She just wants to go back to sleep, desperately, like when she wakes up from a nightmare and her heart is a painful alarm in her chest but she’s too exhausted to care. The floor is starting to look comfy, in that way that reminds her of being nearly black-out drunk and wanting to pass out in the grass of a stranger’s lawn, but Darcy still has enough common sense left in her to realize that she could possibly end up dead if she listens to the chaotic voice of her ID.
And this isn’t the way she wants to go, not when there are fun ways to die out there and she hasn’t even fucked an alien yet.
Slowly, she blinks in the sudden blinding light– everything feels slow like this, except the thudding of her heart – and takes in his appearance. How Darcy had confused him for Daken was a mystery, even in the most delirious of sleep-deprived states; where Dak was all lithe musculature when he wasn’t completely jacked, this guy was narrow and sharp and pale, his hair too short, too messy. Each part of him looked as if it was kept together with rubber bands wound too tightly – as if, any moment, he might snap and come undone entirely.
“M’Darcy.” Her voice is low, patient, slow as molasses, and almost kind, as if she were speaking to a wild, mangy dog who had snarled her into a corner.
“And if you’re not my husband an’ m’not yours, I guess the question of the hour is where are our husbands?”
It sounds dumb, even to Darcy’s ears, sleep muddled and bizarre.
‘Where are our husbands’, Lewis, really. You should just,like, apologize, all whoops sorry sometimes I just break into really nice places and fall into beds with strangers, I’ll just be leaving now but nah you ask where his husband is. Great.
His tongue pushed around the dead-things-and-cotton inside of his mouth, jaw working as he tried to push through the fog in his head to make sense of all this. Instead, his thoughts became mired in Pride and Prejudice quotes, whereupon he decided he should really stop letting DrunkDante decide what to queue up on Netflix at 3AM.
He took a long, thin breath - the kind that couldn’t be called deep for the way it whistled past his teeth - and slowly, thumbed the safety back on.
“Mine’s-” Wait. His brows furrowed as his gaze skated past her, taking in the otherwise empty bedroom with the understanding that the rest of the apartment was just the same way. His cheeks puffed out, and he shifted the gun sight to take her out of it. “Not’ere.” A statement of the obvious that was more irritating than anything, now that he was thinking about it, watching her, realizing.
“Workin,” He settled on, as things started to come together a little easier in his head, and he tipped the pistol fully away from her.
“You don’ live’ere.” The realization came half as accusation, not least of all for the way he squinted at her. Or, at least, she was new. Or maybe one of those people, who had their groceries delivered and worked from home and never left the ho-
Stop describing yourself.
“Do you?” Came as a less certain, more skeptical followup.