❛ what does it look like? ❜ crimson is SPIT from her mouth, blood dripping from the cracks of her lips. it’s going to bruise, for sure, but allison has BIGGER problems than a busted lip, than her limp. she got beat, yes, but for good cause, maybe. it’s two thirty in the morning, darkness shrouding her silhouette. derek could hear her, though — of course, of course. could probably TASTE the metal of her blood. she wipes the corner of her lip with the back of her palm, mindful of the split. ❛ i learned something about whatever’s terrorizing beacon. i couldn’t SEE it. i couldn’t see anything — it stopped my sight. what the HELL is that? ❜ she’s throwing his question back at him, yes, but allison’s out of ideas. she doesn’t KNOW what happened, not really. ❛ we need to figure out what does that. soon. i only got out because i listened. ❜ meaning the wolves could fight it better than she could. it PISSES her off. ❛ an idea would be great right about now. some water, too — everything tastes like copper. ❜
’ right now i have about as much of an idea as you do. ‘
instead of another reflexive snap, derek moves into lush muffle of shadow and pries deeper into layers — under a floorboard —, and comes back full-handed.
temporary blindness.
it feels as if the loft has an open vein somewhere in its black on black on black. but it’s her. she’s that current. and she’s muddied his floor.
the thick recedes to switched-on light that he has no need for, but before that, to derek’s phone (one text, two recipients).
argent’s face doesn’t seem to be hers, or a face, sharp in violet smacked hard onto bone like that. by the neck he holds out her trophy: alcohol, uncapped and pointing.
’ rinse and swallow. now. ‘
he listens for shock; waits for it.
’ you got out because you got lucky.
but how exactly did you wind up there— alone— in the middle of the night? ‘
░ ▌⁞ 「☀」‘ she’s out in front of you. fifteen feet, should you guess. she’s out in front of you, fifteen feet away, no more a dismal haze. your fingers want to lift & drag, catch this image between a chasm of palms & never let it out of your sight again. ( the eiffel tower frames wind whipped locks they coil around her, tentative & delicate, treating like the porcelain she’d dare not to be a camera in hand. ) an obsidian washed polaroid & a memory. this doesn’t escape you, nor does a smile, defied naught by the cyclone brisk that cuts into those almost dimples that apple cheeks.
you allow a moment to sink into archaic visions, tilt against heels, compel yourself forward. ( pressed sides, non existent space, i love yous & something that meant more than a trapped, high school affair. ) allison isn’t expecting you. she’s expecting someone, but not scott mccall. her heart’s in your head, it’s aching reminiscence & this isn’t fair, you think. you’ll hear it change a thump, a rhythm when she sees you & no one else gets to experience something like it, & it isn’t fair. but you’re glad.
too glad, pen leaving raven ink blots between fingers as you get closer. ten feet, five feet, two
a break flits stride. because this is allison, daggered & edged, but soft where it
counted. you want to surprise her, not KILL HER. never.
❛ hey,❜ cracks on adolescence you didn’t think to be stuck in your throat anymore,
hand held pen there to match her polaroid. it hurts not to hug her, not right away.
but you have to be sure, ❛ i think you dropped this? ❜
His foot is braced all too delicately upon the step ladder, slick
white headphones singing out SWIFT BEATS as he, in volunteer
work glory for this particular charity sale, indulges in deft-fingered
attempt to nail back up misbehaving SIGN of said sale, dealing in
hammer and nail with hands that are used to more slender, sharp-
er things. This means, truthfully, that he is failing spectacularly. A-
s he briefly stops to suck quietly on slim index finger, one can ass-
ume he has transitioned from UNTALENTED to accidentally self-d-
estructive. Amber eyes swiftly dart around (for aid? for solace?) an-
d chance upon his sudden AUDIENCE OF ONE -- no doubt not b-
y any purpose, but simply the fate of coincidence. Zevran slowly
draws his finger out of his mouth, eyes comically widening. He g-
ives her a mute, but vastly expressive, shrug. The unmistakeable
melody of Britney Spears’ TOXIC is quick to mark the occasion o-
f their meeting, gently trailing out of gap ‘twixt headphones and ears.
it’s been just over a week since he’d last drank his way to the end of a bottle --- though, it felt a little more like swimming; except his limbs weren’t weightless & stares from anna between a busted frame & the half closed door of her mother’s old room were colder than any water booker had ever swam in.
( you don’t have to be in AA to count dry days. dry hours, dry minutes. )
he gets home at 6:32 pm --- pays the babysitter with crumpled bills that’d been in his back pock for only god knows how long, loosens the tie already hanging limp enough like a noose around his neck, & collapses onto couch cushions without so much as a second thought.
it’s 6:39 pm when faint little fingers tug at his coat; there’s two blinks --- one to slow sleep from dipping into crinkled corners of his eyes, & another merely in contemplation. he slips world heavy weight of one arm around the girl, & tugs that ever tiny form close enough to place a kiss upon the base of her forehead. it’s featherlight. tired, worn --- & booker’s on the verge of leaning all the way back down before there’s a knock at the door.
timid, almost --- knock, knock.
a full second later until another, more prominent --- knock, knock.
❛ did ya’ invite someone over that i didn’t know about? ❜ & the quip leaves him with something of a gruff laugh, but anna doesn’t mimic it --- she might’ve even looked sheepish, if she knew how.
❛ miss argent’s here for dinner!❜
❛ again, huh? ❜
he fails to find humor this time around.
there’s a glance toward the liquor cabinet somewhere between 7:30 & 8 o’clock, booker’d know the exact time if it weren’t for his watch falling off earlier as he scrambled to make spaghetti. it isn’t quiet, at least --- with anna rattling off things she’d learnt at school, things miss argent taught her, & an interwoven resonance of their spoons clinking against their plates, there’s not a sound second for the rest of dinner.
9:22 pm --- as tick, tick, ticking of the clock would have it --- 9:22 pm, three glasses of milk, & cookies almost as sweet as the women who baked them ( it gives him a tooth ache, he doesn’t comment on it ) --- 9:37 pm, two stories about princes, princesses, frogs, & how they all end up together in the end ( for some reason, he doesn’t think that’s right ) --- 9:55 pm, one sleeping girl, tucked in by careful hands with her mother’s favorite blanket, ( their fingertips brush when they both find a messy corner, he clears his throat. )
it’s 10:23 pm, only by a silent man’s assumption --- she’s too pretty for him to be watching anything but a bowed curve in her lips, anyway --- & booker can’t even remember how to spell w-h-i-s-k-e-y. allison, he finds, laughs with her whole body; even when what anna would call a dad joke parts a rupture in what otherwise would be a serious conversation --- she tilts back, bares porcelain of her throat, & titters a harmony that sticks with him, just before clasping a single hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.
❛ tell another one. ❜
the way it sounds like church bells makes him think, for a fraction of a second, that he might be a believer again.
❛ okay, so two werewolves walk into a bar --- ❜
when darkness glooms & flickering streetlights no longer reach close enough into the apartment --- when they’re spent, lethargically waning limbs, tired almost whispers, & stubble brushing against exposed skin of her shoulder; all that’s left is hazy coral ( that’d probably be more crimson, if not for sleep digging crows feet above his smile ) blaring a time he can’t read across the room.
booker supposes that taking care of a little ball of energy can be exhausting, & since she does it all day every day with a whole class, it’d be a shame to wake her up now, wouldn’t it?
❛ hey, it’s gettin’ sort of late, do you --- ❜ need a ride? some water? a blanket?
but she cuts him off, as much as she can in a slumber induced coma, that is. there’s a snore, probably from deepest depths of her chest, & allison actually rolls over into him.
oh, like he’s letting her forget that one in the morning.
calledwolfsbane replied to your post:[21:19:50] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: ahahaha same [21:19:55]...
i thought u were talking 2 someone that wasn’t me and telling someone the same fucking stoRY WHAT THE FUCK THIS IS OURS and then i realized that my fucking skype name is elna honestly i need so much HELP
LM FA O. you’re the one & only elna for me, honestly.
[21:19:50] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: ahahaha same
[21:19:55] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: & it's not been clean fml
[21:20:20] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: fml even more i unexpectedly came across a Nice Picture of michiel huisman
[21:20:25] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: well as unexpectedly as scrolling in his tag is anyway
[21:20:46] elna: LIKE
[21:20:50] elna: WAIT I DONT UNDERSTAND
[21:20:52] elna: Nice Picture
[21:20:53] elna: is this bad
[21:20:55] elna: why the caps
[21:20:57] elna: what is happEn
[21:21:03] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: NO it's actually a nice picture
[21:21:06] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: i capitalised to emphasise the niceness
[21:21:09] elna: OH
[21:21:10] elna: OH
[21:21:12] elna: bc you said fml
[21:21:15] elna: i thought it was like
[21:21:17] elna: a dick pic
[21:21:19] elna: lmFAO
[21:21:22] elna: IM FUCKING SORRY
[21:21:22] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: he's fucking my life up lena :|||||||||
[21:21:24] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: .....................
[21:21:25] Емма. （☆ゥ☆）*~＊: oh mygsdoklds
