Stealing Dead Souls
for ar_drabbles challenge 26, prompt by lacklusterfic: "Laura's photo of Billy"
He isn't quite sure how he's gotten here. Last thing he consciously remembers is working at his desk, wanting a drink, and getting it. Then Laura baiting him with his drinking, Kara, her inevitable death, until he cracked and gave her the stupid, needless fight she was spoiling for. He has a vague recollection of mocking her religion and sense of destiny, and some slight idea that he'd retreated after to the head, emerging to the sound of snuffling that was an indication of a woman trying to hide her tears.
All he knows for certain is that he is holding her tight enough to hurt, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, running his hands along her spine (not in her hair, never again, never taking the chance of dislodging more strands), rocking his body against hers. He's bad with words. He feels too much and they get all tangled up on the way up his throat, out his lips. His actions speak louder, his body is more eloquent.
He backs her up against the table she uses as a desk, plumps her breasts toward his waiting mouth, rubs his thigh between her legs. He knows she is dying but doesn't want to say it aloud. To say something makes it real. All he wants is for her to enjoy the time she has left. He loves her, but doesn't need to say that to make it real. He unbuttons her shirt, nuzzles aside the fabric.
"Wait."
"What?"
"Billy."
He looks around, confused. Was diloxan frakking with more than her aim?
She turns the picture face down on the desk. "He's already seen too much, poor boy."
He laughs at her fancy, but before he takes her in their rack he turns down the picture of his boys. Just in case.
He isn't quite sure how he's gotten here. Last thing he consciously remembers is working at his desk, wanting a drink, and getting it. Then Laura baiting him with his drinking, Kara, her inevitable death, until he cracked and gave her the stupid, needless fight she was spoiling for. He has a vague recollection of mocking her religion and sense of destiny, and some slight idea that he'd retreated after to the head, emerging to the sound of snuffling that was an indication of a woman trying to hide her tears.
All he knows for certain is that he is holding her tight enough to hurt, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, running his hands along her spine (not in her hair, never again, never taking the chance of dislodging more strands), rocking his body against hers. He's bad with words. He feels too much and they get all tangled up on the way up his throat, out his lips. His actions speak louder, his body is more eloquent.
He backs her up against the table she uses as a desk, plumps her breasts toward his waiting mouth, rubs his thigh between her legs. He knows she is dying but doesn't want to say it aloud. To say something makes it real. All he wants is for her to enjoy the time she has left. He loves her, but doesn't need to say that to make it real. He unbuttons her shirt, nuzzles aside the fabric.
"Wait."
"What?"
"Billy."
He looks around, confused. Was diloxan frakking with more than her aim?
She turns the picture face down on the desk. "He's already seen too much, poor boy."
He laughs at her fancy, but before he takes her in their rack he turns down the picture of his boys. Just in case.