[log] I JUST DIIIIIED IN YOUR ARMS TONIIIIIIGHT [closed]

[devoutish]

Characters: Alfie Solomons, Emily Kaldwin, Fiona, Royce Melborn
Location building 41
Date: evening of 157 through morning of 158
Summary: Alfie bleeds to death in the blood house, for maximum Snowhell fun
Warnings: graphic injury, death and dying

Step into the only remaining room in this house and you'll be in for a shock--at first blush, it looks like you've stepped into a room that has blood all over the floor and walls. Look closer, though, and it's actually paint. This was once an artist's studio, judging by the canvases stacked up in the corner. It seems like there were paintings on the canvases once, but now they're muddy or blacked out entirely by thick paint. Some of the paint on the walls has been scraped away, revealing yet more paint. Some of the canvases have had their paint scraped off, or have been taken apart entirely.

Comments

[plundering]

You said it didn't count.

[She doesn't know if this is helping him, but she doesn't really know what else to do.]

[devoutish]

[He shakes his wrist, trying to slide one of the bracelets off.]

Keep it for me until I get back, then.

[plundering]

[Fiona pulls back a bit, frowning, and hesitates before she helps him pull the bracelet off.]

Are you sure?

[devoutish]

Mm. But don't think you're getting away with keeping it forever.

[He nudges her.]

No pawning it.

[plundering]

[Fiona laughs a little, but it's weak and forced. She slips the bracelet onto her own wrist and then takes his hand again immediately.]

Never.

[devoutish]

[He glances down at the bracelet on her wrist, eyes a little unfocused.]

It's big on you. Looks nice, though; yeah.

[plundering]

Told you. Gold is my color.

[She brushes her fingers through his hair again, teeth worrying at her bottom lip.]

I'll take care of Emily.

[devoutish]

Poor kid. Shouldn't be seeing this.

Duster will take care of her, too. I know what you think of him, but he is good with her.

[plundering]

Yeah. I bet you wouldn't put up with it if he wasn't.

[devoutish]

I'd give him a smack, is what I'd do.

[He presses his forehead a little harder into hers.]

Fucking hell, a bit of wood. We're gonna have to tell everyone it was an anomaly. I died valiantly.

[plundering]

[Fiona closes her eyes, soaking in the contact.]

I'll come up with something. Something good.

[devoutish]

[He lowers his voice to a whisper, partly because he's tired and partly because she's so close that he doesn't need to talk any louder.]

Spread it around on the obituary. Give me something to look at when I'm back.

[plundering]

[This is an awkward position to be in, curled over him, and her ribs and shoulder are both starting to ache, but she doesn't dare move away. She can't bring herself to.]

Sure. Any requests?

[devoutish]

[Eventually, he'll realize that, and edge her down next to him instead.]

Nah. Surprise me.

[plundering]

[Fiona settles down beside him, careful of her ribs, and then lays her head on his shoulder. She's going to get smears of blood all over herself, but she ignores it.]

Anomaly is pretty boring. Maybe you all singlehandedly saved us from fifteen of them.

[devoutish]

Fighting them off with nothing but a chair leg.

[He kisses her forehead, then rests his cheek against it.]

[plundering]

Yeah. Bare hands might be too unrealistic.

[Very slowly, careful not to touch his wound, she winds her arm around him. That ache is starting up in her chest again, and she closes her eyes tight.]

[devoutish]

[The look on her face, god.]

Fiona.

[He says her name as gentle as can be.]

[plundering]

[God. She's trying to keep it together, but he says her name like that, so gentle, and she can't keep her voice from trembling when she responds.]

Don't. I'm fine.

[devoutish]

[She's so obviously not, and neither is he. He gives her another quick kiss, then tucks her a little closer.]

I suppose it's not very fair of me to ask, but-- stay?

[plundering]

[Fiona shifts, burying her face into his neck, lips brushing against his skin.]

As long as you want.

[devoutish]

I'll speak to you in Russian. Krasivaya zhenshchina, udivitel'naya zhenshchina...

[Russian is full of tongue-twistingly long words.]

[plundering]

[She huffs, just barely a laugh.]

Don't. I don't know what the hell you're saying.

[devoutish]

Oh, someday I'll tell you.

[He can't promise to come back, but he can allude to coming back. It feels more honest, somehow.]

[plundering]

[She's quiet for a moment, hand clutching at the fabric of his coat.]

Tell me now.