would you be number four (dalla/mance)magisterequitumJanuary 21 2012, 01:15:56 UTC
"You don't really want him, you know."
They're in the bar's parking lot now, drunken shouts and the stale, cool air of the night chasing their backs as they walk deeper away from the building.
Dalla whirls on him, a move so fast he actually stops and steps back. "Oh, I don't?" She snarls, her face going tight in anger, eyebrows sloping inward, her gaze narrowing, and nostrils flaring. "And how would you know? Such an expert on me now, right?"
The simple answer is yes to her questions, and Mance thinks about just saying it. But looking at the way her fingers clench it's a safe bet that she might deck him for the one syllable.
It is yes though. He's seen her, watched her. She's bored to death with this one just like the three before, and she'll leave this one too, run straight down the alter or out the side door and slink off and away before anyone can catch her. Her fiance will be victim number four and she'll be free again, and he'll have his closing paragraph to his piece.
Mance blinks, startled to see that she's gotten so close he can see the blue-grey of of her irises. She's watching him shrewdly now, and there's still ire in her gaze, but he likes her this way. She's not bored or silent with him. Lively and combative, and it's so lovely to behold.
"Well," Dalla reaches out to shove his shoulder. "Nothing to say now? The great journalist is at a loss for words."
He exhales, feels the warmth of her fingers as they slide down from his body, catching faintly on his arm before dropping back to her side.
The bar's door opens behind them, and he doesn't have to see who it is, the shouting voice is recognizable enough.
She blinks, still staring at his face, and calls back, "Yeah, I'm coming."
The door bangs closed, swallowing the music up with it.
He offers her a smile, a sad curling of the corners of his mouth. "You already know."
The fight seems to drain out of her, and for a moment she hesitates. Then she brushes past him, and he's left alone in the parking lot.
They're in the bar's parking lot now, drunken shouts and the stale, cool air of the night chasing their backs as they walk deeper away from the building.
Dalla whirls on him, a move so fast he actually stops and steps back. "Oh, I don't?" She snarls, her face going tight in anger, eyebrows sloping inward, her gaze narrowing, and nostrils flaring. "And how would you know? Such an expert on me now, right?"
The simple answer is yes to her questions, and Mance thinks about just saying it. But looking at the way her fingers clench it's a safe bet that she might deck him for the one syllable.
It is yes though. He's seen her, watched her. She's bored to death with this one just like the three before, and she'll leave this one too, run straight down the alter or out the side door and slink off and away before anyone can catch her. Her fiance will be victim number four and she'll be free again, and he'll have his closing paragraph to his piece.
Mance blinks, startled to see that she's gotten so close he can see the blue-grey of of her irises. She's watching him shrewdly now, and there's still ire in her gaze, but he likes her this way. She's not bored or silent with him. Lively and combative, and it's so lovely to behold.
"Well," Dalla reaches out to shove his shoulder. "Nothing to say now? The great journalist is at a loss for words."
He exhales, feels the warmth of her fingers as they slide down from his body, catching faintly on his arm before dropping back to her side.
The bar's door opens behind them, and he doesn't have to see who it is, the shouting voice is recognizable enough.
She blinks, still staring at his face, and calls back, "Yeah, I'm coming."
The door bangs closed, swallowing the music up with it.
He offers her a smile, a sad curling of the corners of his mouth. "You already know."
The fight seems to drain out of her, and for a moment she hesitates. Then she brushes past him, and he's left alone in the parking lot.
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