Metal Whispers
Title: Good Morning
Word Count: 646
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
Sunlight was streaming through his bedroom window when he opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness and covering his face with his pillow. He had only a second or so to wonder what had woken him before the text message chime sounded from his cell phone again, and he fumbled blindly for the small device on his bedside table before flipping it open and checking the screen.
What happened to you? Call me.
"Fuckin' Eric..." Quinn sighed and checked the clock on the phone's screen. 8:52 am. Rubbing his forehead, trying to massage away what was arguably the worst hangover he'd ever had, he glanced over at the other half of his rumpled bed. Nobody there. So not only could he not remember a damn thing about the previous night, he was feeling like shit and his bed was empty. Definitely not a good start to the day.
Tripping over his discarded clothing, he staggered naked into his bathroom and managed to shower with his eyes closed, though he nearly brained himself with a bottle of shampoo that was precariously balanced on the edge of the shower door. It was when he was brushing his teeth afterward that he spotted the small bruised mark on his neck, roughly the size of this thumbnail and oddly square. Pinching his toothbrush between his teeth, he leaned forward to stare at it in the mirror and pressed his fingers to it, finding it painless but hard, more a blood blister than a bruise.
The woman was sitting at the kitchen table when he entered the room, and he paused only momentarily to assess her before he moved to the fridge. Definitely older, though not cougar-old, and definitely not his usual type - he didn't often go for the pretty, professional blondes. He could see her reflection in the stainless steel of the fridge, her bemused expression at his lack of clothing.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he said as he fished the orange juice off the top shelf and turned around, gulping straight from the carton, "but I don't remember..." He spotted the small handgun, matte black, nestled in her hand. "Fuck. Okay, yeah, I remember you now." Indeed, the entire night was coming back to him with startling clarity, enough that he could tell the gun she held was different than the one he'd wrestled from her.
"I don't know what's more offensive," she said. "The fact that you just assumed we had sex, or the fact you think you could even seduce me in the first place."
"Wait, what's that supposed to mean?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Come on down off your horse, lady, I've bedded sorority girls who were more highbrow than you."
"Excuse me?" she demanded.
"You heard me."
"What exactly was supposed to entice me? The ghetto raver clothing, or your terrible taste in music?" Her eyes trailed downward and she snorted a laugh. "Because it certainly wasn't your physical attributes."
"Oh, I get it," he said, capping the juice and putting it back in the fridge. "You're one of the types that needs to be tied down and spanked before you learn to play nice." He rubbed his hands together. "I can handle that."
"Do you not see the gun in my hand? Or do I need to shoot you with it, first?"
"I kind of figured that shooting me was already on your list of priorities, unless you're just one of those cunt cops who likes to -" He flinched back when she slapped a metal sigil on the table - a woven celtic cross with folded, feathered wings. "Fuck," he sighed.
"Would you like to rethink that statement?"
"Technically, no, because you're not a cop." He scratched the back of his head, momentarily at a loss. "But can I suggest a truce?"
"If you can keep your mouth shut, possibly."
Word Count: 646
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
Sunlight was streaming through his bedroom window when he opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness and covering his face with his pillow. He had only a second or so to wonder what had woken him before the text message chime sounded from his cell phone again, and he fumbled blindly for the small device on his bedside table before flipping it open and checking the screen.
What happened to you? Call me.
"Fuckin' Eric..." Quinn sighed and checked the clock on the phone's screen. 8:52 am. Rubbing his forehead, trying to massage away what was arguably the worst hangover he'd ever had, he glanced over at the other half of his rumpled bed. Nobody there. So not only could he not remember a damn thing about the previous night, he was feeling like shit and his bed was empty. Definitely not a good start to the day.
Tripping over his discarded clothing, he staggered naked into his bathroom and managed to shower with his eyes closed, though he nearly brained himself with a bottle of shampoo that was precariously balanced on the edge of the shower door. It was when he was brushing his teeth afterward that he spotted the small bruised mark on his neck, roughly the size of this thumbnail and oddly square. Pinching his toothbrush between his teeth, he leaned forward to stare at it in the mirror and pressed his fingers to it, finding it painless but hard, more a blood blister than a bruise.
The woman was sitting at the kitchen table when he entered the room, and he paused only momentarily to assess her before he moved to the fridge. Definitely older, though not cougar-old, and definitely not his usual type - he didn't often go for the pretty, professional blondes. He could see her reflection in the stainless steel of the fridge, her bemused expression at his lack of clothing.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he said as he fished the orange juice off the top shelf and turned around, gulping straight from the carton, "but I don't remember..." He spotted the small handgun, matte black, nestled in her hand. "Fuck. Okay, yeah, I remember you now." Indeed, the entire night was coming back to him with startling clarity, enough that he could tell the gun she held was different than the one he'd wrestled from her.
"I don't know what's more offensive," she said. "The fact that you just assumed we had sex, or the fact you think you could even seduce me in the first place."
"Wait, what's that supposed to mean?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Come on down off your horse, lady, I've bedded sorority girls who were more highbrow than you."
"Excuse me?" she demanded.
"You heard me."
"What exactly was supposed to entice me? The ghetto raver clothing, or your terrible taste in music?" Her eyes trailed downward and she snorted a laugh. "Because it certainly wasn't your physical attributes."
"Oh, I get it," he said, capping the juice and putting it back in the fridge. "You're one of the types that needs to be tied down and spanked before you learn to play nice." He rubbed his hands together. "I can handle that."
"Do you not see the gun in my hand? Or do I need to shoot you with it, first?"
"I kind of figured that shooting me was already on your list of priorities, unless you're just one of those cunt cops who likes to -" He flinched back when she slapped a metal sigil on the table - a woven celtic cross with folded, feathered wings. "Fuck," he sighed.
"Would you like to rethink that statement?"
"Technically, no, because you're not a cop." He scratched the back of his head, momentarily at a loss. "But can I suggest a truce?"
"If you can keep your mouth shut, possibly."