Re: [Carnival - Adult]
Rory didn't have any French, but the words that she used with him were small, bite-sized, and easy to decipher for context. There was a part of him that wanted to know all of her words, hear them spill out in one, near-endless, long line. But there was a bigger part of him that appreciated not knowing. As a misshapen solider in some invisible(to the common eye) war, Rory could find a bit of holiness in still being surprised by things, in not knowing everything about her. Which was a little sideways, because he really did want to know everything about her, everything that she was willing to give him. So long as it was her and it was anything, even if it was made up things. He didn't care if they were lies or truths, so long as she kept speaking them to him, him, only him. She questioned with that Oui?, and he nodded resolute against the curve of her throat before she took his hand in hers and drew him further along through the trees.
The fool, he remained disinterested with the curling waves of anxiety that were trying to lick away the thin lining of his whiskey slick stomach. The bird was close, her hand was knotted with his, and she was alive. That should have been enough for the dog, but there was the moon too, and now there was this feeling that couldn't be figured aside from for the fact that it was definitely out of place. Rory's steps slowed, and he could feel the hair standing up on the back of his neck just like the agitated hackles of a rabid dog. The bird continued forward, closer to the metal front of her trailer, but Rory eventually stopped. He didn't let go of her hand, however, and their arms became momentarily strung long between them. But she tugged then, and he tried to shake the uncertainty barking off half-mad in the back of his head. When she turned to kiss him again, such a small thing, it did much to alleviate the sick, acidic feeling of malaise in his stomach.
Rory wasn't any witch, he didn't recognize magic for what it was. He had a dog's keen sense for some things that were supernatural, but mostly they were things that had to be smelled or just tied to him in the way that most demonic things were. Maybe it had something to do with her again, her being so close, but he wouldn't recognize that anything was really wrong until it was really too late.
"What do you think about?" When she pulled at him again, he followed her those final and fateful last few steps. "Because I've thought of you, too." As soon as he said the words, his fingers relinquished hers and Rory hissed with pained confusion. Just outside her trailer door there, and he turned his head, coughing an unexpected mouthful of red, red blood into his open palm. Startled, the black tar of his eyes stared at the bird before him.
"Something's wrong…" Which was kind of an understatement, considering the way his heart was hammering, pumping absurdly human blood through his veins and out of holes that were cropping up all over his chest and abdomen. If that magic was meant to keep the hellhound away, it would do that, but it seemed to have taken its immortality with it. Rory went to the ground, sitting there lightheaded and fuzzy with nostalgia, peeling back a portion of his jacket to glimpse the red that was beginning to bloom across his shirt front. A dozen or so forgotten bullet wounds, suddenly remembered. "Well, fuck."