collects_strays | [OOM] captor bonding

The bottle of whiskey Margot brings with her is worth more than anything in his small house. It's something he can see clearly. She breaks it open, pours it into the same glass tumblers he had brought out before, and hands him one without looking at him. Later, when he looks over her shoulder, he sees her drink is nearly untouched. His own glass is drained. It seems important, enough that it flashes in his mind, over and over. Whatever he knows, whatever it means, is distant, like trying to solve a problem in a dream. His mind is awake, but distracted, caught up in the same tangle that might or might not be real.

Her disinterest is distracting. Following her is like running a thread between his fingers. Pulled forward and unable to see around the corner. He knows to stop her when she presses her fingers to the buttons on her blouse. Her full glass flashes again in his mind, now clear as a siren. He's not sure whether the tide that pulls at him is what she wants, or his own now unweighted curiosity. But neither meant she should have to go on alone. His hands cover hers, gently pushing them away, before he reaches up, running his own fingers through the folds of the fabric.

Beneath it, she has more scars to show. He dimly feels her surprise when she uncovers the bullet mark on his shoulder, but between them the bargain is still left unbalanced. If his wounds amount to a mismatched collection, hers have been carefully curated. A map of intent cut across her skin, cruelty for cruelty's sake. Even the whiskey can't dull him to it. But she turns to face him, meeting his eyes with hers. Loud, angry – at him, or at the only thing within her reach to be angry at. The kind of rage that burns through veins like adrenaline, scatters uncertainty, makes survival alone nothing less than a primal act of spite.

He takes to this easily.

For all her talk of her proclivities, she seems entirely interested in parts. She presses her hands into him, doesn't let him push her away this time. It might be their connection, but it's her direction. He watches her dark form above him like he would a shadow across the ceiling; he sees himself the glints in her eyes, the lines of his ribs, smudges of light over his skin, brushing his shoulders, rippling down his neck. Her grasp on him isn't the kind that could sink through flesh, but is rather just enough to keep her steady. Workmanlike – or workwomanlike, work like. Her breath remains even, he can feel her patient pulse. A mark stands out on the silhouette of her shoulder – it's one of her scars.

He sees her nearly untouched glass.
If at first you don't succeed

When she finishes, she bends her arms, lowers herself next to him, only because she has nowhere else to go. It's knowledge they share, at once in a flash between them, giving their proximity the intimacy it had lacked only moments before. A warmth that flushes into their skin, in their limbs that touch, but don't embrace. Their breath hitches, then crests and falls in unison, passing over them like wind sweeps over sand. What they want and what they are isn't the same. Want is what they came here for, but are can't be suppressed. Shouldn't have to be, not for therm.

And "parts," after all, are just that – pieces. They don't make the whole.

She touches her face first, to the side, right at the strands of hair over her ear. Her fingers move along the curved bone under her eye, to the bridge of her nose. She wonders if it's something Margot shared with her brother, then remembers that this is thinking, and over thinking. After that, she's careful not to touch any piece of her that's marked. Not again. Her body curves with this touch – at first delayed, as though surprised by it, but then more keenly as it progresses. Back as she reaches her collar, then her sternum, moving down to the side, just over her heart, the vibrations at her fingertips no longer so patient.

Her body curls inward again as her fingers reach the crest of her hip, pressing into it for a moment, before dipping down, along her muscle. For the first time, Margot touches her, reaching for her dark hair, entangling her own hands in it, clinging – not steadying herself. Her skin grows warmer, and any light left in her vision begins to blur. She takes a deep breath –

The warmth among them hasn't dissipated yet, soft and shifting as the glow of a hearth. Or her, she feels the slowing tick of her heartbeat as though it were two, and the moonlight fills her vision, cools her off, but she can't seem to hold that feeling to herself. She shifts, and turns over,

to face him. He's a shadow the streaks into her moonlight. The light splits along his lean form, where his skin is stretched over ribs, strands of sinew along his shoulders, and it pools at the base of his throat. She can't see his mouth, and the light seems pulled into his eyes. Over his head, twinned branches curve toward one another. He reaches over, just short of touching his face.

Graham opens his eyes.

Alana's dark hair is spilled over his sheet, right up to his fingertips. He moves his fingers, pressing them into the fabric close enough to touch the strands, but they slip away before he can reach them. Then it all moves away, and he knows it's a shadow along his bed. He lifts his eyes far enough to see Margot, sitting up at the side of his mattress. The shadow moves as she buttons her blouse, flattens her collar, brushes back her hair.

She doesn't look at him as she rises from the bed. He says nothing, makes no sound, but follows her with his eyes. Margot walks to the table where she'd left her still full glass, and picks it up, taking a deep sip from it. After setting it down, she steps into her shoes, and picks up her coat from the rack by the door. She does look back at him, once, as she pulls it on. Now, they're too far apart to make out one another's eyes. Graham stays still, and quiet.

A tide of cold air ripples across the room, and she closes the door behind her.