[Original] Duma
This is a piece of something I'm working on. It's not the only reason I've only been posting comment_fics, but it's a huge one. So here it is, half as an apology to those waiting for more This Tangled Shape or Closer, and half because I think you might like it.
"You're late."
My palm slides to the cold handle of my gun where I've tucked it into my belt. The dealer sees the movement, and his lips twitch, just the barest moment of a frown. "I have it. There's no need to get hasty."
"It's here?"
He gestures, and a man steps from the shadows. Look up "gutless flunky" in the dictionary and there he'll be, complete with bald head and tattoo-parlor-wall ink. My own ink-stained fingers twitch in laughter, and apparently the dealer takes this as a sign of aggression, because he draws.
They're both dead within minutes.
Behind me, Duma flicks open his lighter, the flame throwing his pale features into sharp contrast with the shadows that surround us. I retrieve the briefcase - it's gratifyingly heavy - and steal a drag of sweet smoke from his lips.
Later, we lie naked on the motel bed. I trace his scars, rough against my fingers, and watch him shiver. I know what he's remembering, and I remember it too - how he used to look. How he used to feel. The memory of it is bitter and taunting in the back of my throat. I close my eyes and let him take over - let myself dream.
He takes me flying. His wings are just as I remember them - iridescent and gray, like a raven turned to stone. He smiles at that, and drops me from the sky.
Shit. I fall. I fall fast, hair whipping around me, and I curse its length. I meant to cut it, I really did - far too much of a handhold in the event of a fight - but he would tangle his hands in it and his mouth would quirk and I would lay down the scissors and think, next week - not that that matters now, as the ground fast approaches, white streets like the spaces between panels in the comic books my brother used to draw me as a kid. That's where he first appeared, I remember, in those panels, a silent, smiling presence, saying, "It's okay, April. It's okay. I'm here."
He catches me about a foot from the ground, and my hands slide around his back to find only flesh and scars and I remember what now means.
The briefcase waits in the corner. My mind aches. And with a silent smile, he pushes me towards relief.
"You're late."
My palm slides to the cold handle of my gun where I've tucked it into my belt. The dealer sees the movement, and his lips twitch, just the barest moment of a frown. "I have it. There's no need to get hasty."
"It's here?"
He gestures, and a man steps from the shadows. Look up "gutless flunky" in the dictionary and there he'll be, complete with bald head and tattoo-parlor-wall ink. My own ink-stained fingers twitch in laughter, and apparently the dealer takes this as a sign of aggression, because he draws.
They're both dead within minutes.
Behind me, Duma flicks open his lighter, the flame throwing his pale features into sharp contrast with the shadows that surround us. I retrieve the briefcase - it's gratifyingly heavy - and steal a drag of sweet smoke from his lips.
Later, we lie naked on the motel bed. I trace his scars, rough against my fingers, and watch him shiver. I know what he's remembering, and I remember it too - how he used to look. How he used to feel. The memory of it is bitter and taunting in the back of my throat. I close my eyes and let him take over - let myself dream.
He takes me flying. His wings are just as I remember them - iridescent and gray, like a raven turned to stone. He smiles at that, and drops me from the sky.
Shit. I fall. I fall fast, hair whipping around me, and I curse its length. I meant to cut it, I really did - far too much of a handhold in the event of a fight - but he would tangle his hands in it and his mouth would quirk and I would lay down the scissors and think, next week - not that that matters now, as the ground fast approaches, white streets like the spaces between panels in the comic books my brother used to draw me as a kid. That's where he first appeared, I remember, in those panels, a silent, smiling presence, saying, "It's okay, April. It's okay. I'm here."
He catches me about a foot from the ground, and my hands slide around his back to find only flesh and scars and I remember what now means.
The briefcase waits in the corner. My mind aches. And with a silent smile, he pushes me towards relief.