#lovelieswrites

It hasn’t happened, if anything her attentions have grown more heated, her kiss lingering in a way which leaves little doubts about what she is thinking. What you are thinking too.

It’s hard not to remember that night. Hard not to replay it while you try to hold sleep and the nightmares at bay.

No more secrets inscribed on your skin to keep you apart, just the casts on your legs.

You should have known Ortega would find a way to get creative.

Her kiss starts out gentle, holding her weight off you making sure not to put undue pressure on your abused limbs,

Her lips soft and plush against yours, pulling back to look into your eyes as she brushes your hair back from your forehead.

The smile on her face is fragile, and you have to close your eyes. A pair of feather-light kisses to your eyelids and her fingers trace familiar paths on your face. A pattern you would remember anywhere, you would feel it sometimes back at the farm, the phantom touch of her thumb on your cheek, and for the briefest of moments the oppressive static of the dampeners morphed into something comforting. The illusion never lasted, fading away in the face of the stark solitude of your cell, of your existence.

You’re afraid to open your eyes now. Afraid that this will all shatter and this will all have been a dream that her love will be nothing but a foolish dream. You close them tighter, trying to keep the tears which threaten at bay.

“Did I hurt you?” Concern evident in her voice as her weight shifts to move away from you.

That’s enough to get you to open your eyes, to reach out and pull her back, not ready for her to leave your side again, not with the memories so close on the horizon.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“Are you sure?” she hesitates before she retakes her position on the edge of the bed, hands hovering over you instead of touching, like you might break at any moment, she isn’t totally wrong.

“I never thought . . . you shouldn’t . . . “ the words escape you. “I never thought I could have this.” You finally admit. Honesty. More than you usually give but you’re already at her mercy so what does a little more vulnerability cost?

               At least he has moments like this, walking in comfortable silence. She’s humming something he doesn’t recognize under her breathe. Steps a little unsteady from the wine she’d been drinking, or maybe just from dancing with the song in her head.

               He opens his mouth preparing to ask about the artist, to horde more details of Riley and her life, but before he can her steps slow and then stop in front of the bakery.

               Her eyers study her own reflection in the window. One hand reaches up to brush her cheek, contemplative, a small frown marring her features.

               “Is something wrong?” He can’t sense anything, no dangers lurking in the shadows, something else must be going on.

               Her voice is halting, quiet, “do you think I’m pretty Nate?”

               “Riley, I think you are one of the most stunning creatures I have ever beheld.” He answers too quickly, without thinking, more honest than he intended.

               She turns surprise evident on her face, “you’re full of it.” Brown eyes searching his face trying to gauge his sincerity.  

               “I assure you I am not.” Perhaps he should have gone for a more teasing tone. One that is light and friendly, but it’s hard to do so.

               There’s a long list of things it is hard to do. Or hard not to do. Right now, Nate would like nothing more than to sweep Riley up in his arms, to kiss her breathless, to stare into her eyes, to make her understand how beautiful she is. How is he supposed to keep his tone light when it weighs so heavy on him?

               “Oh,” she’s looking at him and he can hear the way her heart is accelerating, and hope sparks to life within him. “Nate, I--” she reaches out a hand placing it against his chest. Can she feel how his heart his hammering in his chest?

               A long moment where she searches for words and Nate waits with baited breath. Wants to say something, to sweep her off her feet, but he can’t. She’s been drinking. He can smell the wine on her breathe, strong now with her this close. This moment, whatever it is, wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

               He must do the right thing here. For Riley’s sake, for Morgan’s sake.

               Her hand is small in his, delicate as he pulls it away, the cool night air rushing in to fill the void where her touch had once been. The urge is there, to place a kiss on the back of her hand, but he swallows it down and instead gives it a brief squeeze before releasing it.

               “It’s late; we should get you home.”

               Riley nods, eyes not meeting his and he mourns the loss, what he wouldn’t give to lose himself in their warm depths.

               He only has a moments warning, the sound of familiar footfalls, before Morgan steps out of the shadows, “am I interrupting something?”

               A small shriek erupts out of Riley, her hand flying to cover her mouth, “Morgan! You scared me half to death!”

               He should have sensed her sooner. Too distracted by Riley, and what if she had been another supernatural? One intent on hurting Riley? He needs to be better, to be more careful, to not lose himself in far-fetched dreams and longings.

               He didn’t expect her here, she still has a few hours of patrol left. Had she heard their voices and come to say hello? She never would have bothered with any of her old flings. Just more evidence that this is something more between them, something he shouldn’t get between.

               “Sorry, sweetheart,” Morgan drawls as she wraps an arm around Riley’s waist, “that’s not how I intended to make you scream.”

               “Morgan!” Nate splutters, words failing him as his face heats. Wishes he could say it was just indignation and embarrassment at Morgan’s words, but he knows its more. “That’s highly inappropriate.”

               “I am highly inappropriate,” she responds with a dry chuckle, “but Nate is right, we should get you home.” She doesn’t wait for a response, just starts walking, her arm still around Riley’s waist.

               Nate watches them walk away unease sitting heavy in his stomach. How much had she overheard? They will have to talk after this, clear the air.

               “Aren’t you joining us?” Morgan calls over her shoulder, her grin wicked, and he knows she overheard it all.

               A small squeak escapes Riley, her eyes darting back between the two of them. Her heart rate skyrocketing, her skin heating, a hundred other small changes his vampire sense allow him a peek into. One he wishes he could ignore.

               Has Riley thought about it? The three of them together? Images too easy to recall rise in his mind, walking in on them in the library. Lace against Riley’s skin, Morgan’s lips travel along her collarbone. . .

               A raised eyebrow from Morgan as she waits for his response. He knows it’s no good trying to hide it from her. They’ve known each other too long, and their senses are too strong too attuned to each other after almost a century.

               The smile grows larger across Morgan’s face and he needs to redirect this somehow.

               “You’re more than capable of getting her home, no need for me to tag along,” he tries to keep his voice neutral, to push those thoughts away, to slow the rapid beat of his pulse. He doesn’t wait for their response, turns on his heel and retreats, but he can still feel the weight of Morgan’s gaze long after he is out of sight.

                “You can stop, right now. No one else has to die today.”

                 Except they do. They have to pay; someone has to fucking pay for this.

                “Vesper, please, you don’t have to do this.” His hands are lowered, eyes never leaving your face. Thinks he’s getting through to you.

                “I do, and I will,” you hiss.

                “You’re throwing your life away going back in there.”

                One step then two, glass crunching under his feet. Coming in closer, hands still held out and there’s no spark in is palm. Is he really so arrogant to believe he can talk you down? That all he needs to do is flash his stupid grin and you’ll give up everything you’ve worked for?

                He goes stiff in your arms as your blade enters his side. “You should have taken the chance to stop me, Ric” your voice a whisper in his ear, intimate. Memories rising unbidden at the scent of his cologne, of his sweat, the sight of the small hairs curling by his ears. A flash and pop from his emitter as what has to be the last of his stores is absorbed easily by your armor. After all you designed it for this. Designed it for him.

                He stumbles back with a curse; his hand clutches his side as he falls to his knees.

                “Perhaps I should have.” He’s angry. Eyes pinches and narrowed, or maybe that’s just pain.

                You always knew it was going to end this way. You tell yourself the tears are because of the smoke, not because this is goodbye, for real this time.

                He’s watching you, trying to figure out your next move and you wish you knew what it was. You should finish this. Your revenge is within your grasp, you can finish this for good. Should do something besides crouching down to his level,

                “Bui, please—” you hand around his throat cuts him off. So fragile. He’s on your list, just as culpable as the ones you’ve came here today to kill.

                You wanted this. You wanted him at your feet, wanted him defeated at your own hand. You could end it all now, you’ve dreamed about it. You should be gloating, your victory at last, but it feels so hollow. You can’t bring yourself to tighten the hand around his throat, to unleash the nanovores and let them finish the job their cousins started a decade ago.

                Instead, you kiss him. Ortega goes rigid for a moment before softening against your lips. You can taste his blood and his sweat on your tongue the familiar haze of ozone thick in the air. His arm moves as if to cup your face, a familiar movement behind the closed door of his apartment, but he’s not moving to deepen the kiss now. Electricity discharges harmlessly into the night as you knock his arm away.

                “I’m not that stupid.”

                “I wish you were.”

                “Me too,” and it’s an admission you hadn’t planned to make, but the words are said. You kiss him again to stop him from talking, to stop him from trying, from asking again. You’re not sure you have it in you to say no again. You kiss him and he kisses you back, not holding back this time, your breaths mingling as it breaks but neither of you ready to move away just yet. This is the end.

                “Vesper,” your name breaks the spell. He sags to the ground as you release him, red stained hand still clutching his side.

                “Don’t, Ricardo.” You had your moment of weakness. You can’t afford another one. You don’t look back can’t look back.

                It was always going to end this way. 

                You’ve been able to avoid it for months now, it’s not like the city center holds much for you now. You’re back on the outskirts, back with the forgotten and the cast off, spending your days on the edges.

                You’re safely anonymous on the bus, just passing by, hood pulled low to cover your features. Maybe you should move away from the window, but you can’t bring yourself to, some sick needs making you watch the building grow closer as the bus makes it way down the congested street. It looks larger than you remembered, familiarity making it shrink in your memories, into somewhere safe, somewhere close to home.

                Even this early there is still traffic, still too many cars, too many souls crowding the clogged streets. You can feel them beating against your shields. Exhaustion, frustration, rage pressing in on you. Its an almost welcome distraction to the tightness in your chest as a red light causes the bus to stop in front of the doors.

                You can’t help yourself, face almost pressed against the glass,

                You could hop off now. Walk through the door and what?

                Your heart twitches in your chest.

                Tell the receptionist you’re an old friend of Ortega’s stopping by for coffee?

                Would there be any recognition if you gave your name? It’s not like you could say hi I’m Sidestep back from the dead, but Cynthia?

                Cynthia wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but Ortega, and even that is a maybe. 

                What if that name means nothing to her anymore? What if you don’t mean anything to her anymore? That would be for the best. Better for her to move on. Besides what was there to move on from? A few stolen kisses? You never let it go further, never let it be more, and it’s not like you were the only one she was kissing, of course, she would move on.               

                You’d spent so long waiting for her to save you, hoping hoping hoping, but she never came. No one ever came for you and why would they? You are just a thing. A tool to be used by others. There isn’t even supposed to be a you. Every memory every emotion you felt over those years was a manufacturing flaw.

                Wasn’t it?

                It doesn’t feel that way, not when you can see the stupid R on the door handle, almost hear Themmy’s laugh beside you. If you closed your eyes now you know you would see Ortega, beckoning you forward leading you back into the life you thought you had. The chord is rough between your fingers and you don’t even remember reaching for it. All you have to do is pull, tell the bus to stop, to throw caution to the wind, but you resist. Instead, your hand comes to rest on the cold glass of the window, fog blooming under your heated skin until the building is swallowed up and obscured.

It’s just a fantasy. Themmy is dead, and so are you.