Who: Sam and Liam What: Drunks bickering about the Opera House fire in a nonfunctional elevator (AKA: Sam breaks Liam's nose) Where: Stratosphere When: Recently Warnings/Rating: B for blood. L for language.
The Stratosphere was not his normal stomping grounds, not that he had been in Las Vegas long enough to have anything he could consider to be âstomping groundsâ. But it was someplace new, unfamiliar, that he could get lost in, and that was something he sorely needed to do considering all that had happened in the last weeks to change not only the way he viewed the world, but the thoughts running through the mind of the alter housed in his own thoughts. It was a dark cloud Liam had found himself in, one that he could not see his way out of, and it showed with the number of drinks he had put away that evening, to the point where the bartender had asked for his keys because he wasnât letting him drive home. Liam had taken great delight in (loudly) informing the bartender that he had no car, and thus no car keys, but he would quite appreciate a call to the cab company the bar favoured when the night was done. And the night was most assuredly not done.
People drank for many reasons, Liam knew. To lower inhibitions, to relax, to forget. It was the latter that he strived for that night, anything to drive away the darkness that had wound itself around him like cotton batting, to try and break through the cynicism that coloured his world. It was not an easy task, not in the slightest, and his body was starting to voice its protests. âIf youâll excuse me,â he slurred, kissing the cheek of the brunette he had been chatting up as he slid off his stool and made towards the restrooms, his gait unsteady and uneven, more a stumble than a proper walk.
Sam was at the Stratosphere for clarity, and she was young and stupid enough to think it could be found at the bottom of a bottle, or in some public groping while standing precariously near the edge on the observation deck. Stratosphere wasnât her usual haunt - too upscale, too tourist - but sheâd made a delivery to one of the hotel rooms below earlier, and so sheâd stayed for a drink on the 24th. The drink turned into a bottle, which turned into sex in one of the stairwells and some mutual masturbation on the aforementioned observation deck, and by the time she wandered back into the bar the world was spinning and she wanted to spin along with it, which she totally blamed on Christine, who had gone from being outraged (in her mind) to being strangely quiet and curious. Whatever, Sam didnât care about corrupting little Parisian girls - not tonight.
She wandered off in search of the restroom after another drink and a promise of a line if she met a girl there, but the bathrooms on the 24th were out of order, and she ended up being directed to the elevator. The girl with the promise of coke nodded her acknowledgement from the bar, where she was paying her tab, and Sam ducked into the elevator, which was paneled and dark and cool. She leaned her head back against the wall, and she rubbed at her eyes, her hands covering her face. She was dressed in a kilt, dark green and gray and black, black socks to her knees and a black faux-wifebeater. Her hair was loose and messy, and her eyes were heavily lined with dark, dark kohl. Instead of making her look older, the entire get-up just added to her youth, and the way she swayed to the music in the club didnât do shit to contradict that reality.
Finding the restrooms out of service was probably one of the worst things that Liam could think of happening just then, especially with his knees being as wobbly as they were and the room tipping in that delightful way that did nothing to aid in onesâ ability to walk. At least stairs didnât stand in his way of the next floor as Liam made his way to the elevator, having to run the last few steps as the doors started closing. âHold the doors!â he called out to whomever was within, though the call of help was unneeded when he caught the door a foot before it closed, pausing long enough to let the doors reopen before he ducked within. A punch of the button for the next floor, also unneeded as it was already lit, and the doors were closing again as he stumbled back to let shoulder blades hit the paneled wall of the elevator.
He was dressed in his normal attire of cords and a buttondown, the short sleeves his only nod to the warmth that clung to the air even this late in the day. âOut of service bathrooms with a bar next door ought to be illegal,â Liam said by way of conversation, turning so that his shoulder butted against the wall, pushing his hand through his hair, damp with sweat near the scalp. The world was fuzzy enough that he didnât yet notice who his elevator-companion was.
Sam, even through the booze, recognized his voice, and she lowered her hands and reached for the elevator buttons in one movement, fingers finding buttons and mashing them together all at once, which the elevator didnât like. It came screeching to a stop, gears on wires screaming, and she groaned as she looked over at him. Liam, unfortunately, was attractive when disheveled, and she was drunk enough to appreciate that for one minute before shoving her fingers at the buttons again. Nothing happened, and she was way too drunk to think about grabbing the emergency phone, and fuck this shit. Luckily, she didnât need to piss, and she just leaned back against the wall opposite his and patted her pockets for her cellphone or journal, both of which were at home, since taking identifying shit on a drug deal was bad news. âTell me you donât have to piss,â she finally said, her voice muffle-loud in her own ears, a result of the music and the drinking. The world spun, or maybe it was just the elevator jerking, and she slid along the wall, bare knees coming up to meet her chest. Great.
âWhat the hell are you-â Liam started as Sam (whom he recognized now that she had his attention) started punching buttons with a vengeance. He let out a groan, a mix of dismay and frustration, when the elevator ground to a halt, jerking before settling fully, his eyes going to the ceiling. âYouâve got to be kidding me.â Looking back towards her, Liam tried to push that fuzz away from his senses, arms folding over his chest. âOnly reason I was on the elevator to begin with,â he stated bluntly before letting out another groan and going over to punch a button of his own. âAnd you had to throw a fit and break something. Do learn to control your temper.â His own head was spinning, the buzz refusing to relent as he leaned back against the wall, one hand to his head.
Sam began to inform him that she hadnât thrown a fit, because he hadnât seen a fit yet, not if he thought it consisted of some button pushing. âDonât tell me what to do,â she said, and she sounded young when she said it, which was only fitting giving the fact that she was. âAnd donât you dare piss in this elevator,â she added as an afterthought, because she could probably remember someone pissing around her somewhere if she tried hard enough. âDonât you have Opera Houses to be burning?â she asked, because, yeah, she wasnât buying Liam not knowing what Raoul was doing, not when they were so tight.
âI wouldnât tell you to do anything,â Liam said as he pulled his hand away from his forehead, giving her a long look. âAnd Iâm not going to piss in front of you. Iâm not that drunk. As for the last part.â Liam paused for a long moment, sliding down to sit on the floor across from her, arms balanced on his knees. âI have no idea what youâre talking about. Last I knew, the Opera House was fine, a bit bloodied from the masquerade, but still standing.â At the mention of the masquerade, he rubbed at his chest, just over his heart, an idle gesture that turned into a scratch, a hard rub through the thin fabric of his shirt.
âYou are so full of shit,â Sam said, leaning her head back and trying to wrangle up the strength to push the elevator buttons again. âYou always know what Raoul is doing, Liam. You canât change the fucking rules now,â she said, and she was actually really pissed off that he was lying, especially when she knew he was lying. âChristine almost ran face-first into that fucking fire,â she added, not that she expected him to be fazed by that confession. Fuck it. Whatever. She lifted a booted foot and kicked the button panel. And maybe she kicked a little too hard, because the wires above them screamed and screeched, and the elevator dropped two stories in a freefall before the safety engaged, causing the entire cabin to jerk upward and settle as she screamed in belated fear.
At the bit of information about Christine nearly running into the fire, Liam gave her a long, steady look. His eyes may have been bloodshot, glassy from alcohol, but they were steady. The keyword in her statement was âalmostâ. He saw no injuries, no burns, and likely, that meant that Christine did not get injured with the fire, either. Opening his mouth to say something in response, he was abruptly quieted as her kick caused the elevator to fall. Liam didnât scream so much as shout in response, hands shooting out to either side of him to press against the wall of the elevator just as it came to a halt, his heart hammering a mile a minute beneath his chest, phantom pains shooting out through his torso. He grimaced, rubbing at his chest before glancing over towards Sam.
âAre you okay?â he asked, and there was genuine concern there. No matter the animosity between them, Liam didnât want to see anything happen to her. Or maybe that was Raoul talking, him wanting to keep Christine, and by extension, Sam, safe. Either way, the words were honest and his concern true.
It took her longer to calm down that it took him. Sam loved thrills, sure, but only when she was expecting them. It was an unwelcome realization, the fact that she didnât like all thrills, and it made her question who she was or something; it took her longer than it should have to push that aside. Her face was pale white, and her hands were clenched against the ground, as if she could hold onto the flat surface with fingers and will alone, which was obviously bullshit, as was sure to be evidenced by a huge fucking bruise on her hip where sheâd connected heavily with the floor when the elevator jerked and settled. She looked up when he asked his question, surprised that there wasnât the entire continentâs worth of ire there. Her hair was a mess, all in her face, and her eyes were as bloodshot as his, but she managed to focus on his features as she sat back, like she hadnât just screamed like a five-year-old. âYeah, of course. I climb things this high every day,â she said, trying to save face. She stood a moment later, carefully testing her weight against the floor. Then, she looked up at the elevator door, the one in the ceiling. âWhatâs with the chest?â she finally asked, because Christine, who was less petrified of plunging to certain death than she should have been, kept asking.
âAnd now whoâs the liar?â The pale skin, the way her fingers clenched against the hard floor of the elevator; Liam may not have considered himself to be a good reader of people, but Sam was not a vision of âokayâ by any definition of the word. But he let her have her pride, or whatever it was that she was showing then. As she stood, he kept his seat, stretching long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, hands in his lap. The question was bypassed, because it wasnât something he wanted to talk about, and instead he followed her gaze to the ceiling and the panels there. âAre you thinking of attempting an escape through the ceiling of the elevator?â he asked. âI doubt itâs anything like the movies. And if you did get on top, what would you do then? We donât have a way to pry open doors, and with a place like this, theyâll know the elevator isnât functioning soon. So we should wait. It shouldnât be that long before someoneâs sent to check on it, and then weâll be out and apart once more.â He said it as matter of factly as he could, brows lifted to warn off any argument to his words.
Sam looked down when he spoke, his logic rattling already rattled nerves. âYou donât want me in here with you any longer than necessary, Liam. Want to know why?â she asked, and she was still sober enough to drop down in front of him, kilt flaring around her boots and hair falling into unfocused eyes as she reached his level. âBecause Iâm fucking pissed at you for lying to me, and for what you let him do, and for what itâs going to mean for the rest of us. I donât care if Christine is conflicted, or if she thinks Raoul is a good man, or if she screams my head off over being worried about Erik. I could give a shit less about that, but you? Your lying? Thatâs something you control, just like being a douche is something you control.â She was rambling, the booze making things segue strangely, but whatever. None of it mattered, because she pulled back an arm and aimed her fist at his nose, close enough that even if she missed by a few inches, she would hit something.
Liam didnât flinch, didnât so much as blink as Sam dropped down in front of him, his gaze as steady as it had been moments before. âLying?â he started to say, ready to refute her comments before she started in on another tirade of insults and accusations, but that was before her fist slammed into his face, and as soon as she pulled her hand back, his own hands were up towards his nose, blood filling his cupped palms as he got to his feet in a rush. âAre you fucking insane?â he asked, his words as unsteady as they got as he turned towards the corner of the elevator, kicking the wall out of pain and frustration. âYou- fuck. I think you broke my fucking nose!â The southern drawl to his voice was only more pronounced in his pain, the rest of the conversation forgotten in that moment, giving another kick to the wall before he pressed his forehead against it. One hand remained cupped around his nose, the other fumbling at the buttons to his shirt, hand shaking. âGod dammit,â he hissed. âI didnât fucking- you fucking asked if I burnt the place down. And I did not. I wasnât lying. And I was not myself when he went through that door. We are not the same person!â
Sam shook out her hand, because fuck that hurt, landing more solidly than sheâd expected. âOh, bullshit. She asked. I asked. You pretended you didnât know crap about it. Lying.â Thatâs as far as she managed before all his kicking made the gears scream again. The fall was longer this time, and it was all she could do to keep from getting bruised to hell and back with the landing, which came with a harder jerk. Her head met with the wall behind her, and she hissed, across the elevator from him once more. Great. She was going to die in an elevator with someone who couldnât stand her. Fucking universe. She wasnât even sober, dammit. Death should be a sober thing, surely. âYou said the last you knew the Opera House was fine, Liam. Keep your lies straight.â And then she smiled, because fuck it all, but he deserved that punch. Huh, ok, at least if she died, it would be with the knowledge that sheâd broken his smug nose. Somewhere, something dinged, and a voice from overhead called down to them. Thank fucking God.
That next jerk, the breathless few moments of freefall had etched fear over Liamâs face, and when the elevator car came to an abrupt halt, he lost his balance and fell, hitting his own head hard against the wall of the elevator, leaving him dazed for several long moments as he slumped to the floor, the shirt forgotten and left half-unbuttoned. It exposed the area above his chest, clawed skin, fresh and raw, and he did not bother to try and right himself. âAnd the last I knew it was fine, until Christine said about the fire!â Liam managed a glare across the car from her. âI just- Never you mind.â A hand came up to cover his face, bloodied fingers leaving marks where they rested against his forehead, and his entire posture was that of a man defeated.
âWhich still means you lied to me now,â she insisted, because he was the most infuriating man sheâd ever met. She saw the claw marks, sure, but she was too pissed to pay them the kind of attention she normally would have. He was healthy enough to be a pain in the ass, and she touched her fingers to the back of her head where pain was radiating along her scalp. âCanât you just be straight for once? Does it all have to be wit or lies or scathing crap?â she asked, but that was all she managed before the door at the top of the elevator slid open, a rope ladder coming down, followed by firefighter paramedics. The world was starting to go dark from the smack to her head, and the booze, and the entire being thrown around an elevator thing, but she still managed to give Liam a smile as the paramedic crouched in front of him. âI broke his nose,â she said smugly. What the hell. Who cared if he pressed charges; she hadnât had an assault collar in years, and this one would be worth it.
âYou wouldnât want to hear me being âstraightâ with you, Sam. Youâd still think I was lying even if I only spoke the truth to you.â Liam glanced up at the paramedic, and then he gave a nod of his head. âSee to her first. I think she hit her head a few times when the elevator dropped. Iâll be fine.â Even though the back of his own head was aching, he wasnât a complete and utter asshole. Besides, things were hard to focus on, and he really just wanted a bit of peace after all of her yelling at him. Things were messed up, he knew that, and he knew Raoul was to blame for it, but it all fell into place alongside what the woman at the masquerade had taught him. Everything ends in misery.
Closing his eyes, Liam let his head fall back against the wall, the anger bleeding away as he went quiet.