Aisling Wilde (showmeonce) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-29 10:50:00 |
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Maybe if she was lucky, she thought darkly as she stalked down the streets in the Tenements leading to Cian’s place, he’d just shoot her. Put her out of her fucking misery because the only reason she was even bothering to do this was because Neil had pretty much told her either she came and talked to him or he would. And while she was (pretty) sure that Cian wouldn’t shoot her (she could still hope), she was pretty fucking certain he’d have no problems shooting Neil for being annoying and prying into his business. Still, Neil had made some pretty damn good points, and after she’d calmed down enough to listen to them, she realized they were logical. Even though she’d tried really, really hard to be as dense as Cian. Which was why she was standing in front of Cian’s apartment building. She’d changed into sweats and a sweater, washed her makeup off and had a headband in her hair. Easy to change into her work clothes like this, and she’d have had to redo her makeup anyway, even if she hadn’t practically cried it all off. She was comfortable, her eyes were only a little red, and that was as good as she was going to get for this damned conversation. As she rang the buzzer, she reconsidered what she was doing. This wasn’t a conversation she really wanted to have, was it? Neil’s logic was all well and good - hell, her logic was good - but maybe she was seeing what she wanted to see. Maybe she should leave. She got an answer eventually, though Cian had considered ignoring the buzzing. How long had it been since he’d had more than a single shot of whiskey in one go? Fuck, he was going to be regretting this tomorrow. Another thing to lay at Aisling fucking Wilde’s door -- the room was fuzzy around the edges and his mind was sluggish. The buzzer was a fucking annoyance. He answered in the end, his words a little slurred: “Unless someone important’s dead, fuck off.” She considered just turning and walking away. She didn’t need this. Hadn’t she had enough yet? For fuck’s sake, Aisling, she thought. You are a fucking masochist. The only thing keeping her glued to the fucking doorstep was her promise to Neil. “Open the fucking door, Cian.” He probably should have told her to go away -- you again, fuck’s sake woman, are you a fucking masochist? -- but somewhere in his muddled mind, there was something like relief. Relief that ‘good-bye’ never really meant good-bye with her. Relief that his resolve wouldn’t be tested. It was probably unhealthy, the way they circled each other with barely room to breathe, but he wasn’t sure how the hell he’d manage any other way. “What, you’re not done talking?” he said. But the telltale buzz came moments later -- door open, security disabled. An invitation, even though he’d never use so many words to extend it. He poured himself more whiskey, noting that the bottle was nearly empty. Hopefully he managed to not empty it fully before he dropped out of consciousness (if he was going to be fucked up in the morning, might as well go all out). She rolled her eyes but entered, making sure the door was shut securely behind her, and took her time climbing the stairs. The last time she’d started a conversation like that, he’d been dying and she’d practically flown up the stairs. Hadn’t even been half-a-fucking-year, and already things were screwed up. Again. And her fault. Again. There was a perfunctory knock before she opened the door to the fourth floor. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t Cian and a practically empty bottle of whiskey. Her nose wrinkled - the smell of whiskey had always been too strong for her - and she locked her eyes on the source of every fucking problem she’d had in the last fifteen years. “We need to talk.” “Make yourself at home,” he said sourly; he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of whatever furniture she decided to claim before returning it to rest at his side. He’d have been tense if he could; as it was, the alcohol had relaxed him to the point of giving no fucks whatsoever. She’d do whatever she’d do At least she wasn’t hopping ship to Kerwon. “So talk, if you’ve got something else to say,” he told her. He’d said, I’m done, but she never seemed to be done (a dog with a fucking bone on the worst possible subject). “Don’t let me stop you, like I could.” “No need,” she replied, equally as sour. “I won’t be staying long.” And she wouldn’t be, if she could help it; she had to get to work after this. Had timed it so that she had exactly an hour to say what she needed to say, try to get some fucking answers out of him, and then leave. That was more than enough time to spend on this damnable promise. “Why did you end it? And I don’t want some fucking bullshit answer, Cian. I want the truth. You said you were going to apologize - why? And why wait that fucking long?” It was the alcohol, he would maintain that had him putting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands with a frustrated groan. “You don’t fucking give up,” he muttered. “Ancient fucking history, and you want to dredge this up now?” Of course she did. Serious conversations were always best with a head muddled by alcohol. Fuck’s sake, this was why he didn’t drink, but he’d been so sure she was going to avoid him at least awhile. “I like living, princess,” he said, tone sliding from exasperated back to tired. All of this lately was just exhausting. “I tried to explain before apologizing, but you weren’t having any of it, so I said fuck you. Stand by that decision,” he added, just in case she was under the impression that he was going to apologize again. No way in hell was that happening. “I ended it because I picked my sorry ass over you, so sorry to disappoint. Doesn’t matter anymore; it’s over.” Tynan had found out, then. It eased the hurt a little - if she’d known, she’d have told him to make the same decision. They had one thing in common: they both liked him living. Didn’t make the pain go away entirely, but she could at least comprehend why he’d done it the way he had. There had probably been a better way, but she was fucked to think of what it had been. Besides, it wasn’t like they could change the past, anyway. But she latched onto his it’s over. She had always been so upset after an altercation with Cian that she never sat down to analyze what he’d been saying - and what he hadn’t been saying. Neil had pointed it out to her: has he ever said he doesn’t love you? has he ever said he hates you and wants you gone? No, he hadn’t. Not once in the last however many fucking years they’d been doing this. “Is it?” she asked, moving to stand in front of him. “Look at me and tell me you never loved me. Tell me you don’t still love me, Cian.” If he could do just that fucking much for her, give her that one small mercy, she could leave. She’d have been right the entire fucking time, and maybe she could finally fucking move on. Notably, he didn’t look up at her. “Could just lie to you, either way,” he pointed out. “You never could tell.” Until now, apparently. “Fine, then look me straight in the eye and lie to me. Tell me what you think I want to hear, if that’s what you want to do,” she challenged. She didn’t think he could it; he had always been a good liar, and she couldn’t always tell, but about the important things he never lied - he always followed her lead. She wasn’t going away until he looked up, that much was for certain. And did he really want her to go, anyway? It was probably the whiskey talking, but at least things couldn’t get worse -- shit was out in the open now, over a dozen years of secrets and lies and evasions, and, “I could just say nothing. What’s the point? You’re a fucking idiot sometimes, but it’s all spelled out for you now, isn’t it?” If I’d never loved you, you think I’d have done any of this? “I need another drink.” He took it from the bottle this time; it was nearly empty, anyway. The blur of it helped keep him from losing his shit, which seemed like the exact wrong thing to do here (he didn’t even know why he should be angry anymore, only that he was; it was probably a defense mechanism, but he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to identify it). “Nearly fucking killed me the first time; why would I want to go there with you again?” “Fuck,” she muttered. He was supposed to prove her right - not flippantly tell her in so many words that she’d been wrong this entire fucking time. “Who the hell would try to kill you over this now?” It was relevant and it would give her a minute to think through the thoughts firing through her head. “The only person who was ever that invested is dead.” She needed a drink. “Where’s the rest of your alcohol?” “Plenty of people try to kill me,” he said. “Pretty fucking regular occurrence. You think it’s bad for you? Raise to the power of un-fucking-believable. Had a guild councilor out for my blood for months once.” Not that that had had anything to do with her, even if he’d thought it might, at the time. “Someone always coming along to fill the void.” And if she was known to be entangled with him that way? Attempts on her life would skyrocket, too. Striking at weak points was basic strategy. “I’m not that idiot kid anymore, anyway. Not sure if we were suited then, pretty sure we’re not anymore.” He waved again in the direction of the spartan kitchen. “Shelf above the fridge, take whatever the hell you want.” No use pointing out that people wanting to kill him because he was in charge had little to do with people wanting to kill him for being involved with her. Hell, if anything, she wouldn’t be surprised if the attempts on her life would skyrocket if people thought they were getting closer. Not that the attempts weren’t already high, but still. She turned around and headed into the kitchen, looking at the specified shelf. He didn’t have a damn thing that was worth drinking. She grabbed a bottle of vodka - she didn’t even know he drank vodka - and a glass. She poured a little in the bottom of the cup and slammed it back, wincing as it hit her throat. Another makeshift shot poured and downed, and then she felt ready to rejoin Cian in the living room. “How do you know we’re not suited?” Ah, liquid courage. He wasn’t getting off easy tonight. “Experience speaks,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t like our odds. I tend to be better with those than not.” And maybe the risk just seemed too high. If she actually left, like he’d thought she might… Turning it around is probably stupid, but he’s drunk and tired and it comes out anyway: “Why do you think we are?” Another shot. “I don’t,” she said, simple and to the point. “I don’t know that we are, I don’t know that we aren’t.” Maybe she should have eaten before having that last shot. Shit. If she kept going at this rate, she wasn’t making it to work. “But I think the risk is worth the reward. What’s the worst that could happen?” “Big fucking blow-up,” he answered. “Possibly with death. Plenty of upheaval. More assassination attempts. Who the hell knows; round one wasn’t bad enough for you?” And damn it, that was basically what she’d just said, wasn’t it? He was sighing a hell of a lot tonight. (He was also eyeing the bottle of vodka she hadn’t brought over. One of his multiple women had left that behind -- perfect fucking thought in these circumstances -- and though he hated the stuff, it seemed tempting right now; there were reasons he tried not to drink often.) he looked up at her finally, morose to her hopeful, asked, “What the hell do you want from me?” “Fuck, Ci. People are always trying to kill us for one thing or another. What more upheaval can be thrown at us? Because from where I’m sitting? The cat’s been let out of the bag and shit ain’t going back to how it was.” And that was the truth. There was no way she would be able to interact with him anymore, not knowing what she did. She went back to the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of vodka and poured another shot. This time, when she came back, she had the bottle with her. “I don’t want to regret anymore,” she said quietly. “And this could be a bad fucking idea, but it could be a good idea. I don’t know.” The shot was slammed back; she could barely feel the burn anymore. “What do you want?” “More whiskey,” he answered. He wasn’t being glib; it was literally the only thing he could think of himself wanting. “Right now, that’s the one fucking thing I know with absolute certainty. Give me that,” he said, reaching for the bottle. She handed over the bottle but felt the need to point out that “It’s not whiskey. It’s vodka.” “It’ll do.” He wasn’t feeling picky. Her cup was empty and she her mind was racing with more questions and thoughts that she didn’t know what to do with. Over the years, she’d gotten really good at compartmentalizing, but tonight all of those skills flew out the metaphorical window. Maybe it was better that Cian had the alcohol - it wasn’t helping her think. She took the seat next to him. The black leather creaked as she practically fell down next to him, face pointed towards the ceiling. “What if I said I wanted to give it another go?” “I’d say… you’ve got to be crazy.” But not no. “I don’t even know what you’re picturing when you say that.” Not flowers and candlelit dinners and climbing into her bedroom window, that was for fucking sure. He did those things sometimes, but they were an act. They weren’t real. He didn’t think she was asking him to playact, and what the hell else did he know, except teenage lunacy? “That’s not a no,” she pointed out, turning so that she could stare at the side of his face. He had a really nice jawline. “And I don’t know what I’m picturing, just…” She waved her hands around in front of her. “Not this.” “Well, this is the best I got,” he told her. He slouched against the couch, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back. “You want something else, you’re going to have to tell me what the fuck that is.” That wasn’t a no, either; if anything, it bordered on yes. His head was going to be pounding in the morning, for a lot of reasons. “Until then,” he said and took another swig of vodka (it was almost not vile, now that he’d had enough of it), “I’m going with a shitton of booze.” “You can always tell me you don’t want me and I’ll go away.” “I could,” he acknowledged without opening his eyes or otherwise moving to do just that. “I think I’ll just drink instead.” Ash sighed and moved closer, resting her cheek on his shoulder. He wanted to be a dick about this - fine. Two could play at that game. (And now that she knew the rules, she’d be able to play better.) “Give me that,” she said, reaching over and taking the bottle back. It wasn’t until later, when she was practically passed out on Cian, that she remembered she was supposed to go to work. |