Fall From Grace

Tate/Violet

Rated M for violence and sexual situations

A/N: There are spoilers through Piggy, Piggy. This is written only with the information given through that episode, so something might break canon later down the line. I'm writing as the series unfolds, and the twists are too complex to try and keep up with from chapter to chapter.

It is not, nor ever was, about his reputation.

He didn't have to prove how twisted and misunderstood he was to the school. He didn't have to dress in those overpriced black pants with chains and straps hanging off the already overly embellished cloth. The black eyeliner and matching dyed hair was too dramatic and ironic for his taste. And doing drugs in a group at school was such a waste of a high. People always ruined the experience by talking too much or losing it all over the floor because they tried to prove what a badass they are.

Right.

He wore whatever clothes his mother told him to because it shut her up faster than arguing with her. He bathed and cut his hair because the stench of body odor was sickening, not tough. And drugs were strictly an escape to be enjoyed alone. To forget the day.

He didn't have friends because there was too much drama with them. They always wanted to know what they thought of each other or talk about the people they hated and who hated them back. He never had anything to contribute to those conversations. He didn't hate anyone. He couldn't be bothered by anyone, but he definitely didn't hate them.

Not to mention that he didn't care. He never had. He didn't give a damn what anyone thought about him long before they moved into the house.

And he suspected that neither did she.

He also wondered what it would be like to kill before they moved into the house. He'd be damned if the house took credit for his fascination with violence. He wondered what it would be like to put a bullet in someone's head. To see the blood spatter. What does it sound like when a bullet hits flesh? What would it feel like to take a life? To play God? No, it had nothing to do with reputation and everything to do with power.

It wasn't until they moved into the house that he felt he really needed it, though. The things in that basement.

And he suspected that so did she.

He lay there, his arms around her, unable to shut his mind off.

It had just clicked. Everything. The reason she had been so distant. The pills. The feelings.

His feelings.

She hadn't said anything about them. Not then and not now, a week later. But she had stopped pushing him away. She wasn't as distant. Although he wasn't sure if it was because she cared and was afraid to admit it, or if she just didn't want to be alone.

She moved then, just a little hitch in her breath and he knew that she couldn't shut her mind off either. It was one of the rare moments she let him hold her. Proof of how exhausted and beaten she really was. She told him that she was fearless. Scared of nothing. Which is a lie. It was a lie before she moved into the house. He knew it as soon as she said it. But she didn't. When she said it, she believed it. The only thing she had to do was prove it to herself every day.

It didn't take a shrink to figure out that those pills showed how badly she thought she had failed. How far she had fallen from the grace that was power.

She moved again, this time not even pretending to be asleep and reached for a cigarette. The faint click of her cheap, plastic lighter was followed by an inhale.

A pause.

And then the deep exhale of content from Violet, blowing out the remaining smoke. She pushed Tate then, forcing him to roll over and give her room to lie on her back, propped against the pillows. After taking another drag she let her hand fall limp off the side of the bed, scattering ashes on the floor she'd have to clean up later. But for just a few seconds, her mind was only full of hot smoke and contentment.

Tate loved this about her. The absolute calm that smoking brought her. It was the only time he would describe her features as soft. She looked how he used to feel when he spent his afternoons locked in this room with his own vices. Vices that were much stronger than a simple, store bought stick of nicotine.

Part of him wants to show her how much better those drugs are. How much better they are than those sleeping pills. It's the part that wants to corrupt and defile her in more ways than one with absolutely no remorse, no guilt. It would be all hot and sticky and hard. There'd be blood and tears with so little air between them there would hardly be enough to breath. He would take everything from her and in the end they'd both be scarred, because he knew she'd fight back. She'd probably take as much from him as he would her. He also knew she'd like it.

The part that's here right now breathes a sigh of relief that all it takes to calm her mind, even if for just a second, is a cigarette. That she won't need stronger drugs today to clear her mind. And this part would do anything for her, would go farther than just sticking his fingers down her throat to save her. This part knows he probably will have to. Probably sooner, rather than later. But right now, the part that is here just lies next to her, because that is all that needs to be done at this moment. And when the right moment comes, he wants more.

But his sigh of relief snapped her out of her calm and reality came back in a rush. In one moment, her features changed from relaxed to tense. It was subtle, not even noticeable to her parents. But he saw. Of course, her parents didn't watch her sleep (or not sleep) every night. So they wouldn't know that the only difference in her face when she was asleep was that her lips stayed parted. Not all the way, just slightly right in the middle, rather than the straight line she kept them in while pretending to be asleep.

She looked at him, annoyed with his indiscretion of breathing and searched his face for a way to make the calm come back.

It may not have been the right moment, but it was a good enough moment so he wouldn't have to feel so damn powerless in making her happy. Or distracted. He would settle for distracted as he reached over and took the last of the cigarette out of her hand and put it out in the makeshift ashtray she had on her bedside table. Hell, he would even take pissed if it kept her from looking as broken as she did right before he turned to take her face in his hands and kiss her.

She sank into the bed, letting her body go limp and passive as he kissed her. But she kissed back. And he may have moved to straddle her, his two hands still holding the sides of face but she controlled the kiss. He could give her that power. It was her tongue that begged entry in to his mouth, to leisurely tease and nip at his lips. He let her do whatever she wanted, which was less than a hardship on his part. She was soft, and warm, and so tiny she fit inside his arms with room to spare. He could have stayed kissing her like that forever.

And he suspected that so could she.