Gaslight
by intodust
Disclaimer: Dark Angel is the property of 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions; that is, it's not mine.
- - -
So she's walking down the street, all blackness and slink-swagger and cat-eyes, and there are a thousand ways it could have gone, but only this happened:
The night's alive, metallic grime and gentle breath and that's out of place, memento mori. I'm humming a song, but I haven't known the words for a long time, and the wind's turning sweat to beads of ice. Hard to remember the fever of an hour ago, the need for cold. I shrug, cross my arms like I can hold the heat inside, and my jacket rustles, folds of plastic.
I see her coming out of one of the buildings, the expensive ones, and when she crosses under one of the lights, it turns her skin to honey and I wonder what the hell she's doing here. Haven't seen her in forever, since forever, and maybe then it was just in passing, warmth of her body pressed against mine while we turned, or maybe a too-familiar stare, strangers on the sidewalk.
So she keeps walking like she doesn't see me or doesn't care, and her eyes are dark like drowning and hell and everything I know and see every day and never again, and I can't remember where I've seen her, where we've met.
"Hey," I say, and night rushes down my throat like burning. She stops and glares at me, shifts her weight and tenses like she wants to fight, like she's ready.
"That's my bike," she says, and I realize that the sleek blackness I've stopped next to is hers, and I wonder why she thinks I yelled, if she just thinks I'm the stupidest thief ever. Hey, girl, I'm stealing your bike, wanna watch?
"So?" I ask, and her face relaxes like she knows she was wrong, but her eyes don't change. "I've seen you before," I tell her, because asking her seems cheap, like I'm asking her for a favor or like I'm offering, and I'm not.
And then my face is pressed against the wall, matte bricks, and I think the cold's been here all along.
"Who're you?" she asks and her breath is warm in my hair, stirring a memory just out of my reach. Shifting and falling, and it's gone.
"Nobody," I say, and it's not really a lie. I repeat it like that'll make it less true.
She releases me and I slide my sleeves up. Even in the darkness I can see bruises, hand-marks against my skin. She's rough, jagged. She shakes her head. "Whatever."
And I watch her walk away, slide onto the bike, rev the engine like she's trying to prove something, like she's in a movie. I want to tell her that this is real, that she's real, and that games don't work, I've learned that the hard way, over and over, but she's gone, fade to black.
So I keep walking because there's nothing else I can do, and the whole way home, I can feel her hands on my arms, and they'll leave beautiful bruises.
And I just wonder, you know, what if?
- - -
The End.
As always, feedback is appreciated :)
by intodust
Disclaimer: Dark Angel is the property of 20th Century Fox and Cameron/Eglee Productions; that is, it's not mine.
- - -
So she's walking down the street, all blackness and slink-swagger and cat-eyes, and there are a thousand ways it could have gone, but only this happened:
The night's alive, metallic grime and gentle breath and that's out of place, memento mori. I'm humming a song, but I haven't known the words for a long time, and the wind's turning sweat to beads of ice. Hard to remember the fever of an hour ago, the need for cold. I shrug, cross my arms like I can hold the heat inside, and my jacket rustles, folds of plastic.
I see her coming out of one of the buildings, the expensive ones, and when she crosses under one of the lights, it turns her skin to honey and I wonder what the hell she's doing here. Haven't seen her in forever, since forever, and maybe then it was just in passing, warmth of her body pressed against mine while we turned, or maybe a too-familiar stare, strangers on the sidewalk.
So she keeps walking like she doesn't see me or doesn't care, and her eyes are dark like drowning and hell and everything I know and see every day and never again, and I can't remember where I've seen her, where we've met.
"Hey," I say, and night rushes down my throat like burning. She stops and glares at me, shifts her weight and tenses like she wants to fight, like she's ready.
"That's my bike," she says, and I realize that the sleek blackness I've stopped next to is hers, and I wonder why she thinks I yelled, if she just thinks I'm the stupidest thief ever. Hey, girl, I'm stealing your bike, wanna watch?
"So?" I ask, and her face relaxes like she knows she was wrong, but her eyes don't change. "I've seen you before," I tell her, because asking her seems cheap, like I'm asking her for a favor or like I'm offering, and I'm not.
And then my face is pressed against the wall, matte bricks, and I think the cold's been here all along.
"Who're you?" she asks and her breath is warm in my hair, stirring a memory just out of my reach. Shifting and falling, and it's gone.
"Nobody," I say, and it's not really a lie. I repeat it like that'll make it less true.
She releases me and I slide my sleeves up. Even in the darkness I can see bruises, hand-marks against my skin. She's rough, jagged. She shakes her head. "Whatever."
And I watch her walk away, slide onto the bike, rev the engine like she's trying to prove something, like she's in a movie. I want to tell her that this is real, that she's real, and that games don't work, I've learned that the hard way, over and over, but she's gone, fade to black.
So I keep walking because there's nothing else I can do, and the whole way home, I can feel her hands on my arms, and they'll leave beautiful bruises.
And I just wonder, you know, what if?
- - -
The End.
As always, feedback is appreciated :)