Repost but the song as well as Amanda in the AMV really just vibes Taliss so strongly to me overall. Like Taliss is rather competent, but that can definitely breed overconfidence that then gets her into far more trouble than she originally intended. Then she has to stop playing around and actually get serious.
Cloud Nine Contrails: Supporting Character; Molly Mallon O'Malley
Context for Cloud Nine Contrails
Molly Mallon O'Malley
(モリ・マロン・オマリ Mori Maron Omari)
✈ 24 years old ☮ female, she/her ☮ 180.34 cm (5'11") ☮ Metro Popper ✈
Modified transcription of above profile:
"Loud, chaotic, high-strung, Irish punk butch. One of the most vital Metro Poppers in the faction due to her incredibly powerful Stand.
Like Adam, she joined the Metro Poppers after coming into a disadvantaged position upon moving to America. Unlike Adam, she lives with her family. Kinda.
Possibly the boldest gangster in the faction, openly disrespectful and incendiary towards the faction's boss, but she's a harsh person and often shows affection in a rather mean way, so it's hard to tell if she's being genuine or joking sometimes.
Known best for hotwiring cars and furthermore for apparently not knowing how to safely drive them, and also for eating fruits decidedly wrong (whole and unpeeled, even the apple cores).
Outside of gang activity, she mostly does mechanic work. She's no expert, but she knows enough to get the job done and do it well. Which is probably why she steals cars.
She smells like gasoline and tyres."
Molly came to America with her family, and there's basically a bunch of people in one house, though Molly doesn't talk about them much.
Coloured and uncoloured full body references, back and front; profile and 3/4ths view headshots!
Personality description from my wiki page for her (needs an update):
"Molly is chaotic and uncontrolled, often doing things on impulse and not minding consequence or social response. She's friendly but hyperactive, very confident, and incredibly stubborn. Despite seeming to hardly care what others think, having very little filter, and being very overwhelming, she does genuinely care about certain people and tries to support them as best as she can. She does, however, unfortunately, employ a sort of 'tough love'. She wants what's best for her friends, but she is blunt and refuses to be delicate about issues, and tends to roughhouse. Will fight for someone, and will fight anyone. She seems to have very little fear and is very reckless, and will throw herself into danger to protect her friends. Of the members of the faction, she's the most aggressive and insubordinate towards their boss. Though not terribly complex emotionally and critical of the gang's structure, she does have a strong view of loyalty, and though she believes she could easily leave the gang and never have to worry about being gone after, she doesn't want to betray the loyalty she's built".
Her wiki page is one of the ones I've yet to fully update.
Design notes for Molly to help me stay on model.
//mild body horror warning
「Devil's Dance Floor」
Devil's Dance Floor - Stand of Molly Mallon O'Malley
Modified transcription of above profile:
"Devil's Dance Floor has dermakinesis, the ability to generate and manipulate skin and flesh. It can create new skin and modify the properties of any existing skin. Combatively, it's incredibly powerful and agile, but a glass cannon; it can barely take a hit, so it tends to dance around its enemy, getting close to land a barrage of hits, then quickly pulling back to avoid any retaliation. Its fragility may have some relation to its bony appearance and exposed 'muscle'; its 'clothes' appear to be nothing more than loose skin.
Unsurprisingly, it is also incredibly unpleasant to touch."
Power - S
Speed - A
Potential - D
Range - D
Durability - E
Precision - B
Modified transcript:
「Devil's Dance Floor」, reflective of its ability, appears as a skinless being covered in some kind of jumpsuit made of loose skin, most of the Stand's body appearing to be comprised unsettlingly of nothing but exposed muscle, with parts also resembling a skeleton.
The mask is, presumably, just a part of its face and can never be removed. Its 'eyes' appear as weird feminine-shaped black voids with a tiny white pinprick pupil on the right and a yellow pupil with red iris on the left.
Two points on the right side, the gap above the eye is like a bat wing with two divots.
On left side, two small spikes at bottom, one large spike, then two small points at the top on the back part of the mask.
The left side profile view of the mask vaguely resembles an actual face.
The back part of the mask is a different colour from the rest of the mask.
The mask also curves around the face, so the actual face (presuming it has one) is never seen.
Its face, where its mouth should be, is twisted oddly.
It’s very asymmetrical. Its skin-suit hangs off its shoulder, slightly folded over the breast on the left, a long sleeve on the right, and on the left, the sleeve is torn off just past the elbow. The left hand is partly covered by a fingerless glove, while the right hand is just fully visible. Both ‘pant legs’ are short, the right one ending at the knee, and the left one cutting off a bit before the knee. On the left leg, it has a skin boot, and on the other, it has a flip-flop with a skin “sock” that stops at the ankle.
Sometimes depicted with a single tiny bat wing. It only ever has one, never two, and it serves no purpose other than aesthetic.
It tends to favour kicks to punches, but either avenue of attack it uses, it’s incredibly fast.
(idk the vision is here you just have to squint. I still dont know how to draw stand fights)
「Devil’s Dance Floor」 is around the same size as Molly. It’s less muscular but certainly more muscular.
Three bleeding heart motifs, one on the left glove, one on the right thigh and the apple on the chest, which also serves as a heart.
The left side of its skin suit has a lot of tears and holes. The right side does not. Notably, the left “sleeve” has two jagged holes at the torn end, one on each side of the middle, and the left pant leg has one jagged hole at the end, around the centre.
It also has a cliché devil tail, but it’s rarely seen from the front.
You can assume the skin boot is held up by a tiny gross strand of sinew or something.
The back of the Stand is fairly plain other than the raised patterns in a U-shape from horn to horn, with a line going down from the bottom and an upwards-pointing arrow in the middle, meant to resemble a pitchfork.
The jacket dips in the back, revealing both of its shoulder blades. It has two tiny light- coloured bat wing markings on each shoulder blade.
The pants seem to be attached to the jacket in the back as well. The boot is attached to the pants to keep it held up.
The devil tail is generally only visible from behind like this. It, like the wings, only serves an aesthetic purpose and has no use in combat despite its sharp appearance.
Perhaps its most terrifying ability is its “dancefloor”, which is some fucking horrifying carnal horror silent hill type shit which makes a “living” room, a room made of flesh that pulsates and appears to have a pulse, in which she traps opponents to make it harder to fight her. The only way to fight on the dancefloor is to keep rhythm, which is best done by, of course, dancing. The room isn’t actually alive, it doesn’t respond to stimuli and has no internals despite its pulse, but it can bleed.
Though open about her Stand and what it does, Molly doesn’t have 「Devil’s Dance Floor」 out very often. When she does, it doesn’t seem to display many sentient behaviours. Most of its mannerisms are reflective of Molly’s own, or the occasional non-complex reaction to stimuli.
Molly, aided by Alesana, is pretty much the closest thing the faction has to a medic. 「Devil’s Dance Floor」’s ability can be used to seal wounds, graft detached limbs back on, reconstruct damaged body parts (as long as nothing too complicated is missing internally) and, most of all, it can keep people quiet.
Molly also uses it to toughen her own skin, and is able to do so to an extent that, shockingly, her skin can become bulletproof.
To clarify, she makes her skin so thick that the bullet would generally just catch in entry and lose momentum in seconds. Reasonably, she doesn’t keep her skin like that all the time, so she could be shot to death if she were caught off-guard but she’s thus far still alive somehow. It’s also entirely possible that she doesn’t feel pain due to changing the properties of her own skin.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Uncharted, blah blah blah, you know how it goes. I do own my OCs though and the plot. This fic in its entirety can be read on AO3 here or you can find the other chapters here.
Sorry again for the huge delay between this chapter and the last. Life got crazy af in both good ways and bad.
Graphic and title pic was made by me, all other pics aren’t mine. If one belongs to you, please let me know and I’ll either credit or remove.
Chapter 15 - Crushed Beneath Her Wave
Sam had always sworn that he wasn't any good at relationships. They were too much work and always seemed to come with excessive amounts of drama and bullshit and a particular lack of freedom that Sam had never been able to stomach. It had always been much easier to just find someone warm to spend a night with, or someone interested in nothing more than a week long fling, and if he was really itching for some company there were hookers in every city the world over if one knew where to look. In comparison, the payoff of a relationship had never really seemed worth it.
Yet, in the months since Simone had returned from France, since Sam had decided that this was, indeed, worth the payoff, the two had settled into a relationship and this new version of normal was something Sam found himself surprisingly comfortable with.
Simone had given up her room at the main castle, instead moving into Sam's little cabin where she'd slowly taken over. Her clothes hung in the closet, a brightly colored contrast to his earthy-toned plaids and denims, and her jewelry and tiny bottles of nail polish had taken up residence on the dresser. In the shower, her shampoo and body wash lined the wire racks, nestled next to the more masculine soap that Sam prefered.
After so long in prison though, Sam was used to sharing his space and while the box of tampons in the medicine cabinet had given him momentary pause, it was easy to fall back into the habit of cohabitating. He just couldn't bring himself to mind this invasion of personal space any more than he minded the way she wrapped herself around him when they climbed into bed for the night.
In short, it all felt right.
"Hey Simone?" Sam started as he stepped out of the shower and reached for the towel.
"Ja?" she answered, her voice carrying through the small cottage and through the open bathroom doorway.
"So after we find Avery's treasure," Sam continued, wrapping the towel around his waist and stepping up to the sink to wipe away the condensation that had fogged the mirror. "Where do you want to go?"
There was a beat of silence, then, "Like, where in th'world?"
"Yeah," Sam prompted. There was a can of shaving cream on the edge of the sink and he squeezed a dollop into the palm of his hand, smoothing the lather across his throat. "We'll be rich, so we can go anywhere you want."
Simone chuckled, "Anywhere?"
"Anywhere."
"Hm . . ."
Razor in hand, Sam took a step back from the sink, craning his neck until he could see her through the open doorway, perched on the couch with Vriend curled up next to her. She had one bare foot propped on the coffee table as she painted her toenails lime green, her lower lip snagged between her teeth as she considered his question.
"Iceland."
Sam blinked. "Iceland? Really?" He'd expected some place tropical and warm, bright and breathtaking--
"I want to see the Northern Lights," she explained further and it all made sense. Of course she did.
"Okay," he readily agreed, turning his attention back to the mirror. He'd never been to Iceland and there was no doubt that the Aurora Borealis was something to see before you died. He ran the razor along his throat, stopping just shy of the short beard he'd decided to grow for the winter. He could probably keep it a while longer if they went to Iceland . . .
"Where d'you wanna go?" Simone asked, stepping into the doorway and leaning one shoulder against the jamb.
"New Orleans," Sam answered without hesitation, his eyes going to Simone's reflection in the mirror. Fuck, she looked beautiful. Her pants were snug leather - slick and begging him to touch - and the shirt she wore was shimmery gold, plunging in the front and distinctly lacking in a back, held in place by delicate chains.
"To see your brother."
He pulled his eyes from the taut expanse of tanned belly and he found her watching him with a knowing look on her face. He nodded. "Yeah, to see my brother."
She nodded in return, pushing away from the wooden frame and stepping into the bathroom on freshly decorated feet. "We can do that." She came up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist and her body warm against his back, then pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder. "I'd like t'meet him."
"You will," Sam assured her, automatically. He rinsed the razor under the water, absently running a hand over his throat in a distracted search for any missed prickles, but his mind was occupied by thoughts of Nate and Simone meeting. Nate would like her, Sam knew. His brother would appreciate her lust for adventure and her sense of humor and they'd likely band together to tease Sam mercilessly . . .
And maybe it would happen sooner rather than later. Could he convince Simone to abandon Nadine and Rafe and, instead, take their clues to Nathan? It was a question that Sam still couldn't answer and was, frankly, afraid to ask. It wasn't like they actually had any clues, either.
"What're you--?" Sam laughed, pulled back to the here and now by Simone ducking under his arm and pushing her way between himself and the sink. She peered up at him with the sort of smile that made his knees weak and his dick throb, her hands working free the towel at his waist.
"What am I what?" she asked, letting the towel fall to the floor and reaching to wrap a hand around him. "Oh, is this a problem?" She grinned, "D'you want me to stop?"
Sam's chuckle was just a bit breathless and he shook his head, reaching out without looking to push the door closed. "Not a chance in hell."
With insurances that they wouldn't be interrupted by a curious puppy in place, Sam's attention went completely back to the woman in front of him, his still-damp hands eagerly popping open the button on her pants. It was erotic, the feel of the leather beneath his palms, the way the material almost seemed to sigh as the button released . . .
He helped boost her onto the sink, taking half a step back to free her legs and toss the undoubtedly expensive pants aside, then he was pressing between her thighs again and peppering her neck and chest with hungry kisses.
It had taken a trip to the clinic in Edinburgh and a full STD screening for Simone to agree to tossing aside the condoms but, in Sam's opinion, the ordeal had been entirely worth it. Neither of them were harboring any diseases in their loins and Simone's birth control took care of the pregnancy factor, which meant that impromptu moments like this didn't have to be interrupted and both of them could enjoy sex without the latex barrier.
"We'll be late," Simone helpfully pointed out, but made no move to stop him as Sam slipped inside of her with only the slightest resistance, prompting the most delicious gasp from her lips as his length filled her.
God, she was always so wet. "Don't care," Sam answered, hands grasping her ass firmly and pulling her closer to the edge of the sink.
"Neither do I," she admitted with a laugh and a welcoming roll of her hips.
Being the one with the better leverage, Sam took most of her weight as Simone braced herself on the sink, clumsily knocking the shaving cream and the razor to the floor with a clatter as she wrapped her legs around his hips. The scent of her hair and her sex filled his nose, an intoxicating mix that spoke to the simpler parts of his brain - those parts that fed the need to cover her in his scent, to fill her with his cum, before going to ring in the New Year with her Shoreline co-workers. Simone was his, those primal instincts screamed, and he wasn't above reminding every single one of them of that fact. And that included Rafe, whose jealousy was a very real and very ugly thing that Sam had no issues with antagonizing.
Simone's arms were trembling as she held herself steady on the sink and with every thrust of his hips, her breasts bounced under the silky thin material of her shirt. She was driving him wild just by being herself, filling his ears with moaning encouragement, and when he slipped a hand between them to rub his thumb over her clit, her gasps neared a fever pitch and she came with a bucking of hips.
"God, you're so fuckin' sexy," he ground out, pulling her closer with arms wrapped around her waist. Simone's hands grasped at his shoulders, sliding up the back of his neck and drawing his face down to breathe in her scent there behind her ear . . .
The world fell away and in that moment, pressed against Simone, with the aftershocks of his orgasm trembling his muscles, Sam felt a moment of absolute clarity. This was what was important. This woman leaving trails of soft kisses along his neck and shoulder, her heart thumping against his chest, beating in time with his own, and Sam found his mouth opening and words passing his lips: "Will you marry me?"
Was it surprise that had Simone going very still in his arms, her breath catching softly in his ear, or was it happiness? Sam pulled back, his hands coming up to cup her face as he studied the angle of her eyebrows, the way her painted lip trembled . . .
It wasn't the expression he'd expected and Sam found his own eyebrows drawing down in confusion and dismay and maybe bit of regret that he wasn't quite ready to indulge. "Simone?"
She was nodding though, small motions that caused her curls to bounce around her shoulders, brushing against his fingers. "I want to," she said. "Oh god, Sam, I do. I just . . ." Her eyes drifted away from his face, searching around the bathroom for the words to express herself. "We will."
Her words weren't reassuring and Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat, his stomach a nervous pit of nausea and roiling bile. "So let's do it then," he suggested, forging intrepidly ahead. "Why wait? Simone, we can fly anywhere, tonight, and be married by tomorrow. We can start the new year as Mister and Missus Drake - for real."
She shook her head, emotion fading from her features. She no longer looked panicked, as if she might run or burst into tears, but the all-business set of her jaw didn't do much to smooth Sam's own frayed edges. "No, Sam," she said gently. "That's not what I want, baby. I want a . . . a big wedding. I want our friends there; Nadine and . . . and Nathan . . ." She ran her fingertips gently over his beard as she met his eyes, "I want a white dress and, I dunno, bridesmaids or whatever . . ."
Sam blinked, surprised by her words. "Really?" Simone was spontaneous, adventurous, the type to chase her whims and let the chips fall where they may; she wasn't the Big White Wedding type - the planning type. "Okay," he reluctantly agreed, nodding slowly. "If that's what you want."
"It is," Simone assured him, her face breaking into a smile. "And, jus' so we're clear, the answer is yes, Sam. I will marry you."
***
It had always been a struggle for Simone to exercise self control, being far too impulsive, as her father had always been quick to criticize. She'd gotten better with it as she's grown older; sniping was a lesson in patience and had taught her to wait until the time was right before pulling the trigger, but in her everyday life, Simone often wrestled with that notion.
Truth was, she didn't want a white wedding or flowers or even a big dress. Truth was, she would marry Sam in an instant and she didn't care if it happened on a beach or at a petrol station, whether it was just the two of them or whether they were surrounded by friends and family. As long as they were together, their hearts and souls bared to each other, it would have been good enough for Simone. But there was no way they could marry now; maybe someday but certainly not tomorrow.
So she'd lied - again - because she could hardly tell the man she wanted a future with that she had already said I do or that he'd have to wait for her current husband to die before they could legally marry. She'd locked onto that self control with deadly efficiency, gone through the motions of getting dressed, finishing her make-up, walking up to the main castle with her fiance´, getting them drinks, making small talk with the other contractors . . . and through it all she'd smiled and laughed and pretended, for all the world to see, that her lies weren't completely eating her up inside.
She couldn't keep it up forever though and her tension was growing with every passing minute that crept them closer to midnight and the New Year it heralded. She felt as if she were crawling out of her skin, annoyed by the small crowd of contractors who'd stayed in Scotland for the holiday season, nervous about the amount of alcohol flowing and her own tension was only amplified by Sam's. He didn't like these sort of crowds, she'd learned, especially made up as it was by Shoreline contractors. It's too easy for it to get out of control, he'd explained when she'd asked. To turn into a riot. She'd argued that twenty drunk Shoreliners were hardly enough to constitute a riot, but he hadn't budged, only explained further that twenty men could cause a lot of damage.
She'd thought it was silly, maybe a bit paranoid, but she hadn't pressed the issue. This time though, this time, she understood. There was something in the air, as if the entire night were holding its breath . . .
"Are you okay?"
Simone's eyes darted to Sam, "What? Ja, I'm fine."
His eyebrows lowered, "Are you sure? D'you want to leave?"
Oh god, did she ever! "I really would love to. I 'ave a headache," she lied, leaping at the chance to make their escape. "Let me just find Nadine and let'er know?"
"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed, obviously relieved that she was game for cutting out early. "I'll get the coats."
It only took a minute of searching to find Nadine in the library, her face set in a mask of dubious amusement as Sergei drunkenly regaled her with a tale of one of his often embellished stories, and only another moment for Nadine to take one look at her and determine that something was wrong.
"What is it?" Nadine asked without preamble.
Simone's lips pressed together, but her sister's steady gaze had her resolve wavering. "Can I talk t'ya?"
Nadine was nodding, reaching out to wrap an arm around Simone's shoulders and usher her toward the nearest doorway.
***
When his evening had started, Rafe had been in a decent mood. Tired from his flight in from New York, maybe, but he'd been ready to laugh and celebrate, to start the New Year off on the right foot because this was the year he'd find Avery's treasure. They were close, he could feel it in his bones, and it was only a matter of time before one of these clues panned out.
That good mood had been steadily declining with every sip of scotch he'd downed, annoyed by every moment he had to spend watching Sam and Simone in each others company. It wasn't something he was normally witness to, these acts of affection, being that he rarely spent time with the two of them together. In fact, he and Simone had barely exchanged more than a handful of words since the last time he'd cornered her in the hallway.
Still, it was easy enough to recognize her voice as Rafe hesitated just outside the Smoking Room door, his ears picking up bits of whispered conversation:
"When?"
"Tonight. While we were gettin' ready to come up 'ere. He just . . . asked."
Nadine's sigh drifted through the open doorway, "Simone, you 'ave to tell him."
"Nadine, I can't. He'll be so mad . . ."
"You 'ave to. If you want to 'ave a chance at marryin' him, then you 'ave to tell him everything."
Rafe's lips parted and despite the buzz of intoxication he quickly put the pieces together, realizing that Sam didn't know about Simone's husband. At first the notion seemed preposterous - didn't everyone know that Simone was married? - but then when did Sam ever willingly communicate with the Shoreline contractors? He always seemed to avoid them as often as he could and every conversation Rafe had been witness to had been painfully impersonal. Could he really blame any of those guys for not wanting to be the one to spill the beans to their boss's sister's lover?
On the heels of that surprise came indignant anger thumping hot through his veins, but he wasn't sure if that anger was directed at Simone, for lying to Sam for so long, or at Sam for wanting to marry her at all. Rafe's lips twisted into a bitter snarl. Why did he even care? Sam had made it clear that he wasn't interested . . .
Rafe had never dealt well with rejection though and that embarrassment had his resolve hardening and his vision narrowing as he drained the last of his Scotch, set the glass on the edge of the billiard table, and set off to find Sam.
***
With jackets in hand, Sam wound his way through the small crowd, skirting around a table where two contractors had set up an impromptu game of Quarters and keeping an eye open for Simone's familiar shape. Instead, he found Rafe.
Sam would've had to be an idiot to miss the way Rafe's mood had grown steadily more sour, the frown lines between his eyebrows deepening with every passing hour, and Sam's plans to avoid the other man for the rest of the evening were quickly waylaid. Rafe was headed straight for him, with his face set in a determined glower and his eyes ringed in the faintest blush of red, and Sam found tension knotting his shoulders with every step that brought them closer. Something was wrong.
"Did everyone hear the good news?" Rafe asked, his voice rising over the buzz of voices and easily drawing the attention of those near them.
Sam drew to a stop, his stomach twisting in apprehension as Rafe's eyes locked on him. There were a million announcements that a rich man could make to a crowd on New Year's Eve but Sam knew that whatever came out of Rafe's mouth next wouldn't have anything to do with a merger or an acquisition or whatever-the-fuck else.
And Sam was right.
"Tonight, my dear friend, Samuel Drake, asked Simone Ross to marry him."
The words were mostly met with silence - with the exception of a rude and incredulous chuckle from someone - and though Sam's eyes may not have left Rafe, he could feel the contractors' gazes settle on him. The sudden attention had Sam's teeth clenching, his hands tightening around the jackets he held and he opened his mouth to tell Rafe, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off--
But Rafe shook his head and let out a chuckle, holding up one hand, "Oh wait, wait. Did I say Simone Ross? Of course, I meant Simone Mthembu. It's been a long time since she was a Ross." He glanced around, as if suddenly confused, "Or, was she ever a Ross? Where's Nadine? She'd know."
Confusion had Sam's brows lowering, his face burning, and he chanced a glance around him. Everyone was watching him, their expressions ranging anywhere from sympathetic to amused, but Sam hadn't the slightest clue what Rafe was talking about and there was no hiding it. "Rafe . . ." he started, warning clear in his voice.
"Whatsa matter, Samuel? She never told you about her husband?"
Sam's heart was suddenly hammering, beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs as they constricted and for a painful second, he swore his entire chest was caving in. He couldn't breathe, his face burning with embarrassment as his brain persistently refused to make sense of what was happening around him. He was still dimly aware of the eyes on him, the murmur of voices surrounding him - … 'he didn't know' ... 'she never told him…' - but all he could see were Rafe's lips twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes lit with dark amusement as he continued: "She never told you that she married a rich old prick for his money? That she's just one of three wives? Her husband is soaked in so much blood that he makes the rest of us look squeaky clean . . ."
It wasn't true. It had to be a lie. It was just Rafe - petty and jealous Rafe - trying to hurt him because in his tiny, twisted, brain he thought that Sam should have chosen him instead . . .
"Did she tell you that I asked her to keep an eye on you? That she only fucked you because I asked her to?"
"Rafe, shut up!"
Simone's voice cut through the sound of blood rushing in Sam's ears and his eyes snapped to her familiar figure as she pushed her way through the small crowd. Her face was flushed with anger, her balled fists trembling, but it was the shine of tears in her eyes that had Sam taking a step back in desperate retreat.
It was a small movement but Simone reacted to it as if it were a physical blow, her shoulders falling and her mouth opening. "Sam, I--"
And there was a part of him that wanted to comfort her, to reach for her and draw her into his arms so he could smooth the sorrow from her brow and kiss the frown from her lips, but those tears and the regret that etched her features told him all he needed to know. Rafe wasn't lying.
"He needed to know the truth, Simone!" Rafe insisted.
"Shut the fuck up, Rafe!" Sam heard Nadine snap, but he was already turning and walking away.
Sam still held both his jacket and Simone's, forgotten in his hands, but he'd heard enough and the sudden need to get away from the stifling press of bodies, the feel of eyes on him, had him moving with single-minded determination. He needed air. He needed a cigarette. He needed to get as far away from his fiance' as possible because fuck Simone. Fuck her lies and her bullshit stories, fuck her smile and her freckles, and the way she made him feel complete . . .
The frigid Scotland air stole whatever breath remained in Sam's lungs as he pushed his way through the door and into the night. There was snow beneath his booted feet but above him the sky was clear and sparkling with stars and Sam slowed, chin tipping up as his eyes automatically sought out the constellations. Cassiopeia, the beautiful and vain Queen of Ethiopia, forever chained to her throne in punishment for angering Poseidon . . .
"Sam?"
With his head tipped back, Sam allowed his eyes to drift closed - perhaps so he wouldn't be tempted to look at the woman behind him or maybe so the tears would stay where they were meant to be. "It's all true." It wasn't a question, the words spoken with a calm sort of resolution.
"Yes," Simone answered, her voice so soft that he nearly turned to look at her.
"Were you gonna tell me?"
"I meant to," she admitted. "I tried so many times but" - her voice broke on a shivery sob - "but I was so scared t'lose you that every time I tried the words wouldn't come . . ."
Sam's eyes blinked open and he turned to find her standing with her arms crossed, her bare skin prickled with goosebumps and her breath fogging in the cold. There were mascara tinted tears on her cheeks, her eyes shining with moisture yet to be shed, and she looked so lost and alone that he found himself stepping closer and holding out her jacket so he wouldn't pull her into his arms instead. So he wouldn't forgive her.
Simone reached for it, wrapping it around her shoulders as she swore, "I'll tell you everything, Sam. Every little bit - I promise."
His hand fell back to his side and he shook his head, anger tightening his features. "Save it, Simone," he ground out. "I've heard enough." And for the second time that night, he turned away from her and walked away.
