[Locked to RatBoy]
I keep dreaming about her.
I don't care what they say. They don't know anything.
She can't be dead. I would know if she was. I heard her in my dreams, calling out for me. So afraid and alone. She is not dead. She can't be. Not m-, not Callie. I would know ( Read more... )
I don't care what they say. They don't know anything.
She can't be dead. I would know if she was. I heard her in my dreams, calling out for me. So afraid and alone. She is not dead. She can't be. Not m-, not Callie. I would know ( Read more... )
ooc:If you want to play it out, I'm game. If not, feel free to delete this.
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He leans against the wall, the blood trickling down his arm. Hot, hot blood. Like tears.
He swallows and closes his eyes.
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A sound has Frankie's head turning, following it into the labyrinth of alleys...into a dead-end, if Frankie remembers well. Great, someone's trying to gut each other, from the look of things.
Without bothering taking away the half-smoked cigarette butt between his lips, he props one hand on the brickwall, getting a good look at the guy. "So, you going to get home on your own two legs, or what?" The guy is out of it enough that Frankie can perform a quick and efficient frisking of pockets and body. No hidden weapon.
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The drawl that reaches Alex's ears on the still night air is not something he expects. It's enough to make Alex leave off his less than successful efforts to jump high enough to catch the bottom of a ladder and creep back to peer around the corner.
Frankie. There's no mistaking the posture and silhouette. Not that Alex can count on help from the bastard, but at least Frankie's a distraction, a decent one it seems, since Clay has stopped in place.
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It's all he can do.
The darkness that pooled at the edges of his vision is slowly receeding and everything hurts. Throbs.
He should look at the man in front of him, push him away, do something - and instead he tries to look around him. To see if he is still there. Alex. And for a brief moment his eyes are not his own, and the alleyway fades into the mists between the trees and everything is as it should be.
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There's nothing to steal from this man. Frankie lights up a smoke for him and puts it between hsi lips. "Can you go home?" Wherever home is, Frankie is just curious to know what the fuck happened here.
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"He can't talk," Alex offers from his spot around the corner. Alex's grittiest tone of voice is employed. "Do me a favour and throw him in a taxi, Frankie... or toss him at the security guys at the club and they'll see to it." Let someone else decide if Clay needs a hospital or just the chance to go home.
Shaking his head dispels some of Alex's dizziness. The blood his left hand is pressed into is cooling and clotting, but seeing Evelyn would still be a damned fine idea. "I'll pay you back later," Alex grates out, although he isn't sure who he's saying that to or what he really means by it.
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"Mute, uh? What, the Russian bastard there tramped on your foot or something.." as he speaks, his brain makes the connection. Alex, his dead blonde bit, the ex who came to Luxuria and whatever happened in VIP level office.
"You made a right mess of him, Lexilove.Something tells me you're not that much better out, or you would be out here already. Guys' looks really pissed off." He snickers, holding Clay back.
"So, what you prefer? Taxi, or the club?" he asks Clay. "Better you get yourself back into shape if you want to come back and finish him, one day."
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Not that there is much he can do. As long as that arm is across his chest.
Let me go!
When Darkly smashed his knee he'd still been able to move. Jude had helped him at first. And Callie.
And then he looks into the eyes of the man in front of him. The one that looks a little bit like David and a little bit like himself. The one who's got eyes not unlike Darkly's. And he smiles.
She's not dead. He's too stupid to know. But I know. I know.
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The smile is fucking eery. "Bit of a nutjob, aren't you?" he murmurs to Clay. Something nudges at his mind, like a push, like something hovering behind a thin veil, something that scuttles and crawls under the bed at night, under your skin.
Worms wrapped around each other.
Frankie blinks as an image kind of forms in his mind. The blonde bit, laughing. Very pregnant. His arm lets go of Clay. "No shit, you're fucking eery, man." And there's undoubtly some awe in his voice.
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Alex keeps his voice as steady as the pain stabbing into his side allows. "Toss him a cab for me, Frankie. I've somewhere to go and I'm not in the mood to tussle with the ex any more tonight. Trust me for once, Frankie."
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I hate you. And you're too stupid to understand anything.
When he looks back at Frankie he looks a little bit more present. Just a little.
I'll walk. He did after Darkly had had his hands on him. He can do it now.
He is still bleeding and his knees are weak. But the look in his eyes is stubborn. And aggressive.
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Aggressive doesn't bother Frankie. It challenges him, at that. "Sure you can walk the walk, Wonderman?" A few bills are pushed inside of Clay's pockets. "Wouldn't a ride be better?"
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With him knowing where I am going? I don't think so.
He remembers dimly how to really set Alex off - Bitch - but he doesn't let the word escape. He's too tired to do anything. But if he wasn't ...
He looks at Frankie, this man that looks a little like himself and a little like David, saying he thinks Callie is his. He's a fool. She was nobody's. Just like the trees and the rain, certain that this one, with a mad, lonely light in his eyes, won't understand him either.
They never do.
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