song_tra_bong | (no subject)

The door opens onto a dimly lit bar. Two men in suits sit at a table by the wall, speaking in low voices; they don't look up when Mary Anne and Ramon walk in.

Four men at the pool table in the back do look up, then go back to their game. Their rolled up sleeves show off jailhouse tattoos--tattoos that mean murderers, time served, rank in their organization. Just because they aren't staring openly doesn't mean they aren't paying attention. The fact that no one makes a fuss just yet over Ramon's machine gun is telling.

A waitress in a short skirt goes by with a tray, delivering drinks to the suits by the wall. Mary Anne heads for the bar, taking a seat that's a few stools over from the next man. She beckons the bartender over.

"Vodka for me and my friend," she says in flawless Russian. "And keep them coming. We're out on the town tonight."

The bartender shakes his head. "You picked a hell of place to come," he says, but pours the drinks all the same then wanders down to the customer at the other end of the bar.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Maybe--"

It's out of her mouth like a reflex, but he still has more to say. Her breath hitches and her weary acceptance of the status quo crumbles. From this close, he can probably feel her shudder.

She tilts her head, cheek not quite brushing his, but close enough for him to hear what she has to say, how rough her voice is when she says it.

"You are so fucking bad for my self control."

'Didn't know you had any.'

The problem is, he doesn't either. Renowned for it. But he's trying. Her shuddering when he says things like that doesn't help. Partly he wanted her to say I know but you can't. And she hasn't and now what?

I know, but you can't--the problem is, he can. And she wants him to. He just shouldn't, since it would pretty much end in disaster. Maybe if she were thinking more clearly--thinking at all--she'd have said something more diplomatic. But she didn't, so now what?

Now, she's busy trying to keep her breathing under control. She's mostly succeeding.

"It's not exactly a lot, but I get by."

She hasn't moved away from him, though. That's the next step. Hopefully.

He hasn't moved away either. He's waiting for her to do it. He keeps thinking she has to stop this and trying to think of Random but the problem with that is, everytime he does he remembers how absent he is.

So while he's waiting for her to move away he puts a hand on her leg and runs it smoothly up her thigh. It stops at the top - right at the top - and squeezes lightly.

'Perhaps you should use it now.'

Don't.

...no, do. Fuck.

Don't.

You've got to get out, you gotta get out, yougottagetout--

She wants to touch him back and she can't and it's all so goddamn frustrating she could cry.

You can't do this, not to him or to them or to Ciaran or you or--

but why can't I have what I want?

"I guess so."

She turns her head across that last scant distance and kisses him, hands reaching up to frame his face. She wants him paying attention to her, by God, to her for who she is, not just because she's convenient or he's lonely; she's memorizing this moment because she doesn't know when she'll get another, doesn't know if she'll get another but mostly she wants him to focus on her and this desperate, hungry needy kiss...

...so he won't notice when the noise of the club fades out and they're not sitting in that dark, plush booth any more, just on a half-frozen patch of ground out near the edge of the forest on the Milliways grounds.

The cold air on her skin lets her know she got it right, so she (ohgodwhatamIdoing) breaks (her heart) the kiss and stands up.

"I...I'm gonna go home now."

He kisses her back with everything he can muster right now, pressing her against him as much as he can, wanting so much just to get her clothes off and have a body against his again, anyone because he can't take it. Then he remembers that its her and not Random and she's kissing him and he moans softly into her mouth because they've been dancing round this forever and this is only the second time and might just be the last and he does really really want to fuck her.

And then it's freezing cold and she's breaking the kiss and moving away.

'OK.'

Shit. Yeah.

'OK.'

She folds her arms around herself, the posture having not a damn thing to do with the cold.

She nods jerkily. "So...so I'll see you around."

It comes out sounding much more like a question than she meant (than it should).

'Yeah.'

He waves a hand, half distracted, half irritated because he's wound so tight and now there's nowhere to go.

'Fuck it, we're always around aren't we?'

Aren't they? He turns away to glare over the lake.

'See you.'

"Yeah," she echoes.

"See you."

She heads back toward the building, but never makes it there. She doesn't want to see anyone she knows, doesn't want to have to deal with people, so between one step and the next, she's just gone.

She'll spend the next half hour sitting in the middle of her living room floor with her face in her hands. A cold shower will chase the redness from her eyes, among other things. She will not be better, but she will say she is well.