fic: brutality
Brutality
season three. bela. unrated. 1160 words.
She does not want to be here.
Thanks to reddened and vinylroad for looking this over.
The sky is that particular chilling shade of gray she associates with dreams of hell, and the street is crowded, tires cutting through the remnants of the afternoon's freezing rain, and the first flakes of snow are melting in her hair.
She does not want to be here. On this street, next to this building, in this country. She doesn't like it, which is ridiculous, because it's just a place. But places have histories, and there's a reason she does not live here any longer.
Shivers skittering up her arms, but it is cold, and this is only a place.
She takes a breath and goes inside.
Glass walls of the lobby. There are children crowded in one corner, sad little things in layers of discarded brands. They don't belong here; they should not be here. She wonders which member of the staff is responsible for letting them in, which ones are responsible for letting them stay.
How much colder it will be, when they're tossed out.
Her heels click across the lobby, cutting sharp and cruel as she likes. The elevator doors slide closed and in the mirrored walls her reflection is pale and composed.
The doors open and she walks down the hall. Soundlessly, this time. Raises a hand to knock on the door and it opens before she can touch it; she is not surprised.
He wears an expensive suit and a silk tie, a pendant on a chain. Everything but the pendant looks new, polished and unused. Tattoos edge out beneath his sleeves, around his collar. Black and blue, semi-tribal, and she wonders how long he's had them. How much it bothered him when they became popular, briefly, a few years ago.
He smiles. He speaks a name that is not hers, and the expression in his eyes tells her he knows as much. Which he should, if he's any good. She's already transferred a large amount of money into his account, and so he'd better be.
They do not shake hands. She wonders, briefly, if he still has his soul. Not that it matters.
She sits across from him at a table next to the window. The shades are drawn, but she can see sky around the edges. There are small marks on the walls: wards, she thinks, and they might be written in blood.
He leans forward. His shadow doesn't match him, doesn't fit. Moves wrong, just a little too quick. We must not look at goblin men, she thinks. He's not, though.
"Who holds my contract?" she asks, and her voice is steady.
"I'll need blood," he says, and she sighs. Rolls her eyes and pushes up her sleeve. Blood is nothing, not anymore, and she does not flinch when the knife touches her skin, when it cuts quick and sharp.
Sky darkening through the gap in the curtains. Twilight already, grey turning to smears of red.
He touches his finger to the knife, brings it to his lips. He looks at her and she does not shudder. He is only human, no matter how badly he wants to be something else. No matter how much of himself he's sold for that reason.
"Lilith," he says, and even though she knows by now how much power can be contained in a word, a name, it is still strange to hear it aloud. To know.
She purses her lips. She tugs her sleeve back down.
"Thank you," she says, and she stands.
He does not move, and then, when she is halfway to the door, he clears his throat. She pauses, considers turning around. When he speaks a name that has not been hers for a very long time, she does.
"What did you say?" she asks, her words careful, measured. Someone runs across the floor overhead, quick heavy footsteps, and the ceiling shudders.
He smirks. "So many secrets in blood, love."
She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. "Are you attempting to blackmail me?"
"Hardly," he says. "I'm merely suggesting a bargain. You double the payment and I don't muck up the present with the past."
"The past," she echoes, and he snaps his fingers.
Something moves, in the corner. Shapes. Smoke. She thinks of ghost stories, of childhood, but she has always been more frightened of the footsteps in the hall than of the unknown.
And so the shapes are becoming very, very familiar.
Abby, she hears as though from very far off, and something wraps around her wrist. Smoke-colored fingers. Impossibly tight grip.
She swallows. Her hands do not shake, but they haven't, not for a long time. The gun is small and quiet, and he should not have done that.
He makes no noise, falling. It might be an expensive hotel, but he had wards, and no one will have heard.
It's funny, he was protected against so much, but not the terribly, blindingly obvious. She wonders how long it will be before anyone comes for him. If his own magic will eat him away before they do.
There is something wet on her face. She reaches to wipe it away, expecting her hand to come away red, but it doesn't. She realizes, with some surprise, that her eyes are damp, and she swallows.
His briefcase is on the floor beside the television. She dumps it over on the bed, goes through it quickly. His collection, pretty little papers and one very old leatherbound book with fragmenting papers and a broken spine.
The front of the book says Lilith.
Of course he knew. Of course he already knew. She grits her teeth.
She does understand, a little. The theory, at least. An opportunity. Money to be made.
She lets the book fall open; she flips through the pages.
She wonders how much it would sell for. She wonders what good it would do anyone.
She burns it, before leaving. Washes her face, standing over the sink, and watches pretty little papers going up in pretty little flames in the wastebasket.
The children are not in the lobby when she leaves.
Standing outside, wondering if she will be here again. Her skin feels hot, burnt. She takes out her phone, dials. Transatlantic pause and then it connects. Rings twice and he picks up. Jukebox in the background, an entirely different world. What time is it there?
"You wanna know where we are?" he says. "Planning to sell us out again?" She licks her lips. Remembers the print of his name, the smudges of ink. Remembers it going up in smoke.
She hangs up. He does not call back.
Further down the street, the children press together. It's night already, black and streetlight glow. She fishes coins out of her pocket, presses them into the palm of the first, and then raises her hand to hail a cab.
The snow is coming down thicker, faster. She does not look up at the sky. She has always been very good at surviving, and she knows what she has to do.
-end-
season three. bela. unrated. 1160 words.
She does not want to be here.
Thanks to reddened and vinylroad for looking this over.
The sky is that particular chilling shade of gray she associates with dreams of hell, and the street is crowded, tires cutting through the remnants of the afternoon's freezing rain, and the first flakes of snow are melting in her hair.
She does not want to be here. On this street, next to this building, in this country. She doesn't like it, which is ridiculous, because it's just a place. But places have histories, and there's a reason she does not live here any longer.
Shivers skittering up her arms, but it is cold, and this is only a place.
She takes a breath and goes inside.
Glass walls of the lobby. There are children crowded in one corner, sad little things in layers of discarded brands. They don't belong here; they should not be here. She wonders which member of the staff is responsible for letting them in, which ones are responsible for letting them stay.
How much colder it will be, when they're tossed out.
Her heels click across the lobby, cutting sharp and cruel as she likes. The elevator doors slide closed and in the mirrored walls her reflection is pale and composed.
The doors open and she walks down the hall. Soundlessly, this time. Raises a hand to knock on the door and it opens before she can touch it; she is not surprised.
He wears an expensive suit and a silk tie, a pendant on a chain. Everything but the pendant looks new, polished and unused. Tattoos edge out beneath his sleeves, around his collar. Black and blue, semi-tribal, and she wonders how long he's had them. How much it bothered him when they became popular, briefly, a few years ago.
He smiles. He speaks a name that is not hers, and the expression in his eyes tells her he knows as much. Which he should, if he's any good. She's already transferred a large amount of money into his account, and so he'd better be.
They do not shake hands. She wonders, briefly, if he still has his soul. Not that it matters.
She sits across from him at a table next to the window. The shades are drawn, but she can see sky around the edges. There are small marks on the walls: wards, she thinks, and they might be written in blood.
He leans forward. His shadow doesn't match him, doesn't fit. Moves wrong, just a little too quick. We must not look at goblin men, she thinks. He's not, though.
"Who holds my contract?" she asks, and her voice is steady.
"I'll need blood," he says, and she sighs. Rolls her eyes and pushes up her sleeve. Blood is nothing, not anymore, and she does not flinch when the knife touches her skin, when it cuts quick and sharp.
Sky darkening through the gap in the curtains. Twilight already, grey turning to smears of red.
He touches his finger to the knife, brings it to his lips. He looks at her and she does not shudder. He is only human, no matter how badly he wants to be something else. No matter how much of himself he's sold for that reason.
"Lilith," he says, and even though she knows by now how much power can be contained in a word, a name, it is still strange to hear it aloud. To know.
She purses her lips. She tugs her sleeve back down.
"Thank you," she says, and she stands.
He does not move, and then, when she is halfway to the door, he clears his throat. She pauses, considers turning around. When he speaks a name that has not been hers for a very long time, she does.
"What did you say?" she asks, her words careful, measured. Someone runs across the floor overhead, quick heavy footsteps, and the ceiling shudders.
He smirks. "So many secrets in blood, love."
She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. "Are you attempting to blackmail me?"
"Hardly," he says. "I'm merely suggesting a bargain. You double the payment and I don't muck up the present with the past."
"The past," she echoes, and he snaps his fingers.
Something moves, in the corner. Shapes. Smoke. She thinks of ghost stories, of childhood, but she has always been more frightened of the footsteps in the hall than of the unknown.
And so the shapes are becoming very, very familiar.
Abby, she hears as though from very far off, and something wraps around her wrist. Smoke-colored fingers. Impossibly tight grip.
She swallows. Her hands do not shake, but they haven't, not for a long time. The gun is small and quiet, and he should not have done that.
He makes no noise, falling. It might be an expensive hotel, but he had wards, and no one will have heard.
It's funny, he was protected against so much, but not the terribly, blindingly obvious. She wonders how long it will be before anyone comes for him. If his own magic will eat him away before they do.
There is something wet on her face. She reaches to wipe it away, expecting her hand to come away red, but it doesn't. She realizes, with some surprise, that her eyes are damp, and she swallows.
His briefcase is on the floor beside the television. She dumps it over on the bed, goes through it quickly. His collection, pretty little papers and one very old leatherbound book with fragmenting papers and a broken spine.
The front of the book says Lilith.
Of course he knew. Of course he already knew. She grits her teeth.
She does understand, a little. The theory, at least. An opportunity. Money to be made.
She lets the book fall open; she flips through the pages.
She wonders how much it would sell for. She wonders what good it would do anyone.
She burns it, before leaving. Washes her face, standing over the sink, and watches pretty little papers going up in pretty little flames in the wastebasket.
The children are not in the lobby when she leaves.
Standing outside, wondering if she will be here again. Her skin feels hot, burnt. She takes out her phone, dials. Transatlantic pause and then it connects. Rings twice and he picks up. Jukebox in the background, an entirely different world. What time is it there?
"You wanna know where we are?" he says. "Planning to sell us out again?" She licks her lips. Remembers the print of his name, the smudges of ink. Remembers it going up in smoke.
She hangs up. He does not call back.
Further down the street, the children press together. It's night already, black and streetlight glow. She fishes coins out of her pocket, presses them into the palm of the first, and then raises her hand to hail a cab.
The snow is coming down thicker, faster. She does not look up at the sky. She has always been very good at surviving, and she knows what she has to do.
-end-