Fangs.
Take It or Leave It.
And, if you'd like, relive the Mayhem.
Left to our own devices, we make The Return.
A quiet night in late summer finds Sissy walking back to her dorm with a small smile and an armload of books. The books have become a sort of portable desk; on the uppermost one she's slipped a page of vocabulary, which she mouths to herself as she reads. She looks to be in good spirits--a much more common finding now that she's back in the States among entirely mortal company, so far as she knows--clean, her damp hair tied back with a raspberry ribbon, clothes a little wrinkled but well-kept.
Jace's pentagram is long missing from her neck.
Quiet? Well, we'll see what we can do about that.
As she walks, the normal night sounds are unsettled by hushed but harsh tones. Words are not distinguishable at first, but as she approaches the English building, bits and pieces of whispered conversation become apparent. "...best you tell me...not the worst you're going to be... I don't--bull shit. ...one more time...who...?"
She glances that way, uneasily. Her head never turns perceptibly, still canted towards her books, but her eyes are looking, searching. Still walking.
In her searching she will find two figures--men. One is backed up against the wall of the building, pinned, shirt collar bunched up in the other's fists. If one were to look closely, they'd see that his feet were barely touching the ground. Faces aren't clear, but the aggressor may seem familiar--
A punch is thrown. More threat filled whispers. The victim spits out blood, a tooth maybe. Shakes his head, and gets hit again, this time in the stomach. Gasping, choking, gurgling, and still the whispers, promising to deal out more violence if--
It takes Sissy only a pair of steps more before she stalls, backpedals. She's ducked under the eaves of the library, eyes wide. She pauses a moment, maybe to think, maybe just to be frightened. Then her books are swiftly set down, and a hand goes to each hip; from one side a cartridge is slipped out, from the other her cell, which she flips open one-handed, punching in three numbers with her thumb. Holding both out at her sides, clearly visible but neither aimed, she takes a step forward. Her mouth opens--no sound for a second or two, until she summons up a yell. "The hell is going on?"
Ah, Sissy. Idiotic do-gooder as always.
Both men snap to attention.
Several things happen at once.
Something akin to shock washes over Jace as he hears that voice--her voice, feels her aura, her fear, causing him to momentarily loosen both his physical and mental grip on the stubborn low life who--
Blip A blank space, a place to take a breath, to stretch, to--
Low Life takes the opportunity to apparate away from Jace's clutches. He doesn't get very far, he doesn't have enough strength for it, but he manages to make it to where the girl stands--
Empty hands. Bloody fuck. Jace whirls around, knowing where his mistake has led himthemher before he sees. The bastard has grabbed her from behind, put his sharpened nails to her throat, fangs extending to further drive his point home. He can hear the questioning voice of the 911 operator blurting stupidly from the fallen phone. "Hello? What is your emergency? Can you hear me? Hel--"
Low Life steps on the phone, crushing it, silencing the bewildered woman on the other end. "Now..." He's breathing heavily, unnecessarily. He's new blood, new to the night. He hasn't completely shed those human habits. His voice trembles a little; he's afraid, yes indeed. "...now the tables have turned haven't they?"
"Let her go, Dane." Wasted words, stupid words, but he has to try. He didn't want to kill this guy, he knows too much, but--
"No." He's shaking his head. "No...you have to drop the--"
"I can't do that." He can't look at her either, not like this.
"I'll kill her." One claw-like nail drags across her neck, drawing a thin line of blood.
That copper smell fills the air...
Jace doesn't flinch...but it takes most of his will power to keep from acting. To stand idle. To wait. Goddammit, how did this happen?
Then he does look at her--makes eye contact--for the first time in three years and feels...what? Sympathy? Compassion? Something stirring in the ashes left by the flame that died ages ago? Does it matter now?
"Give me the blood," Dane says, holding out his free hand. It's visibly shaking.
Jace's hand goes to his pocket, feels the shape of little vial under the fabric. He couldn't, wouldn't, but he does. Reaches inside, pulls it out, considers. Touches it with his mind. Nothing. Still nothing. A blank slate. Goddess be damned.
Jace tosses the vial to Dane, straight out of options, straight out of luck.
Dane catches it, pockets it. There's a pause--long enough that Jace worries that he might actually try--
Dane shoves Sissy forward, into Jace, and disapparates out of sight.
Jace is overcome--with relief, with frustration, with the familiar scent of her skin--
Her eyes, when he met them first, were a red-rimmed mix-- Terror. Anger. Disbelief and apology.
Disbelief won.
In Dane's grip she was motionless, nearly silent. There was no glance to the crackling of her phone under Dane's foot. No flinch as his nails dug in. The faintest of whimpers as blood was drawn. Fear did and does radiate from her, pulsing through her aura in waves, but it carries with it an odd rider; there is something dead, something numb in the feeling. There is a learned response. A familiarity.
And then she is shoved--she stumbles into Jace, and is motionless again. Every muscle is tensed, it seems, fingers curled into fists; one is empty, one is still gripping the cartridge. Just as she was in the arms of one, she is in the other's.
As they collide, one ragged breath in through her mouth, one tear out, flashing down her cheek, lost in the cloth of his collar.
A moment of limbo--
The same tension that resides in Sissy's body is also present within Jace's. He stands stock still, his arms poised just over her shoulders in indecision.
Sensation becomes him: Her breath at the base of his neck; the warmth radiating from her body; her pulse, still fluttering a little too fast.
Life.
Her life
in his hands
again.
Shit.
"Sissy, I...I'm sorry." Because it's all he can think to say.
--pulled back--
Approaching voices. Tension multiplies itself by ten, then releases again. Drunken college kids, that's all it is, but it brings things back into focus.
He reaches out, searching for Dane. Close by, but not presently a threat. Still, it's probably best if...
"Let me...take you somewhere else."
As he draws back so does she, quickly, arms crossing over her torso as though in self-comfort or defense. "Like hell you're taking me anywhere," she snaps, voice still carrying that flutter of fear. Her eyes dart away from him. She is looking for something. She's waiting for it.
He didn't think they would sting this badly, her first words to him--oh, he knew they weren't going to be friendly, had long known that. He'd thought on it many a time, more than he'd like to admit. Seeing her again. Playing a thousand different reunions through...
But he'd never conjured a situation to match this.
He begins to weave a careful response. "I can't just leave you he..." Then he notices her unease--not just residual, but still very real, and his muscles tighten again. "What? What is it?"
As he tenses, she straightens up, slowly, never ceasing to search. She is left standing stiffly, hands tucked under her elbows. Elbows that suddenly have another pair of hands cupping them. She sees them, has one moment to lift her eyes to Jace's in an expression of miserable apology before the hands clasp tight. They are slender but strong; the silver rings on the fingers bite into Sissy's skin every so slightly as Nahallad squeezes her arms.
His face is angled to her cheek, to her neck as though he might equally kiss or bite. He does neither, though; with his sharp eyes on Jace's, he says softly, mockingly, "Who made my little girl afraid?"
As soon as his mouth opens, Sissy's eyes squeeze closed again, tight, without looking away from Jace's. There is a swirl of fear through her aura again, making Nahallad punctuate his words with a pleased hum.
Jace's eyes widen momentarily as Nahallad's aura creeps upon him, suddenly envelopes him. Stronger than before...
But still easily taken care of.
There is a shift of weight, like he intends to step forward, lunge, kill the bastard where he stands--
No.
You let her go. This was bound to happen. You knew it.
You knew it.
His nails bite into his palms.
He uncoils his fingers. Relaxes. Resigns.
No, he really hadn't imagined this at all.
"I see," he says. He doesn't give Nahallad the satisfaction of proper eye contact, proper acknowledgment. When he speaks, it's to Sissy, no one else. "You're already taken care of."
It could be described as a lash to the face, her panic at that. Only that one lash, though. It's quelled to a quiet upwelling of something like grief, as Nahallad turns his attention to her.
His attention, in the form of his nails dug into her arms, an idle lick to taste the blood at her neck.
A quiet, smooth laugh, a soft but audible murmur.
"Ah, such misery. You are embarrassed for him to see you like this, mm?" Her presence turns sullen, resentful for a second, a second only.
There is a trickle of blood down one arm from beneath Nahallad's nails.
She flinches away, he shakes her roughly.
She falls quiet. And he looks up.
"She's learned obedience, in your absence."
"One could argue against that." He's being cruel, he knows that, but can't stop the loaded words that spill forth. His mind feels blown apart, torn in several different directions, and he's being pulled fowardbackwardssidewaysdiagonally towards all of them.
She no longer concerns--he's hurting--your priorities lie with--blood running down--don't pretend that you still love--probably fucking her--should have killed him when I had--do not waste your--so easy to kill--Dane is still--she needs--involvement will compromise--help--
Eyes closed against her pain, he gives a heavy sigh. Yes, he will help her, if she wants it. Not now, but later, when he gets his head on straight. It will complicate things, pull parts of him forward that he needed to keep buried, but he can't ignore this.
Call it pity. Call it love. Call it a fucking selfish need for redemption. It didn't much matter.
He looks at Nahallad now, calm and without expression; a rejection to Nahallad's desire for confrontation. "Then again, I've always been soft when it comes to females." A strange and empty smile touches his lips. His voice is even, cold. "I apologize for my intrusion, it was only..."
But underneath the ice, there runs a warm current. He slips a shield over her mind, one that Nahallad can't sense. Voice overlaps voice--though only whispered, the words in her head are somehow much louder than those spoken.
An address, a hotel.
A room number.
A name.
Find me.
"...so I'll be on my way."
Exeunt.
Well, perhaps he was right, perhaps it wasn't sheer obedience that she's been beaten into--mediated with a dose of good acting?
Acting, maybe, that prompts her to lurch against Nahallad's grip at Jace's last words, a whimper and a desperate attempt to break free, to change hands. Unsuccessful, of course, and as she's left alone with Nahal, he laughs, spins her to face him. With one hand rising to her throat, the scene begins to look reminiscent of another.
Except Nahallad doesn't need to grab her collar. Doesn't need to hold her against the wall.
He only needs the words. The threats, in an almost sultry murmur.
Her head lowers submissively. Turns to the side as he runs his thumb up along her throat. He leans in.
It's a much-shaken vision that appears outside Jace's door scarcely three hours later. Long sleeves and shaking hands, despite the warm evening. A trickle of dried blood at the corner of her mouth, the lower lip swollen.
Trembling eyelids keep her eyes half-closed, deep breaths keep her chest heaving.
She knocks.
The door opens almost immediately.
He stops cold at the sight of her.
Again, the surge of emotion: Anger. Above all else. At himself, at Nahallad, and at her too, because he had warned her, told her...
But it ends there. With her. With her trembling frame. She looks up at him, her suffering naked on her face, and all his ire is extinguished.
His face softens. He stands back to let her in.
For once, he has nothing to say.
He waits for her move.
He doesn't have to wait long. She slips in, quickly, eyes falling away from his. She hunts for a seat. An armchair, the floor--although she seems particularly wary of the bed. Generic hotel armchair it is. She folds her legs up underneath her; her shorts betray them to be lean, muscular, unharmed. The arms that fold overtop them, though, encased in white sleeves--who knows. They betray one thing only: a scrap of dark cloth tied around one wrist.
That wrist rises so she can wipe her eyes. "I'm sorry," she grits, voice making it clear that she's holding back tears and anger.
Jace shuts the door and sits across from her on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees. Quietly, "What happened? I thought you were in London."
She looks up to him, eyes red-rimmed, half surprised, half sullen. "Fayth didn't tell you?" (She stumbles on the name a little.) "Did--did you expect me to be happy in London, to want to stay? After lying to my family about why I was going, so I could hole up with three psychos, so they could 'keep an eye' on me?" Her voice is always quiet, but her tone is spiraling high before she catches it. The words have been a long time in coming. She wipes her eyes again; her voice calms to stuffiness. "I came home. To get--get away--from... all of it."
From his kind, from his memory--left unspoken.
"A lot of good that did you."
It's out before he can catch it, and he immediately curses his slippery tongue. Yes, he's still angry at her, but really, what had be expected? Had he really thought he could just move these people around like pawns in a chess game? That they would all stick to the poorly and hastily written script he had left for them to follow?
You're a fool if you did.
Yeah. He knows it now.
He pinches the space between his eyes, and sighs.
"No...Sissy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean... Ah, hell, I just wanted you to be safe. Never to be unhappy. It just seemed to be the
(easiest)
best answer. It...never occurred to me that you'd leave." He looks to the floor, that same empty smile gracing his features again. "I haven't talked to Fayth, Sissy. Not since I left." The words come out like a confession. No, he never really wanted to cut himself off from everyone he knew, to pretend indifference, but that's where he kept ending up. What was that? A shitty excuse for a defense mechanism? He didn't know.
His next words spill out of him in a rush of regret.
"God, I really should have. I just thought--if I had known--maybe then..."
His gaze runs over every visible injury to her body. He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to.
Her eyes are on her lap as she listens, every line of her body bent in towards herself. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. "Nothing did me any good. He knew where I was even in London." And, more softly, "And I left London two years ago. You--you were my only link to... that world. And when you left I didn't want another."
She's set another trap for him to fall in to, but this time he manages to hold his tongue.
Instead he simply asks: "How long have you been with him?"
It's that mix again, fear anger sadness. She stops running her tongue over the inside of her lip, meets his eyes. "I am not with him," she says, and with such venom that she almost spits the words.
The poison in her voice causes him to wince a little, but he doesn't bother making a fix. "You know what I mean."
She turns her head to the side, and snorts. Maybe that's short for 'apology accepted.' She shifts, hugs her legs to her chest. Her voice softens in volume and tone. "A few months after you left, he started showing up outside the apartment."
He looks up in surprise.
"Did Fayth know about this?"
Her arms tighten. Her jaw clenches. "Not that I'm aware."
Brows knit together. Strange...
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Her fingers shift and resettle along her shins. She doesn't look back at him.
Her softest yet:
"Said he'd--hurt--us. Me. Her."
There it is again--the anger,the frustration--building to a scream...
He closes his eyes, rubbing slowly at his temples with index finger and thumb, trying to ease the pressure that has settled behind his skull.
Somehow he manages to keep his voice even. "Sissy...Fayth could have handled it. That's why I left you in her care. So she could keep...this from happening."
She throws her hands up, anger and frustration finding an outlet there. "Sure. I'll tell her, and then let him snatch me away the next time he sees me. What was she going to do about it, follow me around at school all day?"
Disbelief breaks out across his face.
She doesn't get it.
It hits him like a fist to the face.
Not at all.
But hadn't he told her before...? He didn't remember. He tests the waters.
"Sissy...Nahallad's threats, they were practically empty. He couldn't have 'snatched' you, not without having to answer for it later."
She stares. Disbelief in equal measure. "Sure. If you could find me, after he hid me somewhere and drained me dry--or--whatever." The faintly nauseated revulsion that passes over her face suggests that Nahallad gave that 'whatever' a definition.
No, she really didn't get it.
Goddess be damned.
"He wouldn't have taken that chance. Sissy, I thought you realized..." He shakes his head. "This is my fault, I should have explained before, I just thought--there are, we have certain codes---guidelines, we--" He stops. Closes his eyes. Finds focus.
This doesn't happen to him often, this road block that lodges itself between his brain and his mouth, turning his usual well-spoken no-nonsense English into little more than a muddled mess. But it always seems to happen when he needs the right words the most.
She is not going to like what he has to say. Maybe that is why he never told her. He had never thought of her as his inferior, his possession, but in vampiric common law, that is how she, a mortal, fit in.
Like it or not--focused or not--he pushes on.
"When you were with me Sissy, you were mine. That's why he backed off--that first time. I --gave--you with Fayth because she's my--she's in my bloodline, it kept your connection to me intact. But even if she wasn't mine, no one--we...don't violate that claim. If he had...taken you--with Fayth as your keeper, she--I--could have justifiably killed him without question."
He pauses, then quietly: "He was trying to push you away from her--break that bond. Once you left..." He falls quiet. There is no need to spell out the outcome.
She turns her face away. Refusal. Negation.
"You weren't there. He would've killed me a long time before you'd even know I was gone."
It's almost palpable, someone else's tone in those words.
He recognizes this, but his patienceresolvecomposure is wearing thin. It is a struggle to keep his voice even. "But Fayth was. And he had no way of knowing that she wasn't in contact with me. Don't you understand? It would have been like suicide. He wouldn't have tried to--taken you, not if he wanted to stay alive."
Doesn't look back his way. Things are sinking in, perhaps? Reaches up to run her sleeve under her nose again. Her wrist is bruised.
Softly. Shakily. "Nobody tells me these things."
Head in hands. "I know...I should have--I just assumed...God, Sissy, I'm sorry." The words sound stupid to him, empty. Useless. But what else was there to say?
She grins a little, humorlessly. "I am too." A pause. There is nothing else to say. And then, curious, "What were you beating the shit out of that guy for?"
His eyes peek through his fingers and stare blankly in her direction, the scattered brain behind them trying to process the sudden subject change. Rewind, pause, review footage, report: "Oh...that was--he works for someone we're trying to get."
Her eyes aren't there for his to meet, and she snorts, softly. "Sorry I interrupted. I think." There's a bit of irony in her voice. And, without malice, "Who the hell is 'we'?"
He hesitates. He shouldn't be telling her any of it, not really.
You've kept so much from her already.
He knows.
You owe her.
Yes. But will it do her any good to know any of this? Or will it just bring her more trouble?
Despite the questions, he answers, but cautiously, without details:
"Me...my masters...a few others they've sired, employed."
She looks back, raises a brow. "Your masters."
"Yes." A beat. "My...father. And his brother."
Nods. Drowsily, cautiously, "What are they like?"
He smiles a little, perhaps even a little genuinely. "Old." And then it slips away, like it had never graced his face at all. "Aiden---my father---is..." But how did you put it into words? Being in the presence of that kind of power? "...it's hard to take him in, at first. He's...the first--the first of our kind."
That takes a moment to sink in. It's understood, oh certainly, but hard to believe. "You're kidding. The first."
He nods. His voice has remained mostly monotone; it betrays nothing of admiration or reverence. "After a while, you forget I guess. I mean--when it comes down to it--he's just a tired old man. Reserved...detached." A beat "Cold."
"His brother, Cein, he's..." He chuckles, but with little humor. "Unhinged."
She shifts again, letting her feet drop to the floor. Exposed. Pulls her knees up again, drapes her arms over them. She is uneasy, silent.
"I don't like dealing with him--don't trust him. Aiden...doesn't seem to either. There's a great amount of tension when they converse--I'm always afraid..." He shakes his head, not following the thought through. "They just tend to...disagree."
Again, he stops. Looks to the ceiling. Out the window. Fiddles with the rings on his fingers. Stop and go. Stop and go. Like a car on its last legs: stalling, then sputtering to life, then stalling once more.
Once he has ignition again, he continues: "It's strange, living with them--him. It's like...being stuck in time--no, separate from time--everything. Like he's..." He searches for the words. "...like he's carved out his own private space of undefined antiquity. But...he's not unfamiliar with the modern world--he's quite knowledgeable, really. He's just...denied it, I suppose. Or simply stopped trying to keep up." He lets out a sorry excuse for a laugh. "I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to say, or tell you...or if it even makes sense to you at all."
She pulls into herself a little more yet, mostly accomplished by laying her cheek down on her arms, face aimed away from him. At her softest yet:
"I don't care."
His attention snaps to her, eyes wide and brows raised in apparent surprise at her bluntness. When her eyes don't seek his, he drops his own back to the floor. He smiles a little at the carpet. "That's probably for the better," he says.
There's a silence--no telling how long--but in that time Jace's mind winds its way back to the subject of Nahallad. Did she want him to help her? He honestly didn't know. But why else had she come here? He wasn't sure if he should open the subject again, if he should ask to step in. He wasn't her knight in shining armor any more. But so what? He could still...
His voice makes the venture: "Sissy..." He looks back up at her, wanting her to look at him. "Do you want me to...do you want my help? With Nahallad?"
This prompts a particularly deep and shuddery breath which seems to have been building for awhile. Her cheek stays pressed to her arm; the arm beneath both works itself free so she can drag her sleeve over her eyes. The damp cloth peels back. Puncture marks.
The next breath leaves as a spoken sob. "I don't care if you bury him alive. I never want to see that bastard again."
This, of course, is exactly what he wanted to hear.
Unfortunately, it isn't that simple.
Easy, yes. The anger that flares up inside him at the sight of the bite marks is proof of that. It is hard to resist the temptation to jump to immediate action, hunt him down, corner him, crush his skull, rip his throat out, break every--
But no. Yes, very easy indeed, but never that simple.
The rules are working against him now.
"Okay," he says. "I'll...do the best I can."
Some knight.
Shut up.
"I'm just going to need some time, to sort through my--our--options, and..." Hesitation, because the next question is equally difficult for him to ask as it will be for her to answer. "...and I need to know the exact nature of your...ties to him. To get a better idea of what I can--and cannot--do. I know--I know this is a hell of a thing to ask, but it's...very important."
She does look up this time, sniffing once, shoving away the urge for tears with a change in position. She sets her back into an inside corner of the armchair, facing towards the door, arms crossed over her chest. Protectively, rather than in anger. "Ties?" She sounds almost bewildered, addressing the door now. Her arms uncross. One finger hooks through the rolled scrap of cloth at her wrist, yanks violently. The weakened threads part with a snap, and she drops them to the floor with her fingertips and with disdain.
"There's one gone."
He watches this, puzzled. "You mean--that was...?" He reaches for it, tentatively picks it up. There is the strong scent of her blood (he swallows the sudden wave of hunger), but even that is overpowered by the trace Nahallad has left; it seethes with him. Jace fights the shiver that wants to crawl down his spine.
Parlor tricks.
That's what he was using to hold her. Powerful parlor tricks, but parlor tricks nonetheless.
"Do you know how he did this, exactly?"
Eyes anxious, looking for his, looking for answers. She shakes her head. "He knew last time I took it off," she murmurs.
He nods. Typical. "He won't this time--I mean, he'll probably sense something is wrong, but he won't be able to trace it here." His gaze finds hers, grateful for the eye contact. Bit by bit, he's regaining his composure. Sorting out his thoughts. Pulling himself together. Turning on the autopilot?
"So you don't know how this was done...damn." He rubs the fabric absently with his thumb, consciously with is mind. Quietly, speaking more to himself than to her. "He probably soaked it in his own blood, then gave it to you to use as a tourniquet to complete the bond..." Then, to her: "What else is there?"
Her gaze is intense after all her inattention. "He just tied it around my wrist," she murmurs, then seems to shake herself. "No, there's not much else. He never made me drink from him or anything."
He looks down at the tattered cloth in his hands. "This...is it?" A pseudo blood bond. And why not a genuine one? What held him back?
"Never? Do you have any idea why?"
It's a combination of a humorless grin and a grimace, and surely not all the sting in it is from her fat lip. "Yeah. Said he wouldn't waste it on me." Didn't need to either, evidently.
Was he really that arrogant?
The pressure is building again, pressing persistently against his skull. It is unbelievable: literally nothing stands between Sissy and her freedom, and yet a thousand obstacles lay in the way, leaving only roundabout routes, many of which are probably streets to nowhere.
Deals. Duels. Pleas. Offerings.
He turns each frustrating possiblity over in his head, while his fingers do the same with the cool gold pendant that hangs around his--
"Wait. Sissy, do you still have the necklace I gave you?"
She's waiting for him to speak, and she nods. She nods a little too eagerly at first, until the gesture is tempered by a hint of guilt. "Yeah. Not on me."
The pressure begins to clear.
He smiles. "Then you're as good as mine.
"I can't believe I forgot about it.
"I did it for more symbolic reasons than anything else--I didn't really consider its protective potential until this whole thing with Nahallad started--but I put a binding spell on the necklace before I gave it to you. It's something commonly done among the Ravens, among witches...little "love charms" put on gifts given to lovers, to children, to family...granted, its power has most likely waned since we...separated, but the spell is permanent, unless the object is deliberately abandoned.
"You didn't throw it away.
"So...the bond still exists."
Oh, definitely guilt this time, chin tucking towards her chest. "Really...? Even if I--haven't worn it in..." Years.
Now it's his turn to nod a little too eagerly. "Yes. " He smiles a little--a little sad, a little strange. Sad, because most of the bonds between them have been broken. Strange, because the one that matters hasn't, and not-so-simple has suddenly become very easy, making his thoughts take a turn for the murderous--
Keep your head.
Right. Find out what she wants.
"I suppose now...it's only a matter of how you want me to deal with him."
Smoothly: "It's not my place to interfere in--the politicking of your kind. Whatever you want." Her feet finally come to rest on the floor, leaving her sitting upright, exposed. Her sleeves are resolutely pulled up to her knuckles, hands and gaze on her lap.
Surprise, but he gets over it. He nods. "Where can I find him?"
A snort, accompanied with a glance of dry amusement cast up from her lap for just a moment. "With me. If you wait, he'll come."
He shakes his head. "Not here. But we can leave..." He looks her over, taking in her injuries again. "...but maybe you should...rest, first. Take care of your wounds--"
--his hand twitches at his side, resisting the urge to reach out to her, gently wipe away the blood that stains the skin beneath her lips--
--get some sleep, maybe."
What's this, the white knight rears his head again?
Maybe so. Either way--
"It's up to you."
An admission of weakness--she reaches up to rub at her eyes. "It has to be past midnight now. He--he won't come, if I'm here? With you?"
His expression softens. "No. He won't." Every instinct pushes him to hold her, comfort her the way he would have before.
And somehow, he pushes every instinct aside.
"Let's...clean you up a little, okay?" He gets up, reaches a hand out to her, a gesture he might regret--
She flinches ever so subtly. An open hand, though.
She reaches to take it.
It's only a tenuous brush of her fingers at first, and then she takes hold, pulling herself to her feet.
--but doesn't.
He leads her into the bathroom, and the white knight goes to work.
Cleans her up, gives her ice, medicinal herbs, a bandage for her wrist. At times, things get uncomfortably intimate
(tentatively running his aloe-coated fingers over her lips)
but they get through it. Really, he's just glad to be helping her. To be making things right again--in some ways, anyhow.
Back in the main room again, they are faced with another uncomfortable line--
(i'm here with you)
--of thought: sleeping arrangements.
Again, that trusty white knight comes forward: "You can...take the bed. If you want it."
She slips by him, slips off her shoes, unceremoniously undresses the bed with her free hand. The other is holding the ice to her lip, though she pulls it away to speak. "You can take it too, for all I care. Nahallad did it all the time."
In she crawls, and far over, too--leaving him plenty of room, with her back to him.
"Seriously," her voice floats up, muffled slightly this time by the ice.
Again, surprise--perhaps a little closer to shock, almost enough to chase away any anger ignited by the images of Nahallad and her--
He hesitates, then, "Alright." A beat. "Thanks. I'll be...just a minute." He's still in his boots, so he sits down to undo the laces, pull them off his feet. Strips off his jewelry, his shirt. Removes his belt. Retreats to the bathroom to wash his face...
A phone begins to ring.
He stiffens. "Fuck." Still drying his face off with one of the too-white hotel towels, he comes back into the main room, eyes searching for--
Ring-- ring--
On the night stand. He answers. "Hello? --no, no. Not tonight, I-- No, I'm fine, I can do without--" His back is to her (he's had ink done there, between his shoulder blades--a pentagram surrounded in runic script), but that does little to hide the fact that the voice issuing from the phone is female... "Something has come up. ...yes, something like that. I'm sorry, I'm sure there are other-- Maybe. We'll see... No, I'll contact you. Right. Good night." He hangs up.
Shoulders sagging, he risks a glance back over his shoulder, something like guilt on his face.
Could her timing have been any worse?
Then again he had completely forgotten--didn't notice--what is she thinking right now--the witching hour had come and gone without much--will she ask will she care--goddammit, it's not--
Her fingers shift and resettle on her shoulder--she's crossed her arms over her chest--and she's in the process of slowly sinking down into the mattress again, having startled violently when the phone rang.
She doesn't look back. Doesn't ask.
His business. She's only a guest here, after all.
He relaxes somewhat when no inquiry comes, though one wouldn't call it relief, exactly--some part of him wishes that she had cared enough to ask.
Setting his cell aside, he mutters a quiet apology and climbs into bed.
Here's to another sleepless night.
Cheers.
Sleepless for him, maybe. She shakes her head to his apology, and her last move before sleep is to reach back with her bandaged wrist, loosing the ribbon that's doggedly holding most of her hair back still. The faint scent of some minty shampoo rises as her hair spills free onto the pillow, a few strands drifting over towards his side of the bed. She never does drop the ribbon, and falls asleep with it tangled in her fingers.
It's only then, really, that her body relaxes. She's a light sleeper--is that a new development?--but exhaustion confines her unease to the occasional twitch.
He senses that the sleep that settles over her is thin, so he lies perfectly--almost impossibly--still, so as not to wake her. Sleeping with a vampire is like sleeping with the dead, but, as he knows now, this is no news to her.
Though his body resists movement, his mind is almost maddeningly restless. The wheels turn for hours--
--drain him dry--
and hours--
--run my fingers through her hair and--
and hours--
--can't find any trace, but how--
and hours.
Sleep finally overcomes him with the rising sun.
It isn't so very many hours later that her eyes flicker beneath their lids, and then open. She's rolled over exactly once in her sleep, away from the light coming in the window. And thus, when she opens her eyes, there he is in front of her--her fingertips mere millimeters from his arm.
She's still for a moment.
Then she sits up halfway, rubs her eyes, looks over him to check the time on the generic alarm clock. 9:00. No class 'til two today.
Her next move is to fluff the pillow and prop it up against the headboard, sinking stiffly back onto it. Her hands fold over her stomach. She glances to him again.
At first there is nothing, not even the rise and fall of his chest. Then he cracks an eye open, looks in her direction, then shuts it again. "Morning." His voice drags a bit from lack of sleep. "Sleep well?"
He gets a small, reflexive smile for the proof he isn't entirely dead. "Morning," she croaks. She clears her throat. "Did you sleep?" That seems to be her answer.
A small, creeping smile. "Not really." He turns his head to look up at her, stubbled face appearing possibly paler than the night before. "How's your lip?"
She puts her hand to it, pulls it away as though expecting to find blood on the fingers. None, of course. "Hurts. He wears rings." It's starting to bruise.
To this, he has nothing to say.
He sits up and rubs at his eyes. As he begins to get to his feet he says, "I suppose we should change those bandages on your..." but the rest is lost to a moan. A hand going to his head, he sways a little before slowly sitting back down again.
Running on empty...
Fuck.
Her sigh sounds--exasperated in some measure. There's the scrape of cloth as she rolls up her sleeve.
He looks over his shoulder, eyes settling on the freshly bared flesh. Quickly, he turns away--but not quickly enough to hide his elongated fangs.
"No. I'll..." What? Starve?
Don't be stupid.
But he already had been. It had been two days, and with a good night's sleep he could have easily gone three, but without...
He could call--but no, she's attending to her day job. And he couldn't leave Sissy alone...
He curses under his breath. "Sissy, I don't want to--" But he's going to anyways, because he knows she will offer again, and he can't turn it down.
Definitely exasperated. Irritated, even. "For fuck's sake, Jace. You see anybody else hanging around to bite?" It's her clean wrist, though further up her forearm is a clear thumbprint bruise. And it's offered up with limply curled fingers as she turns her head to the side.
Like a slap in the face. She was right, of course; he just hated to think that she was paying for his stupidity once again.
Without saying anything, he slides closer to her. One hand gently grasps her forearm, raising her wrist to his lips; the other tentatively reaches out, wraps around, touches the nape of her neck, the base of her skull.
Relax.
Though that's not quite right. There's no verbal command, just a soothing hum, a calming warmth that radiates from where his fingers lie to the rest of her body.
When his fangs pierce her skin, she feels no pain.
...He pulls away from her, but not all at once. Tongue drags across her skin. Fingers slip down her neck. The hum fades away...
As he wipes her blood from the corner of his mouth with a thumb, his eyes seek hers, an apology tangled in a thank you in his gaze.
The wounds on her wrist are already starting to heal.
Quietly: "You okay?"
It wasn't what she was expecting. She'd even been holding her breath, emotion held down to a practiced null--the hum is an uncomfortable prickle until she breathes again in a soft gasp, lets the fear leak out to meet it and be submerged.
She is pale when he pulls away. She meets his eyes, that tawny brown coalescent with gold drawing hers, coaxing them to focus.
"Yeah," she murmurs, reaching to catch his fingers, press them briefly before her hand drops limp to the bed. Her eyelids flicker.
"Good." The color is returning to his complexion. Her touch is brief, but long enough for him to take notice, maybe even pin some significance to...
But he shouldn't be thinking about that right now.
He didn't think he had taken enough to make her faint. Still, he watches her with a careful eye. "Perhaps you should eat something? I don't have anything with me, but they serve breakfast in the lobby. I could bring you something up."
She lets her eyes fall closed slowly. She looks familiar with this, swallowing hard once, carefully timing her next few breaths. Between them, she says, tone even, "Orange juice. Water. And a muffin."
He is out the door and back fairly quickly, juice and pastry in hand. He fills one of the generic hotel mugs from the tap.
How nice. Breakfast in bed for your lady fair.
Yeah. Whatever.
"Do you need anything else?"
The orange juice is the first to go, and quickly. She sips the water at a more sedate pace. "Shit, Jace, you don't have to wait on me," she murmurs, but her thanks is in a faint smile, the way the lines disappear around her slitted eyes. "M'fine." Still too pale. But playing it off well.
Still watchful. "It's no trouble," he says, because at this point, he'll make amends--no matter how small--whenever and however he can.
God, this was all so absurd--like Alice's mad tea party, only without the tea. Just blood and orange juice. He fights the laugh that threatens to escape from his throat.
Damn, I need sleep.
But that would have to wait. They have things to do, people to kill...
He swallows another chuckle. Honestly, he doesn't know if that is really his intent, probably won't know until he meets the bastard again--whenever that may be. However, there are definitely things that need to be done, determined, decided. And so, the inquiries begin: "Do you...have anywhere you need to be today? Class?"
She allows a substantial pause--deep breaths. When the wave of nausea has passed-- "Yeah. Class at two. And three thirty." Another sip. "I'm--inclined to ask you to come with me."
Oh yes. Very absurd.
"I was actually going to ask you to skip them...but if you feel you have to go, I'll go with you." He looks to the clock. 9:30. Plenty of time, enough to-- "I think I need to take a nap though." There's a hint of embarrassment in his voice, but he continues, "Then I'd like to find that necklace. Things will probably go smoother if you have it on you..."
She nods. "I--I'm going. To class."
Making demands is unwise, Sissy--
She swallows again. "It's in my dorm. We can get it later. Take a nap."
She doesn't look like she's going anywhere, either, though she does shift back over to her side of the bed more firmly.
He nods. "Alright. Thanks." He lies down again, but he's still watching her with a critical eye. She's exhibiting normal symptoms, really, but-- "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine." Her tone is softened slightly by a faint grin, eyes still closed.
"Okay." He reaches over to the night stand, sets the alarm for 12:30, and settles down. Eyes close, mind drifts, darkness follows--
Beep--beep--beep--be--
His hand comes down hard on the snooze button. He lies there for a few seconds, debating whether or not he should enter into those vicious 9 minute sleep cycles. Then he remembers why he set it in the first place. Shutting the alarm off for good, he pulls himself completely from sleep's seductive arms and sits up with a groan that sounds a little like it starts with an "f" and ends with a "u-c-k." He glances over his shoulder at Sissy's form. Reaching out to gently touch her shoulder, he says, "Sissy...you awake?"
She grunts. One hand twitches, the fingers stretching out and curling in again. "Piss off," she murmurs. She reaches up to rub at her face, awkward in a half-awake state of clumsiness. She rolls towards him and curls up again resolutely.
His sentiments exactly.
He allows himself to chuckle, giving her another gentle shake. "I know, but we have--" Yawns. "...things we need to do." He gets up, and begins rummaging through his suitcase, retrieves a black t-shirt and pulls it on.
She grumbles and groans; a stretch turns her complaining into a momentary whine. When her eyes open she needs a moment to orient herself. She sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes and then running her fingers through her hair, still unbound and now mussed.
Jace is in the bathroom now, wetting his face to shave. He pauses to take in his reflection--neither absent or faded, as popular lore would like to have us believe--and finds that he doesn't look anywhere near as bad as he feels. But really, what had he expected? That a few shocks and one missed sleep cycle was going to mar his perfect and immortal beauty?
Ha. Yeah. Real funny.
He slathers the shaving cream on to his face. Straight razor removes it again. Washes it away. "You up?" he calls, then sticks his head out the door to check. She is, and she looks wonderfully dishelved.
What is it about women in the morning?
What is it about you and women?
Good question. Some things just don't shut off, no matter how inappropriate. It was crazy--all of it--but probably the craziest part was that, despite everything, he still wanted her, and he didn't know why. This silly little mortal girl,
(that's what they would say not you you've never thought)
what was so special about her? Why couldn't he ever let her go?
Why don't you stop being so damn melodramatic? She doesn't want you, not after this, so clear your fucking head, do your fucking job, and get the fuck out of her--
A yawn greets him, and a disjointed nod. It's so much worse this time, waking up from hours of dozing instead of deep sleep.
She digs her knuckles into her eyes.
And he gets to witness this, because suddenly her face is right beside his in the mirror. She cringes away from the light, the fluorescents making her skin a sickly pink. "Move," she grunts, flapping a hand towards the sink, smirking a little over her own surliness.
Jolted back to reality. Putting his thoughts away, he hurriedly steps aside and proceeds to busy himself with running a comb through his hair. "Feel free to borrow...anything. Or, I guess you could just get ready once we get to your dorm... How are you feeling?"
She tucks her hair over her shoulder, leaning over the sink to wet her face. Turning aside, she grabs the back of the towel hanging and wipes the water away, leaving two smudges of mascara on the white. She stares at them for a moment, lets the towel drop and fold around them. As she looks to him, she runs her fingers under her eyes, just in case there's any left to run. "Yeah. 'M alright. Sleep helps." She slips out again, showing him the back of her wrinkled shirt.
Watches those wrinkles depart, finishes up, and soon follows. Opening the closet, he selects a black dress shirt, pulls it on, and begins working on the buttons. "I take it we're going there directly?" And by that he means travel by apparition.
She looks up blankly from the sheets as she extracts her keys from where they must've fallen out in her sleep. "I wasn't planning on stopping anywhere, no."
"Alright. Start thinking about where you want us to end up..." He is sitting on the edge of the bed now, pulling on his boots. "And picture it as clearly as you can...because I've never been there before." Boot laces tied, he stands and adds the finishing touches--his jewelry and a few sharpened goodies he removes from the night stand's drawer (strapped on under his belt and high up on his forearm). When he's done, he says, "Ready when you are."