( obsession is a dangerous thing, but beautiful, in its own right. it takes strong men, beautiful men, and tears them down to their insincerity; leon says he doesn't know, but he does know, doesn't he? leon says that it's a deal, but she knows that if they agreed to leave together, that if they don't find this ada, that they'll stand on the precipice of the town line and leon will likely say but like there's some stone they didn't overturn at least three times, and they'll circle around again. an endless cycle of endless torture, all to come up with no answers: that's what she's expecting, despite the guidance that james is, supposedly, actually here. and maybe when they turn to leave, she won't be able to leave at all; that's a real possibility.
but it's a deal, anyway, which she answers with a smile, instead of agreement--a shallow lie, maybe, but it means that it could truthfully go either way.
and what does leon see, looking back at her, saying things like that? she writes him off and he comes back again with an addendum; she can't seem to find the right way to color in the lines, but then she's never been good at that to begin with. it's obvious, given the way that she's still seated next to him, given the way that she hasn't offered to find some other room in this hellhole to sleep in, or stay in, or get cleaned up in. the weather likely isn't going to let up for hours; there's no point in getting drenched in blood and rainwater when they can wait for the foggy, early hours of a grey morning.
so she considers it, as she tilts her head the other way, looking at the rest of the bed--and then tilts again, to look at him, smiling. )
Think the sheets are clean? I've heard getting beneath them really gets the blood pumping.
( as if sleeping is a foreign concept. as if she can't really recall it happening at all. as if some muddied memory of a bed and pain and torture are the only things she can dredge up. )
I might be willing to keep a guy warm, but only if he keeps me entertained.
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Date: 2025-06-08 09:19 pm (UTC)but it's a deal, anyway, which she answers with a smile, instead of agreement--a shallow lie, maybe, but it means that it could truthfully go either way.
and what does leon see, looking back at her, saying things like that? she writes him off and he comes back again with an addendum; she can't seem to find the right way to color in the lines, but then she's never been good at that to begin with. it's obvious, given the way that she's still seated next to him, given the way that she hasn't offered to find some other room in this hellhole to sleep in, or stay in, or get cleaned up in. the weather likely isn't going to let up for hours; there's no point in getting drenched in blood and rainwater when they can wait for the foggy, early hours of a grey morning.
so she considers it, as she tilts her head the other way, looking at the rest of the bed--and then tilts again, to look at him, smiling. )
Think the sheets are clean? I've heard getting beneath them really gets the blood pumping.
( as if sleeping is a foreign concept. as if she can't really recall it happening at all. as if some muddied memory of a bed and pain and torture are the only things she can dredge up. )
I might be willing to keep a guy warm, but only if he keeps me entertained.