fanfic: we both go down together.
we both go down together.
his dark materials. asriel/mrs. coulter. spoilers for the whole series. pg. There something serious about this, the hotel room, the wine, how softly she is speaking. title from the song by the decemberists.
I don't want to live -- I want to love first, and live incidentally.
ZELDA FITZGERALD.
"We should have gotten married."
Her legs twist in the sheets, frame silhouetted in the snowy windows. They were in Prague. He had a lecture. She had, she-- he can't remember. He remembers burying the pleasantries in the curl of her tongue.
"I don't think Edward would have quite given us his blessing," he grins, lightly, finger tracing up the length of her legs.
She pushes him away, frowns and something about that curl of her brow, he remembers, two weeks ago, up at Oxford, he was with her daughter (their daughter) and she made the same little curl between her eyes and he couldn't bear to look at her.
"I meant,--" she pauses, pulls her knees up and sits straight. Like she's addressing one of her luncheons (Why thank you, Lord Provost, how kind--) "I meant, after of course."
His pipe blows rings into the room. They pull a dark halo of smoke over their heads, something ironic about that, he thinks.
"I seem to recall-- you didn't even want to speak to me at the time, let alone marry me."
"Oh, it wasn't that bad."
"Wasn't that-- my dear, the maid told me that if I so much as dared to venture upstairs, you'd put the gun to my head," he laughs.
She's gone very quiet.
"I didn't have a gun."
There something serious about this, the hotel room, the wine, how softly she is speaking-- it is different from the way her voice had rung in the hallways of her house in St. James, when she was standing at the top of the stairs in her nightgown and her mouth, painted crimson dark, stretched open like she was going to swallow him whole.
"I hate you," she'd promised and at the time, he thought it was the most honest thing she'd ever said to him.
He supposes he's always seen their relationship like that, like this web of half truth and indiscretions and hate! cutting true through the tangle.
"Wouldn't have worked," he goes, standing up, "We'd have killed each other within a week."
She puts her head back against the pillows. The curls tumble, spread over her shoulders and she reaches over the bed for his drink on the nightstand and takes it down in one go, with her throat working upwards.
"You're probably right," she gasps, voice breaking through the sting of scotch.
"I don't know what you imagined."
"Well--" her mouth makes a half smirk. "I meant, for the child, of course."
He laughs. It's short. Harsh.
"You've never laid eyes on the chit."
"And whose fault is that?"
That seems to amuse him. "Not mine, darling," he tells her, calmly and she would like to slap him, he thinks, her fingers unfurl and the glass falls back down with a thud.
"I don't want to fight, Marissa."
She rolls the glass along the table. Her neck is bent and her hair curtains her face, he cannot see her and he half thinks she's going to pick that glass up and throw it across the room at his head and it will break to a million little pieces in his skull.
"We had some good times, didn't we, Asriel?"
She's not wrong. Her ice, mask spins back up.
-
When you fall each moment is an eternity. That will never not sound like a lie, he supposes but there is no one to hear him, just the wind and this is all for something he tells himself and all he knows is the smell of her perfume and the beating of an angels wings and her telling him, in a hotel room in another life time. In another city, that they-- they should have gotten married.
It is funny, now, how they always said it was nothing, them, they were nothing but for the child, just a series of nights and mornings and they die together. Just for the child.
And maybe he should have asked.
(He killed her damn husband, didn't he? What else did she want? A ring?)
-
They crash like that, with her limbs twisted into his and his blood flowing into hers.
-
Someone builds them a grave. It's not Lyra.
Hers is white and his is not and they are far apart and this is not where they rest.
Haven't you heard? No rest for the wicked.
-
"No one watches us, anymore," he told her once. They were younger then.
(they were always this old, just this old.)
She'd laughed, not the new one-- the old golden laugh of her that tastes like sin when he kissed her. "What on earth do you mean, Asriel?"
"God, church, the angels-- They've all given up on us."
"Don't be an idiot," she'd said.
She believed him then, though, then, with her mouth red and her hair long and the whole world in the span of her palm. He tells himself he misses her before she was really a threat.
(marissa was always a threat-- he misses her before she was scared.)
-
There is a wedding and it is not their daughter's, it is their daughter's daughter.
("Call me a grandmother, Asriel and I'll slit your throat."
"Not so much of a threat when you're dead, Coulter.")
They sit in the back pew. Her veil is made of lace and there is a smudge of something dark against her neck like someone's pressed too hard against the long column of her throat. He's not expecting her to cry (not that she can cry but the sentiment, of course) and she coughs when it is over.
The statues will weep before she does. There is a small smirk on his mouth.
The world is still theirs for the taking.
his dark materials. asriel/mrs. coulter. spoilers for the whole series. pg. There something serious about this, the hotel room, the wine, how softly she is speaking. title from the song by the decemberists.
I don't want to live -- I want to love first, and live incidentally.
ZELDA FITZGERALD.
"We should have gotten married."
Her legs twist in the sheets, frame silhouetted in the snowy windows. They were in Prague. He had a lecture. She had, she-- he can't remember. He remembers burying the pleasantries in the curl of her tongue.
"I don't think Edward would have quite given us his blessing," he grins, lightly, finger tracing up the length of her legs.
She pushes him away, frowns and something about that curl of her brow, he remembers, two weeks ago, up at Oxford, he was with her daughter (their daughter) and she made the same little curl between her eyes and he couldn't bear to look at her.
"I meant,--" she pauses, pulls her knees up and sits straight. Like she's addressing one of her luncheons (Why thank you, Lord Provost, how kind--) "I meant, after of course."
His pipe blows rings into the room. They pull a dark halo of smoke over their heads, something ironic about that, he thinks.
"I seem to recall-- you didn't even want to speak to me at the time, let alone marry me."
"Oh, it wasn't that bad."
"Wasn't that-- my dear, the maid told me that if I so much as dared to venture upstairs, you'd put the gun to my head," he laughs.
She's gone very quiet.
"I didn't have a gun."
There something serious about this, the hotel room, the wine, how softly she is speaking-- it is different from the way her voice had rung in the hallways of her house in St. James, when she was standing at the top of the stairs in her nightgown and her mouth, painted crimson dark, stretched open like she was going to swallow him whole.
"I hate you," she'd promised and at the time, he thought it was the most honest thing she'd ever said to him.
He supposes he's always seen their relationship like that, like this web of half truth and indiscretions and hate! cutting true through the tangle.
"Wouldn't have worked," he goes, standing up, "We'd have killed each other within a week."
She puts her head back against the pillows. The curls tumble, spread over her shoulders and she reaches over the bed for his drink on the nightstand and takes it down in one go, with her throat working upwards.
"You're probably right," she gasps, voice breaking through the sting of scotch.
"I don't know what you imagined."
"Well--" her mouth makes a half smirk. "I meant, for the child, of course."
He laughs. It's short. Harsh.
"You've never laid eyes on the chit."
"And whose fault is that?"
That seems to amuse him. "Not mine, darling," he tells her, calmly and she would like to slap him, he thinks, her fingers unfurl and the glass falls back down with a thud.
"I don't want to fight, Marissa."
She rolls the glass along the table. Her neck is bent and her hair curtains her face, he cannot see her and he half thinks she's going to pick that glass up and throw it across the room at his head and it will break to a million little pieces in his skull.
"We had some good times, didn't we, Asriel?"
She's not wrong. Her ice, mask spins back up.
-
When you fall each moment is an eternity. That will never not sound like a lie, he supposes but there is no one to hear him, just the wind and this is all for something he tells himself and all he knows is the smell of her perfume and the beating of an angels wings and her telling him, in a hotel room in another life time. In another city, that they-- they should have gotten married.
It is funny, now, how they always said it was nothing, them, they were nothing but for the child, just a series of nights and mornings and they die together. Just for the child.
And maybe he should have asked.
(He killed her damn husband, didn't he? What else did she want? A ring?)
-
They crash like that, with her limbs twisted into his and his blood flowing into hers.
-
Someone builds them a grave. It's not Lyra.
Hers is white and his is not and they are far apart and this is not where they rest.
Haven't you heard? No rest for the wicked.
-
"No one watches us, anymore," he told her once. They were younger then.
(they were always this old, just this old.)
She'd laughed, not the new one-- the old golden laugh of her that tastes like sin when he kissed her. "What on earth do you mean, Asriel?"
"God, church, the angels-- They've all given up on us."
"Don't be an idiot," she'd said.
She believed him then, though, then, with her mouth red and her hair long and the whole world in the span of her palm. He tells himself he misses her before she was really a threat.
(marissa was always a threat-- he misses her before she was scared.)
-
There is a wedding and it is not their daughter's, it is their daughter's daughter.
("Call me a grandmother, Asriel and I'll slit your throat."
"Not so much of a threat when you're dead, Coulter.")
They sit in the back pew. Her veil is made of lace and there is a smudge of something dark against her neck like someone's pressed too hard against the long column of her throat. He's not expecting her to cry (not that she can cry but the sentiment, of course) and she coughs when it is over.
The statues will weep before she does. There is a small smirk on his mouth.
The world is still theirs for the taking.