Exorcism (/Season1: Crossroads)
Helen’s watching Blade waiting for her. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a simple green, long-sleeved shirt for once, leaning against an old tree. He’s nervous. No one would notice, but by now she’s learned to read the messages encoded in the way he plays with his knife. She’s seen him draw random lines with it on the ground when he was exhausted, she’s seen him practice throwing it whenever he was bored, and she’s seen him sharpen the blade with great care when he was horny and eager for her to arrive.
Today he’s throwing it from one hand into the other over and over again, determined concentration written on his face, as if ready for the fight with a dangerous enemy. Except she’s quite certain no enemy would make Blade nervous. But now he is, and watching him without being noticed amuses her greatly. It’s one of the perks of constant mortal peril; no military training can outdo years of struggle for survival.
Blade’s face is as calm as ever, no twitch, no worry lines mar his composure and not even Helen understands the depth of the turmoil the stony silence hides until there’s a low growl from deep inside his throat and he’s pulling up the sleeve of his shirt on his left arm. One knife between his teeth he pulls out another - from where, she can’t quite comprehend, the man seems to have knives even under his fingernails - and before she could fully understand what’s happening he cuts deeply into his outstretched left arm.
He throws his head back with a muted cry, exposing his neck to Helen’s eager eyes; white teeth straining against the knife he leans deeper into the tree. His spilt blood makes her own rush faster through her veins as desire flares in the pit of her stomach, shutting every other feeling out. The world seems to shrink into a single violent urge for pleasure as Blade’s eyelids flutter close in a strange mixture of pain and ecstasy that she so longs to share with him.
Helen can feel the uniqueness of the act, neither of the scars on his body she felt rather than saw on previous occasions were self inflicted, she’s sure of that. This is different, something new, something important but she can’t put her finger on it. The moment draws out, as if pregnant with eternity and the pain seems to dissolve into something akin to endless relief. And then, as his lips slowly curl into an almost triumphant smile around the knife, she finally understands.
He’s going to leave, tear her out of his life just like he tore into his own flesh, no remorse, no second thoughts, getting high on pain and blood. Blade would be the first man able to do that to her if she didn’t act fast and push him away before he got the chance. And somewhere deep down, deep under the hurt vanity, anger, unexpected relief, and bitter disappointment, deep down some part of her feels almost proud of him.
And jealous.
Because she never managed to exorcise her own haunted blood.