Who: Neil and Sam What: Post-masquerade things. (PART 2) Where: Passages, then Neil's awesome villa. When: Continuation of this. Warnings/Rating: We thought this one might fit into one entry. We were wrong.
She chuckled at his opinion of her concept of adventure, and the laugh came with a tug to his sleeve, one that she used as leverage to pull him the rest of the way to the door. “Actually, I was just thinking slumming would be an adventure for you,” she explained. “Slumming is my everyday,” she said without any self-pity. “Adventure, I think, is a really fast roller coaster, or a haunted house that actually makes me scream, or sex where I might get caught,” was her honest explanation. As for robbing him? That just made her lean against the wall beside his door while he undid the locks. “You’re supposed to at least pretend be scared of me, Neil,” she said with a smile, though she was actually glad he wasn’t. “Anyway, you’re my only salvation from Liam. I can’t exactly piss you off by stealing your best cufflinks.” Somehow, she thought he would be the kind of guy who actually owned cufflinks, which probably made him the only one she’d ever met.
She considered his comment about Erik as the door swung open, about who the Opera Ghost would want to be, but she couldn’t really think above Christine’s opinions on the matter, which were numerous; Christine considered herself an expert. But Sam’s reaction to the living room silenced even the girl in her mind, because she’d never been in a suite like this. She froze by the door for a second, her lips mouthing the word wow as she moved past him into the space. She glanced at the fireplace and the stairs, but it was the huge fucking view of the city that drew her, all glass and unencumbered. Ok, so she had known he was rich, but this kind of wealth was something that Sam had trouble grasping. It was beyond Opera House rich, beyond the home the Vicomte had rented for Christine in Paris, and her entire apartment could probably fit in his bathroom. She looked over her shoulder at him, more girl than what she pretended to be, and she crossed to the glass and looked down. She wanted to press herself against it, to feel the thrill of looking down without the illusion of flooring underfoot, and it was only the fact that she was a bloody mess that kept her from doing it.
She turned, and she ran toward the stairs, her hand on the metal rail as she took the steps two at a time. “Don’t let the view leave while I wash up,” she ordered, sticky pink-tipped hair clinging to her cheeks. “And I want a bottle waiting by the time I finish stealing something to wear from your closet.” As for finding the bathroom? She was pretty sure she could manage it.
Neil tilted his head to the side, trying to imagine what her daily life was like in comparison to his own. “How about I try slumming it one of these days, and I’ll let you know how much of an adventure it is,” he suggested, only half-serious, not thinking much of his careless words. The way she described adventure suited her, he thought, since she struck him as the sort of person who lived for feelings and reactions. “So, things that thrill you. I think I get it.” He did, in a way, especially after the masquerade. Erik had spent so much of his life feeling nothing but pain and loneliness, and he’d found a sort of thrill that came from human contact and the taboo of having it in the midst of a public area. Being robbed, at least by her, didn’t frighten him in the slightest, and he simply shot her a charming grin to say as much. “You can have my best pair of cufflinks. In fact, you can have all of them. I’ll tell my mother I was the victim of a random robbery,” he joked, though she was right; he did, much to his chagrin, own cufflinks.
In all honesty, it had been quite some time since he’d had someone in his villa who wasn’t used to this sort of opulent atmosphere. Watching Sam’s reaction was like watching a little kid on Christmas morning, and his gaze went fond for a moment before he caught himself and adopted a safely bemused expression instead. Still, he couldn’t help but laugh as she ran for the stairs, and gave a mock-solemn nod in response. “I’ll make sure it stays right here,” he said, “and I’ll get the whole liquor cabinet out just for you, so you can choose.” He turned, still chuckling to himself, and set off to the kitchen to do just that while she cleaned up.
In her defense, she didn’t stop to see if he actually had any cufflinks lying around the suite’s huge master bedroom, and she refrained from testing out the bed while covered in blood. The bathroom was bigger than her entire apartment, and she might have twirled around in the thing before turning the water on and stepping under the spray without bothering to take off her clothes. It was heaven, the shower. Definitely big enough to fuck in, and with water that was actually hot, and with enough pressure to feel like one of those expensive massages against her skin. Maybe she stayed too long, but the water didn’t go cold, and the acoustics in the shower actually made those stupid singing lessons sound like they were good for something. Which, really, they were - her voice wasn’t bad, though whether or not that was because of her or Christine wasn’t exactly clear. The song, however, was definitely a familiar aria.
By the time she left his room, she’d towel dried her hair, and she’d found one of his business shirts to slip on. The sleeves were too long, and it reached mid-thigh, which at least preserved some decency given that there was nothing underneath it - not that Sam considered decency a requirement. She hummed as she went back down the winding stairs, fingers working to do up the buttons of the shirt as she crossed the room and stopped at the huge windows again. “I have better recommendations for adventure, for what it’s worth,” she told him, voice loud enough to carry wherever he was in the suite. “So, does anything thrill you?” she asked, turning her back to the voice and pressing her shoulders against the glass, letting her weight rest against it entirely, which came with a thrill all its own. “And where’s my drink?”
The view through the windows was, of course, still there when she descended the stairs, though Neil himself was absent. He was trying to figure out where bottles of bright-colored drinks had come from, because he knew there was no chance that he’d bought them himself, and despite his wealth he wasn’t having wild parties in his villa every weekend or anything like that. “Oh yeah? Like what?” His voice carried from the kitchen, which was still on the main level, and was accompanied by the sound of clinking glass. His quiet laugh in response to her question wasn’t audible, and a cabinet shut rather loudly. “Yes, things thrill me, and give me a minute,” he called, appearing around the corner a few seconds later with two bottles of expensive beer, a large bottle of some red-colored vodka thing, and two glasses. Carrying it all wasn’t easy, but he managed, and set everything down on a nearby coffee table before glass could slip from between his fingers and shatter everywhere before looking up.
Now, he liked to think of himself as a fairly decent guy, but the only way the sight of a woman in one of his shirts and nothing else would have no effect on him was if he batted for the other team, so to speak, which wasn’t the case. He didn’t openly stare, but he did look, and it was enough to suggest interest before he tucked it away and acted like she was wearing more clothing than she actually was. “You should keep that,” he commented casually, popping the top off of one of the beers and holding it out to her. “It looks better on you.” It was too flippant to be a come-on, and it was more playful than sleazy.
“Sex against these windows for starters, unless you’ve already broken them in,” she said, no qualms about the subject matter whatsoever. “Stealing something, unless you’re worried about a collar, which isn’t as thrilling as it sounds,” she added, the voice of experience. “Walking an I-Beam at a construction site in the middle of the night, with only you and the sky and the Vegas lights in the distance. Can’t hear a sound up there, nothing but your own heartbeat.” She tried to think of something else, and she gave him a knowing look. “Love, since I’m guessing you’ve never felt lovesick in your entire fucking life. Or, you know, that really intense infatuation that everyone thinks is love.”
She laughed, and she took the beer and returned her shoulders to press against the glass. “Of course it does,” she said of his shirt looking better on her, because Sam was pretty fucking comfortable in her own skin. Unconventional, a little too soft to be the ideal weight, nothing feminine, and she didn’t care. She had that natural confidence that was impossible to feign, and she tipped the beer back and downed it without taking a breath - an old bar trick - before holding the empty bottle back out to him. “That is definitely not domestic,” she said, looking at the bottle as she held it out. The bottle of red stuff caught her attention, and she left her belovedly thrilling window behind to climb onto the coffee table and crawl across to it. Sitting amidst the bottles, she popped open the top of the red liquid, and she took a long swig - no shot glass needed - before pulling a face and whistling. “Wow. That’s strong,” she commented, examining the bottle for a moment before taking another swallow and holding it out to him. “Your turn. Can’t have me spilling all my deep dark secrets while you’re standing over there being responsibly sober.” She rolled the sleeves of the shirt up to the elbow. “Oh, and music, if you have anything decent. I bet you’re an old rock guy.” She had a music thing lately; blame Christine.
Trust her to bring up sex at some point in the conversation, but fortunately Neil wasn’t easily flustered, and he shook his head as though sex against the windows were a common topic of discussion. “No, not yet. They’re completely un-broken,” he laughed. Theft didn’t sound particularly thrilling to him, whether he was caught or not, so he shook his head. Jail wasn’t the kind of thrill he ever wanted to experience. “Walking an I-Beam, now that sounds thrilling. You do that kind of thing a lot?” Love was a little trickier, which required booze, and he took a gulp of beer before answering that one. Infatuation, sure, he knew that, but he was almost positive he’d never actually been in love, not like people said. Not like his parents had been. “Wrong,” he chastised. “I’ve been lovesick. It wasn’t love, but I thought it was.” He pulled a face. “People make idiots out of themselves when they think they’re in love. What about you?” Sam didn’t strike him as the lovesick type, not in the slightest.
Few women he’d met were genuinely confident, never mind comfortable with themselves, which made Sam a refreshing change from the usual. He watched as she downed the beer, eyebrows raised, and let out a low whistle once it was empty. “How the hell did you manage that?” Neil had vague recollections of attempting something similar in the past, but it usually ended with him spraying beer everywhere while his friends roared with laughter. He honestly wasn’t sure what the red stuff was, which was probably a red flag right there, but it hadn’t been opened before and he figured it couldn’t be that bad. People left their booze all the time, and some bottles were gifts from friends that he’d completely forgotten he ever received. While he didn’t necessarily intend on getting drunk, he didn’t feel like staying sober either, so he took the bottle of red liquid and took a long swig, trying not to cough at the way it burned. “Yeah. I wonder who gave me that one.” It was strong, but it was good too, and he took another swig before setting it back down on the coffee table.
“Yeah, actually, I am. Erik’s been trying to get me into classical stuff, which basically means he throws fits until I get sick of feeling like my head’s about to explode and put on what he wants.” He rolled his eyes. In a lot of ways, Erik resembled an overgrown, rather unstable child. The sound system, complete with stereo and speakers, was in the living room, and all he had to do was dig around for the remote (there were too many to keep track of, he muttered, after he’d managed to find the right one), before music filled the space, strained voices and guitars with the occasional drumbeat in the background.
“You better get on that,” she said about the windows, downing more of the unbelievably strong red liquid as she said it, and using the shared bottle to motion to said windows. “I try to channel my destructive tendencies into my art these days,” she said, the fact that she was open about the fact that she did anything creative at all was probably a good indication of the fact the booze was starting to hit her. “But, yeah, an I-Beam at night is like your windows. You know, that thrill when you look down from a really long height? Like that.” Another sip, and the world was fuzzy enough that she set the bottle between her bent knees and seriously considered his question about love. “Love, no. Completely mad, insane lust? Oh, yeah. And that crazy feeling you get sometimes, the one where you think you’ll completely fucking die if you can’t absolutely have every bit of someone? That too.” She took another sip, and she slid the bottle toward him. “Unhealthy as fuck,” she added, because she tended to get into relationships where furniture got broken and plates got thrown.
The beer trick was no big deal, and she climbed off the coffee table and perched on the arm of the couch. “The key is not to breathe, baby,” she said of downing the beer.The music, once he turned it on, wasn’t bad. She wasn’t drunk enough that it gave her a headache, and she was on her feet within a few beats and dragging him closer to the windows and away from the furniture. “I bet you aren’t a dancer,” she said easily, and it wasn’t the booze that made her comfortable. It was just who she was, a result of growing up with a shitload of brothers and no girls to be found. Her hands slid around his shoulders, and she made a thoughtful sound that was all slurred pondering. “So, last night,” she began. “Red Riding Hood, kind of, but some horrible slutty kind with absolutely embarassing ruffled underwear and a red hoodie. And she ran around trying to get laid, but she insisted on asking every guy she encountered why they wanted to sleep with her. If they answered honestly - that they liked her rack, or thought she had a nice ass - she tried to kill them. No lie. I don’t know if that means I hate men, or I just think they’re superficial assholes,” she admitted, gracing him with a drunken smile. “Not you. You’re exempt. I’m not sure you’re a guy yet.”
Neil brushed off his use, or non-use, of his windows in favor of her art, which he was admittedly curious about and saw an opening for him to get some straight answers due to the influence of the red alcohol. “You should show me your art sometime,” he said casually, in the hope that she might agree without giving his request too much thought. She might change her mind later, but he could always hold her agreement over her if it came to that. “The difference is that my windows have glass, which will make sure I don’t fall to my death. How do you know when the thrill is worth it, and when it’s not?” He reached for his beer, since she seemed occupied with the other bottle, and took a sip. The kind of lust she was talking about was the sort of thing he’d heard of but never actually experienced for himself, and while he’d done well enough without it, sometimes he regretted the fact that most of his relationships had been fairly tame in comparison to what she was describing, wanting someone so badly it felt like you might die otherwise. “I wouldn’t know,” he shrugged, a little wistfully, and this time he downed more of his beer. “I get lust, but not like what you’re talking about. If it’s so unhealthy, then what’s the appeal?”
No, he definitely wasn’t much of a dancer, and after the masquerade he wasn’t really in the mood for it, but aside from a few weak protests as she dragged him towards the windows he didn’t put up a lot of resistance. Erik’s objections were weak, since his temper tantrum had sapped most of his energy, and Neil did his best to outright ignore them. “Not really,” he admitted. “So promise you won’t laugh.” Considering her drunkenness, though, he wasn’t too worried about her skill surpassing his own, which made it easier to place his hands on her hips. He tilted his head to the side as he listened, lips twitching as he tried to imagine her as a slutty Red Riding Hood running around propositioning men. “So that’s where the blood came from,’ he commented idly. “I think it might be a little of both. It seems to me like she wanted to find a guy who’d give her something other than a superficial reason.” He frowned in mock insult, though it wasn’t entirely feigned. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m trying to decide whether or not I should be insulted.”
“Sure,” she said of her art, proving his theory about her being too drunk to care as correct. “As long as you don’t expect swirling pastels or flowers.” She paused, amended. “Alright, not too many flowers,” she corrected. As for what was worth it and what wasn’t that required some additional thought, and he was pretty damn lucky that she was already too drunk to remember they were supposed to be dancing. Instead, she draped her arms behind the back of his neck as she thought about his question, movements little more than a thoughtless sway. “I guess it’s worth if if I get a high from it, and if I don’t die,” she explained seriously. “That feeling, it’s the same one you get when you’re completely obsessed with someone, and I can’t live without it. Well, I can, but I don’t want to,” she explained, definitely more open than she’d normally be. She looked over her shoulder at the glass, which was so clean that it might as well not be separating them from the city beyond, and she stepped back, tugging him with her using the blunt, calloused fingers at his nape. “The appeal is the feeling. You won’t get it until you feel it, baby,” she assured him, a little smug at being proven right about him. She’d gotten a sense that he didn’t flame over anything. “Ask Erik. He gets it,” she said knowingly, her tone betraying plenty of approval for the dark desires that drove the man.
She stopped one they were close to the window, and she stepped away and rounded behind him. A second later, her hand was on the small of his back, urging him toward the unmarred glass. “All the way, until there’s no floor beneath you, until you look down at there’s just empty nothing,” she told him, nudging him in case he gave her shit about it. “Guys don’t do anything more than superficial,” she said without thinking, because she wouldn’t have given that opinion away with that young tone of disappointment otherwise. She pressed against his back once the glass was close. “I don’t know. Should you be insulted?” she asked, tugging his arms behind his back, until there was nothing keeping his full weight and height from pressing against that glass.
“Swirling pastels and flowers aren’t really my thing,” he laughed, altogether rather pleased with himself. “I’d be okay with a few, though.” Neil was just curious to see what she created, rather than assess her skill; maybe they’d been thrown together because of their doors, but his interest went beyond Erik and his relationship with Christine. Sam and Liam were proof of how alter connections didn’t necessarily extend beyond the door and into Vegas. He counted himself fortunate that he wasn’t expected to actually dance, far more comfortable with the minimal movement that involved her thoughtless sway against him. “Sounds fair enough. Dying kind of eliminates any future opportunities to get your thrills, right?” While he might have displayed a demeanor that suggested carelessness in all aspects of life, he’d never actually been much of a risk taker. Sure, he’d followed his impulsive desires and done what he wanted with his life, never following a set path, but that hardly made him a rebel. A free spirit, maybe, but that was about as far as it went. “Yeah, Erik gets it, but I doubt he’s a good example of the appeal,” he said dryly. “He’s completely obsessed with Christine, and he’s miserable because of it. He’s killed people because of it. With him, not being able to live without her is literal. Sometimes I wonder how he’s still keeping himself alive.” It was one of his fears, admittedly, when it came to Erik; that he might eventually do something to himself, or even die of a broken heart as his book counterpart had (or so he thought. He’d never read the book in any great detail). “How many people have you been completely obsessed with?” It was a mixture of genuine curiosity and teasing, asked as he followed her lead to the spotless windows.
Neil was a fan of the view his villa offered, but he hesitated a moment at the feel of her hands urging him forward. There was glass, of course, and he knew it would be fine, but there was still an instinctive twinge in his belly as he neared the window. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back so she’d stop nudging him and moving forward of his own accord. “You’ve met every guy in the world, have you?” He wasn’t claiming to be a saint, but that was a pretty big generalization to make. He stopped just short of the window, frowning a little as he looked down. Maybe that feeling in the bit of his stomach was a thrill, but there was something else, and in that moment he realized he’d never done this, despite having lived in the villa for a while. When she pressed against him and pulled his arms behind his back, he has little choice but to let his weight fall against the glass, and suddenly it seemed like a whole lot of faith to put into the windows to ensure he didn’t plummet to his death. Still, the rational part of him knew there was nothing to worry about, and he berated himself for being so stupid. “I think maybe I should. If I’m not a guy, then what am I?”
“I didn’t take you for a floral and pastels kind of guy,” she agreed. Liam probably liked florals and pastels, and that didn’t speak well for the flowers or the colors. “I try with him,” she said without thinking, too wasted to realize she’d missed the segue entirely. “I don’t normally fucking try, but I do try with Liam, and he’s just always such a little bitch,” she explained with annoyance, putting it into perspective at least. Her shift of attention to Erik was immediate, though, when Neil began talking about the man from behind the door, and she scoffed at the end. “Yeah, well, the killing thing is a bit much. And he’s obsessed with an idea, not with a stupid girl who isn’t even twenty yet. If he got her, he’d be bored to fucking tears. If she got him, she wouldn’t know what the hell to do with him. She’s got some potential, but she’s not there yet, and Raoul is never going to let her be anything more than a baby production machine.” The comment about Erik dying, now that worried her, and it didn’t have much to do with the man behind the door. “Hey, no letting him die, because you’re not allowed to fucking die.” She sounded young then, well, because she was young. A grin quickly replaced the worry, though, thanks to the booze. “I’m obsessed with everyone I sleep with, for however long I’m sleeping with them,” she informed him bluntly. “If I don’t want to tear someone’s clothes off, then I don’t bother putting their dick in my mouth.”
She listened to him talk as he neared the glass, but she was really paying attention to his reaction to it. The rolling of his shoulders was telling, and the frown let her know they were making progress. She grinned when he looked down, looking for something on his face that she knew was that thrill sensation in the pit of the stomach. She kept her grip on his arms as his chest met the pane of glass, and she wound around him just enough to grin as she leaned her weight into him more fully, letting the glass bear even more weight. “Feel it?” she asked of the thrill, but she knew he did. It was on his face, even if he wanted to pretend it wasn’t, even if he didn’t like it, he was definitely feeling it. “Verdict’s still out,” she added about his masculinity.
Neil wasn’t entirely sure how they’d stumbled upon the topic of Liam, but somehow he’d been brought up regardless and he decided to just go with it. Erik, in his uncharacteristic quiet, was displeased, but the feeling was faint and hardly worth paying attention to. “I’m not a Raoul fan, but Liam doesn’t seem that bad,” he shrugged. “Then again, I barely know him. We haven’t talked much, and I don’t try with him, not like you probably do.” They hadn’t seemed to have much in common, which was fine by him. He didn’t need to be friends with everyone. Aiden, though, he seemed a less... well, like a little bitch. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, but that wasn’t always the best way to be either. “Erik is a bit much,” he scoffed, because the guy was all extremes and no balance. “Maybe you’re right. Aside from kidnapping her to his underground lair, he’s never really had a chance to get to know Christine. He’s half in love with her voice, and maybe all that stalking turned her into some sort of ideal. Hell knows. Just thinking about it gives me a headache,” he said. “You know, she should just ditch Raoul and Erik and do her own thing. Maybe she’d be happier being able to do whatever she wants.” For a moment he was surprised by her concern, not that he had any intention of allowing Erik to die in the first place. “Relax,” he said, “neither of us are dying anytime soon.” He couldn’t help but laugh at her bluntness, the voice muffled against the glass in front of him. “Fair enough.”
Shit. He just managed to bite his tongue and keep from cursing when she added her weight to his, but the glass held and he looked down at the city below with a slow, steady breath. If Sam could walk high above the ground with no glass to prevent her from falling, he could do this. No big deal. “Yeah,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant and only halfway succeeding. “I feel it.” Slowly, bit by bit, his tenseness began to relax, as he realized there was no chance of him plummeting to his doom tonight. “Alright, so how do I get a verdict? Preferably one that says I am very much a man,” he added.
“Yeah, well, Liam doesn’t give you shit everytime you talk to him. I think he’s disappointed that I’m not more like her,” she said defensively, but the defensiveness was gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by a laugh at the idea of Christine doing anything on her own. “You need to spend some time with that girl if you even think that’s an option,” she said with a shake of her head. “Anyway, women couldn’t even own property back then. It’s total dark ages, and she’d end up some ruined loose woman without the opera to live in or Raoul to support her.” Sam didn’t care much for a world that put men above women, and it was perfectly clear in the slur of her voice. “Also, you haven’t told me jack shit about your night, and even Erik was supposed to give up the goods after that red crap,” she said, referring to the red liquid.
He might have swallowed down that curse, but she still noticed the tongue bite, the way he tensed when she added her weight to what the glass was supporting. She was quiet, surprisingly, as he replied nonchalantly, and as he got used to the feel of the glass, and when the tenseness finally melted away, she pulled back and released his wrists. “Not bad for training wheels,” she told him moving to lean back against the glass beside him, her shoulders against the transparent surface. She nudged his shin with one of her bare feet, and then she wrapped a long, pale leg behind his knee as if to tug him closer with it. She didn’t, though. Instead, she tripped him up until he had to catch himself on the glass to keep from falling, and she put out a hand to his stomach to see if the muscles there clenched with the surprise and shock of the almost-fall into nothingness.
“Verdict’s still out,” she said as she walked away from the window, from him, waiting too see what he did with the adrenaline - if anything.
Neil let the topic of Liam go easily, since he was making an actual effort to not automatically dislike the man based on Erik’s hatred for Raoul. He was hardly the sort of person who allowed himself to be walked all over just to be liked, but if he could avoid making enemies, he’d do just that. The thought of Liam expecting Sam to be more like Christine made him frown, since she wasn’t exactly the poster girl for a strong, empowered woman, though that was through no fault of her own; she hadn’t made herself up, after all. “I get that she’s not the independent type, but she could change,” he shrugged. “This is like a new start for them, to exist beyond the constraints of their stories.” He almost said that Erik would let Christine stay with him if it came to that, and if not, he’d probably destroy half of Paris trying to ensure she was taken care of, but stopped himself before he could get into that kind of dangerous territory. “Yeah, good point. The time period sucks. I wonder what she’d do in the modern ages, somewhere like Vegas.” Now that would be a story. He laughed, not quite as drunk as she was, but certainly on his way to getting there. “Erik doesn’t give shit up,” he snorted, amused. “Look, he had a good time, alright? Found someone who didn’t hate him, or run away in fear, but he didn’t exactly look like himself either.” Erik protested that even that was too much, but Neil figured it kept most of the nitty-gritty parts secret.
The removal of her weight against his back made it easier to relax, and he shifted his weight back, away from the glass, assuming her little demonstration was over. “Thanks,” he said wryly, but his calm vanished a moment later, when her leg suddenly threw him off balance and he was forced to catch himself on the glass, lest he break his nose or some other part of his body by simply falling. His muscles did clench, and for a terrible second Neil expected the glass to be little more than a figment of his imagination, sending him out into the night sky and onto the streets below. In reality there was nothing but cool glass between his fingertips, keeping him safe, and he let out a quiet exhale of relief as he leaned against the glass. “Nice,” he muttered, shooting her a look from over his shoulder.
Erik was no help when it came to things like this. He knew anger, and he knew acting on impulse, but his reactions were restricted to lashing out and hurting things, whether it was himself, others, or inanimate objects. Neil, on the other hand, had rarely ever lost his cool, and most things he did were the result of prior planning and thought. He groaned inwardly and pushed away from the glass, snatching up the bottle of red from the table and took a long swig. “Hey,” he called, following after her, the bottle still hanging from one hand. A few strides was all it took to catch up, and he caught her wrist with his free hand. “You can’t just call my masculinity into question and then walk away,” he said, half-amused and half-teasing.
“She could,” Sam agreed about Christine, “but if she does, how much of that is me and how much is her?” she asked, because she knew that line was blurry as hell where she was concerned. “As for what she’d do in Vegas? Probably get eaten alive,” she said earnestly, because she couldn’t imagine any of those bastards living in the present. Okay, maybe Erik, if he had enough money at his disposal. Modern life was more forgiving in ways, it let people hide behind computer screens in a way their version of Paris didn’t. His assertion that Erik had a good time made her chuckle knowingly. “Sounds like my little cannibal in the hood isn’t the only one that got up-close and personal with someone.” Huh. Sam approved. Christine could feel as hurt as she wanted, but Sam thought Erik deserved to get his rocks off. Maybe then he’d be able to realize life wasn’t all about the physical shit he couldn’t have.
His reaction to the almost-fall, the muscles tensing and the changes in his breathing, the way his fingers caught the glass with desperation, that’s what she had been looking for, and the exhale of relief as he looked over his shoulder made her smile wider. That relief, she knew that feeling. The spike of fear, and then that feeling that coursed through the veins when death didn’t come. It was an all-encompassing kind of adrenaline, and she watched his face as he spoke, and she was very much the little girl in the red hood from the night before just then, all thrill and expectation as he turned. Even the groan and the swig from the bottle was more visceral than she was accustomed to getting from Neil, and she took it all in with eyes that were unapologetic. The Hey made one of her brows go up, and she almost backed up when he strode forward, an instinct left from the evening before. But she was still her, still all bravado, and she glanced down at the hand on her wrist, a lazy, lazy sweep of yeah, now what? in her gaze as she looked up at him. “I just did,” she informed him of what she, apparently, couldn’t do. She took the hanging bottle from between his fingers, appropriated it for her own and took a long swig as she watched him, red liquid staining her lips, gaze tease-taunt as she waited for him to fall back into his mild-mannered-always.
Since Neil saw a distinct difference between himself and Erik, it didn’t occur to him to worry about how his influence might inspire changes within the other man that might not have happened normally. “You think you might end up changing her?” He figured it might mean more if Christine underwent her own changes, as opposed to Sam nudging her along, but that seemed like a fine line to walk. “She might get used to Vegas eventually,” he added, obviously teasing, since he was pretty sure Christine wouldn’t last more than an hour or so in Las Vegas, unless she had someone looking out for her. Raoul wouldn’t be much help here, through, and Erik wouldn’t know what to do with himself either. He’d probably steal some money, buy himself an apartment, and live in seclusion all over again; the only difference was that he’d have the internet and television at his disposal. He shrugged, still not wanting to admit too much, but he didn’t outright deny that Erik had gotten up close and personal with someone either. Sam probably assumed it was a woman, and he decided to give her that assumption. “Something like that,” he said, intentionally vague.
Whatever this was, he obviously hadn’t quite caught up yet. She was watching him like she expected something from him, but Neil had never placed enough importance on feelings and reactions to understand why it mattered if he exhaled in relief or tensed at the feel of glass stopping his descent downward, and when she smiled at him he just frowned, uncomprehending, somewhere between serious and playful. Sam didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d sit and wait for anything, too much impulse and thrill, but Erik had gotten his fill of that tonight, and despite the feelings not being his they lingered in the aftermath. There was also the devastating crash, falling from such a heady high, and the way she was looking at him reminded Erik too much of the previous night. For a moment it seemed like he might do something, the hand around her wrist tightening as he shifted his weight forward, but in the end all he did was snatch the bottle back and shrug. “I guess you did, but luckily my masculinity doesn’t depend on you to exist. Sooner or later you’ll come around,” he said with a smirk, before turning and making his way back to the couch with bottle in tow.
The question about changing Christine was met with a shrug that belied more than a little uncertainty. “I don’t know.” She tugged up a strand of dark blonde hair, a reminder that it had once been black, and she scoffed a moment later. “I’m taking singing lessons. It goes both ways, maybe,” she almost-admitted, and seeing as singing lessons came with an unfortunate amount of dimebag sales, well, it was saying something that she even went there. His something like that response wasn’t poked or prodded at, though Sam wouldn’t have cared one way or the other that the person at the party was a guy. She was dating a chick at present, wasn’t she? For Sam sex was sex, and gender was just some stupid social construct. Christine might not agree, but it was no big deal to Sam.
When the hand that was wound around her wrist tightened, her expression went slightly surprised. Sam was pretty sure she could predict people, or she thought she could, but she didn’t have any experience with what she was dealing with lately. On the street, in the hood and ghetto, everything was immediate in a way these rich people weren’t, and this was just one more example that she was out of her element. Not a bad example, necessarily, but an example. So, yeah, mild-mannered wasn’t exactly the right descriptor. When he shifted his weight forward she did absolutely nothing to hide the beginning of a return lean or the confident almost-stretch onto bare toes. But then he snatched the bottle back and smirked, and she couldn’t help but laugh as he turned away and made his way back to the couch. It was a throaty laugh, drunk and husky, and she shook her mostly-dry hair. “Well fucking played,” she said, no anger in her voice at the rebuff. She didn’t stop to think about it too long, because she wouldn’t like what she found if she dug below the surface and looked at her feelings there. Sam didn’t do feelings. Instead, she strode back to him, grabbed the bottle from his hand, bare knee pressing against the inside of one thigh, and she retreated toward the stairs. “Guess that means your ass gets to sleep on the couch.” Pause, and her own smirk in return. “Alone.”
Neil had only made minor concessions so far, like dabbling in composing and musical instruments, but he kept it very much under wraps and Erik hadn’t exactly been trying to do anything, or give something up, in return. “Maybe,” he agreed. Part of him wanted to ask what Christine was doing, if Sam had agreed to take music lessons, but he didn’t, and he was just relieved that she didn’t push about Erik and his mysterious masquerade companion. He didn’t care that it had been a man rather than a woman, but if Sam found out then Christine would as well, and Erik didn’t want her knowing.
There might have been a hint of disappointment, which he’d brought on himself, as he leaned against the couch, since the way she’d come close to stretching towards him had promise, but Neil had decided to be stubborn and he wasn’t backing down. “Thanks,” he grinned, bringing the bottle back to his lips and letting out a grunt of protest when she snatched the bottle back. He could have followed her towards the stairs, and he realized he had that option, but she was drunk, he was getting there, and Erik was a human ball of disaster in his head. It made for a bad combination, at least in his opinion, despite how much he might have wanted to give in. “I guess so,” he said, giving an exaggerated sigh and falling back onto the couch. “Your lucky ass gets the choice of bedrooms. Enjoy.”
She didn’t answer until she was at the top of the winding staircase, and she leaned heavily on the bannister, bottle hanging precariously from her fingers and his shirt climbing up her bare thighs. “I’m so stealing yours,” she said smugly, and she let herself look at him for a moment as she stood there, far enough away that her expression was some indefinable thing as her gaze raked over the lazy sprawl on the couch. “Oh, I’ll enjoy,” she added, and she fully intended to. Sam wasn’t exactly shy, and she was drunk enough to a) not care and b) enjoy the thought of shocking him. She tossed the shirt over the bannister before she went, all youth and extreme bravado, and then she locked herself in his room, made as much noise as she wanted with her fingers between her legs, and fell into a deep, drunken, sated sleep.
Neil doubted his decision as soon as she tossed the shirt over the bannister, and he rolled over with a groan when he heard the distinct click of the lock being engaged. Erik, the poor fool, was puzzled when the very feminine noises began, then scandalized when the knowledge clicked into place (with a little help from Neil) though there was, of all things, something like curiosity mixed in. "I'm an idiot," he muttered, voice muffled into the pillow, and he couldn't help a snort of laughter when Erik asked why. "Forget it and let me sleep, O.G.," was his response, though sleep didn't come until a good few hours later.