21 - 28 of 28 Works by cypressdrive
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“We know each other down there, don’t we?” He asks, but he doesn’t phrase it like a question. Doesn't see the point, not when they both already know the answer.
Helena’s face flickers. For a second, she almost looks rattled, and hides the rest of her reaction behind a sip of whiskey. The bottle clinks in the silence that stretches, her hand slowly falling away from the counter.
“We do.” She eventually says. -
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Mark imagines running his fingers beneath her chin; tilting her small head back. The long line of her throat arched, hair pooling down her shoulders; her back. Imagines running his thumb over her skull, slowly digging into their matching wound. Unspool her brain onto the carpet, sift through the tangle of wire and electric current to see what she’s thinking.
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“Mark.” She murmurs, her voice echoing. The tap drips.
She’s so alive, he thinks. So, so alive.
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Post s2e10 Cold Harbour -
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He’s only got one hand on her, but it’s distracting enough that her exploration pauses, reeling at the curve of his hand against her jaw, his thumb trailing against her cheek.
His touch falls away, but it trails down to her waist, her hip, his thumb running along her waistband.“Yes?” He asks, his eyes searching hers.
“Yes.”
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But there’s something about the way he’s holding himself. Carrying something she’s never seen in him. A force pulling him downwards, the once-soft bags under his eyes suddenly harsh in the fluorescent light, filling in unwanted details of a picture she’s spent so long looking at. Maybe that’s what a lifetime of memories does to you. They make you rough around the edges, worn out and torn apart like frayed paper.
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“I’m going to fucking kill you.” He tells the voice.
The radio crackles, a laugh stuttering through the static.
“Make it quick, then. I’ve got a report due before lunch.” It says back.
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It feels like they’re all on the precipice of summer vacation, where the rules get lax and everyone breathes a little easier; their eyes a little brighter; in blind optimism that there’s an upcoming reprieve. Something in the shape of an echo, an idea more than something he can picture in his mind; of sunsets, grassy fields where the sky turns gold and the wind swirls in spirals, of melted ice cream and sticky hands. Leftovers, he assumes, of a life he’d give anything to witness in trade of bitter speculation. Mark knows better, but he watches Irving go and doesn’t say a word.
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Helly is a mistake. A sick and feverish reflection. Fogging up the mirror with her strained breaths and pounding fists, trying to crawl through the looking glass.
She’s a thrum of slick blood; spilling out onto her bed like she’s escaping through Helena’s rib cage, in the foggy hours of the morning where imagination feels as vivid as nightmare.