that she could only get off campus every once and a while, circumstances dictating that they'd see each other once a month, if that, fucking and fighting and fucking again before her twenty-four to forty-eight were over and it was back to the Academy all over again. There was no way, no way in fucking hell, that he'd have stuck around as long as he had if she was around all the time. And that's what this was, wasn't it?
Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss. (She frowns under her hair.) Fuck, she thinks. I've fucked this up and we're fucking doomed.
Despite herself she sobs, the sound of it wracking her entire body and sending her into a fit of shivers and shakes. (Fuck you, Polly. Fuck you, you fucking asshole fuck.) Still, she tries to fight, though the followthrough is half-hearted and pathetic at beast. ] Y'don't get t'tell me what t'do, Barry. Okay?
[ They say that surrogates are not people and though Mr. Baelish has never believed the principle, it has never been clearer to him how much of a lie it was until now. She loves him with a fervency that only she could muster, loves him in a way that is untarnished and clean, as lovely as birdsong. And he is too caught, too enraptured, to be unhappy.
She sobs, and for an instant, he's worried that he's done something wrong. But it's joy that colors her voice, not sorrow, and though he does not cry with her, he laughs in relief, the sound bright in comparison to the fog and dark in which he always seems to live. ]
We're in love, [ he tells her, amazement in his words. ] Yes, Sansa, this- this is love. And I swear to you, until my very last breath, I will love you.
[ Pressing a kiss to her temple, he draws her ever closer in his arms, allowing the silence to envelop them for a moment before offering, with a sweet sort of hesitancy: ] You may call me Petyr, if you would like.
She sobs, and for an instant, he's worried that he's done something wrong. But it's joy that colors her voice, not sorrow, and though he does not cry with her, he laughs in relief, the sound bright in comparison to the fog and dark in which he always seems to live. ]
We're in love, [ he tells her, amazement in his words. ] Yes, Sansa, this- this is love. And I swear to you, until my very last breath, I will love you.
[ Pressing a kiss to her temple, he draws her ever closer in his arms, allowing the silence to envelop them for a moment before offering, with a sweet sort of hesitancy: ] You may call me Petyr, if you would like.
[ With a lilt that betrays his words to be affectionate more than anything else: ] Shut up, Polly Q.
[ He's a fuck-up in every sense of the word, but once he gets his teeth into something (no irony intended) he doesn't let go. And he doesn't mean to let go of Polly Q. The more she'd stayed away, the more he'd wanted her, and now that they're together, he wants her more still, in a way that goes beyond fighting and fucking. Not maudlin, not with the way that they are, but close enough. Close enough that he says I love you and means it because it's never crossed his mind to lie to her, not properly.
And, truth told, it's almost always been that people run out on him than the other way around. (He doesn't blame them, in a distant sort of retrospect.) ]
[ He's a fuck-up in every sense of the word, but once he gets his teeth into something (no irony intended) he doesn't let go. And he doesn't mean to let go of Polly Q. The more she'd stayed away, the more he'd wanted her, and now that they're together, he wants her more still, in a way that goes beyond fighting and fucking. Not maudlin, not with the way that they are, but close enough. Close enough that he says I love you and means it because it's never crossed his mind to lie to her, not properly.
And, truth told, it's almost always been that people run out on him than the other way around. (He doesn't blame them, in a distant sort of retrospect.) ]
[ A gentle pressure, wet and round, pushes against the point of Mr. Baelish's pulse and it's not until it sniffles softly a moment later that it reveals itself to be the very tip of Sansa's nose, nuzzling him. Curled against him now, she tries to make herself small even though adolescence has been kind to her and given her the same long-legged leanness that had made her Original so very beautiful in Petyr's eyes. Her shoulders bow and her neck cranes as she tucks herself in that warm nest of his embrace, that initial sob of happiness still thrumming (electricity through a wire, blood through a vein). ]
Petyr, [ she murmurs, as if it the sweetest word known to man. ] Petyr, Petyr, Petyr. [ Each is a prayer and an exultation; each is love's golden sigh. ] I can't think of a more wonderful name. I will call you it morning, noon and night.
[ At length Sansa draws back, just far enough to meet his eyes, the damp end of her nose brushing his before she ducks in to peck him once on the mouth. ] All the stories were wrong, [ she then says, sounding but amazed and enlightened. ] All their words, they couldn't touch this, they'd never be able to explain—
I feel— I feel alive. It's wonderful.
Petyr, [ she murmurs, as if it the sweetest word known to man. ] Petyr, Petyr, Petyr. [ Each is a prayer and an exultation; each is love's golden sigh. ] I can't think of a more wonderful name. I will call you it morning, noon and night.
[ At length Sansa draws back, just far enough to meet his eyes, the damp end of her nose brushing his before she ducks in to peck him once on the mouth. ] All the stories were wrong, [ she then says, sounding but amazed and enlightened. ] All their words, they couldn't touch this, they'd never be able to explain—
I feel— I feel alive. It's wonderful.
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