[ she wrings the wash cloth in the sink, kneading it into the side until she figures it useful. taking a seat in the chair near his own, two fingers touch hesitantly beneath his chin. the warm, damp cloth is pressed to his cheek. ]
[ Biological imperative, he tells Red, and there's no lie to it. (He doesn't really know how to, in this life. He doesn't need to — an axe only ever has one purpose. That's the strange thing about her, he supposes; he's meant to cut out her heart, but he never can.) ]
You don't have to be so gentle.
[ He doesn't look away from her, doesn't flinch. ]
[ the words provoke a quirk in her brow. hesitantly, her hand cups his chin fully - palm beneath his jaw and fingers at his opposing cheek - to bring his face further into the cloth. she tips her own forward, observing the damage done. ]
Old habits.
[ she muses, always aware of his gaze. or something of the sort.
she could have just as easily kept the door ( and its many locks ) shut. his face through the keyhole was all the incentive she needed. and yet — ]
[ (It's always bloodier than you'd think. He still remembers the first time — he needs something to fill the box, so he gives over the heart of a deer, instead. But it's no less a bloody business than killing a girl; he has to fell the beast, then cut it open. It sounds simple in prose, but—) ]
Fair enough.
[ There's no resistance to her touch — he turns his face at her guidance, some clarity to his features as she wipes away the blood. (It becomes clearer as she goes — it's not all his.) ]
[ ( he towers over her, with every intention of plunging his fingers into her chest and ripping out her still-beating heart. he's always so close, so riddled with purpose, he lifts his arms, and then — at times, she surrenders, finds herself so choked by her own defeat that she begs him to do it. begs him, and yet, death never comes.
in the beginning, there was only a plead for release; he obliges, but at a terrible cost she never hoped he would pay. ) ]
You always find me.
[ she says, as though it's the simplest thing in the world. her thumb twitches, grazing the curvature of his jaw. she meets his eyes, then looks away suddenly, anywhere but there. dangerous things always happen there. ]
[ He never can seem to lay a finger on her. It's a constant, more than anything else in their story. (He's not sure, sometimes, what the intent had been. Looking back, the only text is — he couldn't.) ]
She's comin' for you.
[ She looks away — he doesn't blame her for that. (He is introduced to her as a danger, and somewhere, there is a prince.) What she says first, he doesn't acknowledge, not explicitly, anyway; he stays still, too, doesn't lean into her touch or away from it. ]
the heart she wanted so desperately all those years ago feels dormant suddenly. a dull ringing gives way in her ears, everything around her moving in clockwise. she doesn't remember bringing his hand to his face in order to keep the compress fixed; nor can she recall standing at the sink with quivering fingers.
second verse, same as the first.
she inhales deeply, reality flushing in once again and grounding her with a thud. her tongue peeks outward, licking between her lips. scattered hands push her hair from her eyes, reach outward for some sort of — something, anything. ]
Well, that's —
[ she clears her throat, turns on the counter with peroxide, antibiotic, and bandages in her grip. she swallows, maintaining a composure he's seen falter time and time again. ]
Guess I should have known, right?
[ the smile is twisted, visibly broken in places, and she takes her seat again. ]
[ She moves like she's stuck in a dream, blacking in and out of consciousness. (He thinks he'd been blind, for a while — the way a high price is put on beauty, and a high price is extracted for it, too. What other crime had the girl committed?) He watches, shoulders tensing, ready to move, to catch her in case she should fall. ]
I'll kill every son of a bitch she sends.
[ It's not a particularly pretty sentiment — save that for the prince, the boy who discovers her in a glass coffin — but that doesn't make it any less true. He's a huntsman; the only prey he's never managed to fell is sitting right in front of him.
A pause — he tries for something gentler, this time. ]
[ i know, she says without speaking. there's a timid brand of tenderness in the way her expression steps backwards into neutrality. with delicate earnest, she takes the cloth from him. the face is red in places, so she takes it upon herself to fold it in a contrary direction, dabbing a corner with the mouth of the peroxide bottle.
issuing her chair nearer, a knee nudges one of his own. she apologizes quietly, looking between them. the corner of the washcloth is thoughtfully dabbed to the wound on his cheek, then, her lip tucked behind her teeth, focused in its intent. ]
You're with me.
[ that same hand touches underneath his chin, tilting his face to hers. ( there are times in which he leaves her feeling particularly bitter, alone with her thoughts and stinging tears in her eyes. but a quiet part of her is always grateful, always indebted. to him, forevermore. ) ]
Is that alright? [ she asks, the question ill-timed. ] It's just — I don't want to hurt you.
[ The story changes, sometimes. They're all familiar with that, now. Sometimes he comes back — as he has now. Sometimes the price he pays for his failure to fell her comes early, and they never see each other again.
Still — something fundamental changes, the first time he raises his hand to kill her and she looks at him without fear. ]
Couldn't if you tried.
[ His fingers twitch on his knees. (A part of him wants to reach out, to touch her cheek, but that's not a gesture meant for him. And besides that, he has to suss out exactly what it is that makes him feel almost drunk when he's around her, if it's something base or if it can be contextualized in the fairer language they're born of.) ]
[ her eyebrows shoot upright, an air of something light in her voice. a slip of her tongue catches between her teeth as she tilts her head, gathering a better look at her handiwork. ( she distracts him, a sleight of hand — remind me of something else, something better, something that isn't her. )
satisfied, the washcloth is placed to the table, and she grabs a bandage for his cheek. it's stretched out, placed flush over his cut. ( the smaller of the lot are left clean, but exposed. they'll heal faster than the gash. ) she smooths small pieces of medical tape — ripped by her teeth — at its sides and sits back in her chair to observe him more fully. ]
There.
[ she laughs, a tired-sounding thing. ]
Now, I'm no doctor, but I think you'll pull through.
[ (Remind me of something else, something better. It's no small task when the story is what it is. Sometimes he thinks he'll choke on it. Sometimes he does. But the girl lives. Usually.)
She laughs, he smiles, both expressions worn out but happy enough for what they are. It's not so bad in other lives, but it's just the hand they've drawn, this time. ]
Thanks.
[ He stands up, then, takes smaller steps as he cleans up what's left around. The washcloth, the roll of tape, the kit, the lot of it. (He'll have a scar, by the time all's said and done; a thin white line, proof he's still breathing.) ]
[ she's visibly taken aback, though not by any fault of his. ]
It's my — it's fine. Really.
[ in this life, she keeps to herself. it's safer this way, trapped within her own four walls. ( however, she doesn't make a habit out of staying in one place for very long. ) this complex is small in size. she keeps her head down and makes no noise when her neighbors have her awake at odd hours.
she glances at the analog clock left behind by previous tenants. half past six. two fingers scoop hair over her ear. ]
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no subject
[ she wrings the wash cloth in the sink, kneading it into the side until she figures it useful. taking a seat in the chair near his own, two fingers touch hesitantly beneath his chin. the warm, damp cloth is pressed to his cheek. ]
— How's that?
no subject
You don't have to be so gentle.
[ He doesn't look away from her, doesn't flinch. ]
no subject
Old habits.
[ she muses, always aware of his gaze. or something of the sort.
she could have just as easily kept the door ( and its many locks ) shut. his face through the keyhole was all the incentive she needed. and yet — ]
no subject
Fair enough.
[ There's no resistance to her touch — he turns his face at her guidance, some clarity to his features as she wipes away the blood. (It becomes clearer as she goes — it's not all his.) ]
Guess it makes a nice change of pace, anyway.
no subject
in the beginning, there was only a plead for release; he obliges, but at a terrible cost she never hoped he would pay. ) ]
You always find me.
[ she says, as though it's the simplest thing in the world. her thumb twitches, grazing the curvature of his jaw. she meets his eyes, then looks away suddenly, anywhere but there. dangerous things always happen there. ]
— What happened?
no subject
She's comin' for you.
[ She looks away — he doesn't blame her for that. (He is introduced to her as a danger, and somewhere, there is a prince.) What she says first, he doesn't acknowledge, not explicitly, anyway; he stays still, too, doesn't lean into her touch or away from it. ]
Second verse, same as the first.
no subject
the heart she wanted so desperately all those years ago feels dormant suddenly. a dull ringing gives way in her ears, everything around her moving in clockwise. she doesn't remember bringing his hand to his face in order to keep the compress fixed; nor can she recall standing at the sink with quivering fingers.
second verse, same as the first.
she inhales deeply, reality flushing in once again and grounding her with a thud. her tongue peeks outward, licking between her lips. scattered hands push her hair from her eyes, reach outward for some sort of — something, anything. ]
Well, that's —
[ she clears her throat, turns on the counter with peroxide, antibiotic, and bandages in her grip. she swallows, maintaining a composure he's seen falter time and time again. ]
Guess I should have known, right?
[ the smile is twisted, visibly broken in places, and she takes her seat again. ]
no subject
I'll kill every son of a bitch she sends.
[ It's not a particularly pretty sentiment — save that for the prince, the boy who discovers her in a glass coffin — but that doesn't make it any less true. He's a huntsman; the only prey he's never managed to fell is sitting right in front of him.
A pause — he tries for something gentler, this time. ]
You're not alone.
no subject
issuing her chair nearer, a knee nudges one of his own. she apologizes quietly, looking between them. the corner of the washcloth is thoughtfully dabbed to the wound on his cheek, then, her lip tucked behind her teeth, focused in its intent. ]
You're with me.
[ that same hand touches underneath his chin, tilting his face to hers. ( there are times in which he leaves her feeling particularly bitter, alone with her thoughts and stinging tears in her eyes. but a quiet part of her is always grateful, always indebted. to him, forevermore. ) ]
Is that alright? [ she asks, the question ill-timed. ] It's just — I don't want to hurt you.
[ she never has; she never will. ]
no subject
Still — something fundamental changes, the first time he raises his hand to kill her and she looks at him without fear. ]
Couldn't if you tried.
[ His fingers twitch on his knees. (A part of him wants to reach out, to touch her cheek, but that's not a gesture meant for him. And besides that, he has to suss out exactly what it is that makes him feel almost drunk when he's around her, if it's something base or if it can be contextualized in the fairer language they're born of.) ]
It's alright.
no subject
[ her eyebrows shoot upright, an air of something light in her voice. a slip of her tongue catches between her teeth as she tilts her head, gathering a better look at her handiwork. ( she distracts him, a sleight of hand — remind me of something else, something better, something that isn't her. )
satisfied, the washcloth is placed to the table, and she grabs a bandage for his cheek. it's stretched out, placed flush over his cut. ( the smaller of the lot are left clean, but exposed. they'll heal faster than the gash. ) she smooths small pieces of medical tape — ripped by her teeth — at its sides and sits back in her chair to observe him more fully. ]
There.
[ she laughs, a tired-sounding thing. ]
Now, I'm no doctor, but I think you'll pull through.
no subject
She laughs, he smiles, both expressions worn out but happy enough for what they are. It's not so bad in other lives, but it's just the hand they've drawn, this time. ]
Thanks.
[ He stands up, then, takes smaller steps as he cleans up what's left around. The washcloth, the roll of tape, the kit, the lot of it. (He'll have a scar, by the time all's said and done; a thin white line, proof he's still breathing.) ]
—You had anything to eat?
no subject
It's my — it's fine. Really.
[ in this life, she keeps to herself. it's safer this way, trapped within her own four walls. ( however, she doesn't make a habit out of staying in one place for very long. ) this complex is small in size. she keeps her head down and makes no noise when her neighbors have her awake at odd hours.
she glances at the analog clock left behind by previous tenants. half past six. two fingers scoop hair over her ear. ]
I didn't even realize what time it was.