His lips sought hers, desperate and hot, heavy and thick, like smoke or syrup.

It wasn't because he loved her, though. Remember that.

Maybe he had, once, but that was before all this, before everything went black and fucked up, before the night with the police and that goddamn stupid dance, and the cops, and that knife. Before everything broke.

Before Fitz took her, every last inch of her, the most private part of her she had, took it for himself, for his collection.

Now, it's just this, his hands roaming over her body, lips heavy and hot on her collarbone. The little noises she makes fuels that hate- at himself- for not saving her, for getting her into this, for continuing on and tearing her up completely because he couldn't leave her like that- half broken, half alive.

So he killed the rest of her.

Lead her on, drew her out, touched her, then retreated, like a moth's wings against a light, hot and brief and painful.

She moans again and he almost wishes she wouldn't. Maybe if she didn't, maybe if she just looked at him with love and insecurity, or even just disappointment and morality, with those naive blue eyes he used to love- used to- before they turned navy and steel.

Maybe if she looked at him like she gave a damn, he'd give a damn, maybe if he saw her baby blues again, he'd fall back in love, with her and himself.

It wasn't a one-person war though, she was as guilty as he, and they were both broken together.

God, he wants her to look at him.

But he doesn't, so he just slips his hand underneath her shirt, feeling the soft, silk flesh that's tainted now, tainted and all. his. As his fingers stroke and coax, his eyes bore into hers, wishing she would blush, or look away, or bite her lip, or do anything but just stare back at him, hard and defiant. It's a wish that's not going to be granted, a war he's losing, a board game he's lost the rules to, and suddenly, he doesn't want to play anymore.

It's disgusting, It's painful, It's like pressing the blade to a scar once again.

He pulls away, and she whimpers, her hair disheveled, skin flushed, chest rising. Once upon a time, this sight would have kept him awake at night.

But that was before, wasn't it?

Before Clare lost herself, became a shell of this naive, beautiful, innocent girl with pretty eyes.

That Clare's dead- he knows it and she knows it. Lost without his touch, she slides down, collapsing onto the linoleum floor, tears escaping from her cheeks, because she knows he's going to leave now, leave and not look back.

And that's precisely what he does, because, face it; this game isn't fun anymore.

That's right- go cry. AFD pt. 2 has left me heartless. Just think of it this way though- it could have been worse.

It could have ended like this.