| Simple Words |
[Sep. 20th, 2007|10:38 pm] |
*Beeeep.... Beeeep... Beeep*
A thin cell phone lights up beside the mattress. Incoming call from Whistler.
“...Hello?” Rhiannon’s voice is sleep-smudged.
His voice catches. The pitch is slightly higher than practiced. "Hey. Is it too early?"
Rhiannon looks at a wall clock.
*Tick.... Tick.... Tick*
“It’s 9pm.” She rubs her eye. “No, I mean... I was just taking a nap. Before.” She fiddles with the strap of her tank top.
Whistler checks the rented digital clock next to the borrowed bed.
"Patrol." A rhetorical comment. He fidgets with the knotted shoestring. "I wanted to touch base."
Silence. What he doesn't say.
"I have your special order." He struggles more, puts the heel of his right foot against the aged leather. "I'll be around back, guessing the service entrance makes sense, yah?"
Rhiannon shakes her head. Realizes he can’t see. “No... I mean for gathering, sure. But not when we go in to fight. The front’s actually better.”
She sits up, Indian-style. “If I were you, I’d put the barrels on four corners. That way, it doesn’t matter where he comes out.” He. As if there’s gender.
The shoe comes loose and flies across the room, smacking into a wingback chair. Whistler breathes into the phone, mostly in relief.
"Good plan." He nods faster than he should. "I nominate you as de facto leader for this mission, Rhi. All opposed?" Whistler glances into the mirror. "The 'ayes' carry."
There's a hole in his sock. One finger wide. Two as he stretched the material. "And as a grunt in this war, I'm prepared for my marchin' orders."
Blearily, Rhiannon looks over and sees the coffee. Maybe she should brew a pot.
“That’s not a fair vote. I didn’t get one.” The Slayer puts her legs over the edge of the bed. They are naked and sleek. Muscled like a cat’s. “I’ll do my part.”
Rhiannon stands up. Her feet pat softly across the floor. “I vote you stick with chemical warfare. Fire from a distance. You’ll see what I mean.”
*Filter, coffee grounds, water, on switch*
"True leaders never get the chance." He leans back onto the bed, misjudging the distance between his skull and the headboard.
*crack*
"Ow." He pauses. "Out of harm's way then."
She puts her back to the counter. Her eyes adjust and the apartment unfolds before her. You used to live here.
“Haven’t you been hurt enough?” Rhiannon’s voice sharpens.
Whistler bites the inside of his cheek. He's fully dressed but feels naked. "Who's gonna watch your back, then?"
“Connor,” she fires back.
She realizes how it sounds. There are no replacements. Softening, “And you. Think of yourself as a sniper.”
He nods again. It'll have to be enough. "If you don't come out in thirty minutes."
Whistler holds his breath.
"I don't care who I've gotta go through, Rhi. I'm getting you out alive."
Rhiannon makes a noise, air huffing from her mouth. “I didn’t say you couldn’t go in. Just... stay in the back.”
The coffee pot grumbles.
“I don’t die, Whistler.” She takes off for the beaten couch. Sits heavily. It scratches her bare thighs.
But I did. He keeps those words to himself. Whistler busies himself, tearing a wider hole in the sock.
"You ever notice apocalyptic events follow a cycle? Like every six or seven months." She'll notice the change in topic.
“Is this what you called for, Whistler?” She pulls a knee up. “To shoot the shit?”
*In the distance, a freight train rolls*
“Maybe offer me a cigarette that burns blue?” Rhiannon watches the red circle on the pot.
A group of revellers charge past the hotel room door. He swears the room shakes.
"No. I wanted to hear your voice. Spend a quiet moment with you before the shit hits the fan."
He's surprised at his own blunt response. "We won't get that chance again. Tomorrow night."
Whistler sits upright. "Wait. Colored smoke?"
Rhiannon rubs her elbow. “Don’t act so surprised.”
A steady trickle of coffee into the pot. It burps and spews more.
She hopes this won’t go deep. His words are little distractions let loose in her head. Things that rattle.
"What?" The dream comes back in technicolor. "I didn't do anything."
Rhiannon gets up. “Like you have to try.” She pulls the pot out prematurely. Coffee sizzles on the burner. She makes her cup and drinks it hot. It scalds her mouth.
Whistler considers the mini-bar, stops at the astronomical price tag of a thimble-ful of vodka.
"Are we gonna fight over a fuckin' dream?" He enjoys arguing with the Slayer, but she's about to go into a fight. Not the best time for a distraction.
Rhiannon blows across the cup. “It’s not a dream if we both remember.” She takes another sip and sets it down.
*A final grumble from the percolator*
The Slayer goes to a clothes drying rack. She pulls her pants on. They’re stiff from the air.
*Zip* The button pushes through.
“Say you miss me.”
Whistler contemplates an hour's nap. Thinks better of it.
"With every breath, Rhi. I miss ya."
He finally pulls away the sock, considers what he'll wear for the showdown. Sturdy boots. A shame he never bought jeans. Chances are clothes are going to get wrecked. "Tell me you miss me."
Rhiannon smiles. A shade of old behavior. “How bad do you need to hear it?”
To starve him, just a little. And then drown him in it.
*Hiss* The vodka goes down far too easy. The tiny bottle tossed into the garbage beside the dwarfen refrigerator.
"My life depends on it." There's an upward twitch to the corners of his mouth.
Rhiannon murmurs, “Wait for it...” Her smile grows.
A tiny place of warmth blooms in her chest.
“I miss you.”
It wasn't the alcohol that warmed his. "Should I bring an extra pack of cigarettes as celebration?"
Rhiannon says, “I quit.”
"Proud of ya." He chews his bottom lip. "We get through this, maybe you can show me how."
She picks up her coffee. Uncomfortable in the moment. “Don’t get sentimental.”
*Click* |
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