[Fic] Make You My Own
Matt wasn't exactly sure when it was that he realized fully what he had done. It certainly wasn't the minute the girl--woman, maybe, but she was so tiny it felt like walking next to a little girl--slipped her hand up his arm to tug on his sleeve and demand to be carried. It wasn't the moment she curled her arms around his neck and settled her head against his chest, and it wasn't the ensuing minutes during which her breath fell into time with his long strides. It definitely wasn't--couldn't have been--the moment he lay her down in his own bed--he never would have done something like that while sober. Maybe it was while he was making tea for himself--he no longer had a teapot, but he didn't much care until he was actually pouring the tea from his rarely-used kettle into a mug, and he realized what the hell he was doing.
Making tea. Tea. With a strange Rakshasa in his bed. A strange Rak who wasn't Katya, and who Matt had just taken home with him--carried her, actually. He was nuts. He was crazy. What was he thinking? He wasn't--not at the time, at least. He had been high, high as a kite in fact, and now without Katya's supervision he had fucked up. He was always doing that when she wasn't around to keep an eye on him--fucking up, killing someone just to make it through another day, and after he killed, fumbling around and generally almost getting himself killed. He had stumbled into a nest of archangels last week and barely escaped with his life. Clearly this week it was bring a random tiny killing demon home with him.
She wasn't sane, either. Matt could argue that none of the Raks he had known were sane, but this girl wasn't just a few fries short of a Happy Meal. She didn't have fries with her Happy Meal, or a burger--all she really had was a tiny toy of bubbling incoherency wrapped in plastic. And he had carried her home with him.
She was still asleep, though she wasn't sleeping well by any stretch of the imagination. She was tossing and turning noisily, the sheets wrapped around her thin legs, her dark, matted hair swept across her eyes. She cried out, a bark of senseless noise as she struck the mattress with tiny stained fists. She whimpered and rolled over, muttering under her breath so Matt could barely hear her: "No, no, no."
Matt leaned forward on the kitchen counter, watching her intently. If he squinted and didn't look right at her, she almost looked like Katya. Almost. It would be there for just a second--a glimmer, a hopeful moment--but then she would turn over and Katya would be gone, again and again until Matt couldn't take it any more. He stood up quickly and stormed across the small kitchenette, slamming his mug still half-full with tea into the sink, turning on the faucet with a bang and letting the water run while he leaned against the counter, hands gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles went white and breathing heavily. The water filled the mug and splashed over, circling down the drain.
She was gone. She was dead, for all he knew. She was dead and she wasn't coming back--couldn't come back. And it was stupid of him to try to replace her, however drunk on a kill he had been when he carried this other girl home. She was dead. Katya was dead.
"I need a drink," Matt muttered to himself. He knelt to retrieve a bottle of particularly cheap whiskey, but stopped when he heard the crack of thunder, the pouring of rain and the panicked shriek of the girl in his bed.
"No, no, no!" she screamed, and when Matt raised himself to look at her, she was struggling with the sheets, clawing away from the open window, where rain droplets were slowly gathering. "No, no, be good be good promise please please thank you please."
She was gnashing her teeth, growling weakly like a kicked puppy. Matt sighed and climbed to his feet, the bottle in his hand. He unscrewed the cap and drank slowly, feeling the burning start with his lips. He winced, wiped his mouth and then slipped to his knees, reaching out with his free hand to shake the girl--not too roughly, but it wasn't as if he was waking Katya up.
"Hey," he said. "Hey. It's okay. Just a dream. It's just a dream."
A raindrop slipped between the holes of the windscreen and fell onto the girl's face. She trembled and then struck out, fists darting in like a boxer's to knock the bottle from Matt's hand. The bottle flew into the air, whiskey spilling over the bead and the girl before smashing into the floor like an explosive shell filled with shrapnel. The girl screamed and attacked, launching herself at Matt, hands curled into tiny fists, her teeth snapping the air. Matt grunted as she collapsed on top of him and started throwing punches at his face. He struggled weakly underneath her--he was exhausted, and thus no match for brutal Rak strength. She was sitting firmly on his chest, her legs clenched tightly around his ribs, squeezing the air out of him so he couldn't even scream. Matt could have never imagined such tiny fists would hurt so much, but it did--it felt like being stabbed, as flashes of dark purple lightning grabbed hi from seemingly every direction. He struggled as best he could under his weight, and finally managed to flip her over. Without really thinking, he climbed on top of her, and using all of his strength, managed to pin her.
She screamed, arms flailing wildly to hit him several times in the face, fingernails raking down his neck until he grabbed her arms and pinned them above her head. The screams stopped instantly and she began to whimper, turning her head away from him so violently Matt was afraid she was going to break her own neck.
"No," she mumbled, and then there was a half-stuttered word Matt could barely hear. She was suddenly sobbing, the fear increasing tenfold under his fingertips--not as much as from a kill, but enough to sharpen his senses. She was afraid--confused and afraid, hurt and something else Matt shied away from. Broken. No, not broken--destroyed. Shattered.
"P-please," she gasped again. "S-s-sorry." She twisted out of Matt's suddenly numb grip, and instead of striking out at him, curled into a limp ball. Matt watched passively as she wriggled away from him, the buzz in his fingertips fading.
He felt sick.
Not from the ebbing fear in his system--he was more than sated on that front. He felt sick because of a shifting pit of feelings in his stomach--a mixture of anger and sympathy.
And confusion. He had no reason to be angry at whomever had done this to her. Vague sympathy he understood--he had just felt her pain, and anyone would be sympathetic to her plight. But anger? He had just met hits girl barely three hours ago. Whatever had happened to her was very sad, yes, of course--but it was all out of his hands. He couldn't have done anything to help her--because yes, there it was wrapped up in the ball of anger, a little packet of guilt. Unfounded guilt, guilt that was compromising his thinking as he crossed the room to the sobbing, shaking mess of a girl and gathered her up in his arms. None of this was his fault. He couldn't have done anything.
So why did the guilt twist itself even further into his chest when she opened her gummy eyes and the tight muscles under his fingers relaxed except for the ones in her face that stretched into a wide smile, revealing two tight rows of teeth. She playfully snapped at him once, and then curled into him, nuzzling his arm with her shaggy head.
"Mattie," she whispered, and the guilt was suddenly painful, accompanied by the throbbing emptiness. He missed Katya. He missed his crazy, wonderful, murderous girlfriend and her soft kisses in the morning, her not-so gently slaps when he had been stupid, and her boldness, the way she knew what to do, what was best, what really mattered.
Mattie knew what she would have done, and so he pulled the tiny girl closer to him, buried his head in her hair and whispered right back.
"Scout."
He had named her, taken her home with him. He didn't know what it meant, but she was here in his arms, a pulse under his touch. She wasn't his Katya, but she'd have to do.
Muse: Matt Jenkins
Word count: 1,456 words
Making tea. Tea. With a strange Rakshasa in his bed. A strange Rak who wasn't Katya, and who Matt had just taken home with him--carried her, actually. He was nuts. He was crazy. What was he thinking? He wasn't--not at the time, at least. He had been high, high as a kite in fact, and now without Katya's supervision he had fucked up. He was always doing that when she wasn't around to keep an eye on him--fucking up, killing someone just to make it through another day, and after he killed, fumbling around and generally almost getting himself killed. He had stumbled into a nest of archangels last week and barely escaped with his life. Clearly this week it was bring a random tiny killing demon home with him.
She wasn't sane, either. Matt could argue that none of the Raks he had known were sane, but this girl wasn't just a few fries short of a Happy Meal. She didn't have fries with her Happy Meal, or a burger--all she really had was a tiny toy of bubbling incoherency wrapped in plastic. And he had carried her home with him.
She was still asleep, though she wasn't sleeping well by any stretch of the imagination. She was tossing and turning noisily, the sheets wrapped around her thin legs, her dark, matted hair swept across her eyes. She cried out, a bark of senseless noise as she struck the mattress with tiny stained fists. She whimpered and rolled over, muttering under her breath so Matt could barely hear her: "No, no, no."
Matt leaned forward on the kitchen counter, watching her intently. If he squinted and didn't look right at her, she almost looked like Katya. Almost. It would be there for just a second--a glimmer, a hopeful moment--but then she would turn over and Katya would be gone, again and again until Matt couldn't take it any more. He stood up quickly and stormed across the small kitchenette, slamming his mug still half-full with tea into the sink, turning on the faucet with a bang and letting the water run while he leaned against the counter, hands gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles went white and breathing heavily. The water filled the mug and splashed over, circling down the drain.
She was gone. She was dead, for all he knew. She was dead and she wasn't coming back--couldn't come back. And it was stupid of him to try to replace her, however drunk on a kill he had been when he carried this other girl home. She was dead. Katya was dead.
"I need a drink," Matt muttered to himself. He knelt to retrieve a bottle of particularly cheap whiskey, but stopped when he heard the crack of thunder, the pouring of rain and the panicked shriek of the girl in his bed.
"No, no, no!" she screamed, and when Matt raised himself to look at her, she was struggling with the sheets, clawing away from the open window, where rain droplets were slowly gathering. "No, no, be good be good promise please please thank you please."
She was gnashing her teeth, growling weakly like a kicked puppy. Matt sighed and climbed to his feet, the bottle in his hand. He unscrewed the cap and drank slowly, feeling the burning start with his lips. He winced, wiped his mouth and then slipped to his knees, reaching out with his free hand to shake the girl--not too roughly, but it wasn't as if he was waking Katya up.
"Hey," he said. "Hey. It's okay. Just a dream. It's just a dream."
A raindrop slipped between the holes of the windscreen and fell onto the girl's face. She trembled and then struck out, fists darting in like a boxer's to knock the bottle from Matt's hand. The bottle flew into the air, whiskey spilling over the bead and the girl before smashing into the floor like an explosive shell filled with shrapnel. The girl screamed and attacked, launching herself at Matt, hands curled into tiny fists, her teeth snapping the air. Matt grunted as she collapsed on top of him and started throwing punches at his face. He struggled weakly underneath her--he was exhausted, and thus no match for brutal Rak strength. She was sitting firmly on his chest, her legs clenched tightly around his ribs, squeezing the air out of him so he couldn't even scream. Matt could have never imagined such tiny fists would hurt so much, but it did--it felt like being stabbed, as flashes of dark purple lightning grabbed hi from seemingly every direction. He struggled as best he could under his weight, and finally managed to flip her over. Without really thinking, he climbed on top of her, and using all of his strength, managed to pin her.
She screamed, arms flailing wildly to hit him several times in the face, fingernails raking down his neck until he grabbed her arms and pinned them above her head. The screams stopped instantly and she began to whimper, turning her head away from him so violently Matt was afraid she was going to break her own neck.
"No," she mumbled, and then there was a half-stuttered word Matt could barely hear. She was suddenly sobbing, the fear increasing tenfold under his fingertips--not as much as from a kill, but enough to sharpen his senses. She was afraid--confused and afraid, hurt and something else Matt shied away from. Broken. No, not broken--destroyed. Shattered.
"P-please," she gasped again. "S-s-sorry." She twisted out of Matt's suddenly numb grip, and instead of striking out at him, curled into a limp ball. Matt watched passively as she wriggled away from him, the buzz in his fingertips fading.
He felt sick.
Not from the ebbing fear in his system--he was more than sated on that front. He felt sick because of a shifting pit of feelings in his stomach--a mixture of anger and sympathy.
And confusion. He had no reason to be angry at whomever had done this to her. Vague sympathy he understood--he had just felt her pain, and anyone would be sympathetic to her plight. But anger? He had just met hits girl barely three hours ago. Whatever had happened to her was very sad, yes, of course--but it was all out of his hands. He couldn't have done anything to help her--because yes, there it was wrapped up in the ball of anger, a little packet of guilt. Unfounded guilt, guilt that was compromising his thinking as he crossed the room to the sobbing, shaking mess of a girl and gathered her up in his arms. None of this was his fault. He couldn't have done anything.
So why did the guilt twist itself even further into his chest when she opened her gummy eyes and the tight muscles under his fingers relaxed except for the ones in her face that stretched into a wide smile, revealing two tight rows of teeth. She playfully snapped at him once, and then curled into him, nuzzling his arm with her shaggy head.
"Mattie," she whispered, and the guilt was suddenly painful, accompanied by the throbbing emptiness. He missed Katya. He missed his crazy, wonderful, murderous girlfriend and her soft kisses in the morning, her not-so gently slaps when he had been stupid, and her boldness, the way she knew what to do, what was best, what really mattered.
Mattie knew what she would have done, and so he pulled the tiny girl closer to him, buried his head in her hair and whispered right back.
"Scout."
He had named her, taken her home with him. He didn't know what it meant, but she was here in his arms, a pulse under his touch. She wasn't his Katya, but she'd have to do.
Muse: Matt Jenkins
Word count: 1,456 words