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She hates these heels with a passion. With such a passion, in fact, that she might as well step out of turn and chuck them across the wall, all 4 inches of bespoke, painful, gorgeous red latex heels. The straps dig horridly into whatever skin they can bite, leaving bloody bruises into the sides of her feet that she knows she’ll be examining ruefully later.
The entire house- well, hall, is a sunken sort of warm, the kind of careless and opulent luxury that oozes from every high-end society auction this part of the N109 Zone, layered in velvet curtains and supple leather chairs and mixing perfumes- tinkling laughs that reek of expense. Not to mention the telltale signs of the usual criminal deals that accompany the occasion.
A movement to her right costs her a lash of the dreaded straps, pinching her toes until she winces.
“Not a word,” she mutters.
“I wasn’t going to say anything, Kitten.”
“Sure you weren’t.”
“Only that, had you listened and taken the very comfortable heels I’d given you-”
“You just had to-”
“-might not be making sounds like a wounded animal in my ear-”
“Sylus, I swear to whatever god is up there-“
“Wasn’t aware you had a religious side to you, but no judgement-“
“-will skin you and then again for this you-”
“-truly, but I fear I don’t quite hold the same reverence-”
“-godawful, pretentious-”
“-as if a deity scares me, i assure you sweetie-”
“-hate you.”
Then, the insufferable man pauses, clicks his tongue softly and aims his most annoying- gorgeous smirk straight at her face- with the power of the sun, if the sun could emit snobbery.
“No you don’t.”
“…”
“Yes, kitten?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yes, well, we can fulfill your various fantasies another time, I'm sure, when we’re not waltzing in public.”
He graciously ignores the sound of her choking over her own air supply, and deftly turns them into the next step, hand firmly on her waist as they spin through another stretch of seconds. Her skirts swirl around her lower half slightly, the rich burgundy fabric soft against the skin of her calves, draping over her form like the pour of ages old wine. The straps are off the shoulder, drifting into a shapely v neck that dips down in the back, revealing the line of her spine- adorned with a backward necklace of gold tassels- the cost of at least a couple of her bloodlines- as per usual
The dress was, but of course, another garishly expensive and utterly tasteful choice picked out by the man currently half glued to her inexperienced self, somehow managing to make every motion look elegant.
He is a vision, as always, the bastard, with an elegant form of sharp cut lines clad in a crimson suit- rich fabric inlaid with only the most delectable black- pinstriped waistcoat cutting a shapely V across his chest, and black tie settled perfectly centered. A line of gold chain links from the pocket of his waistcoat to the second last button. Everything is just perfect to his proportions, which is of course unsurprising, when one gets everything tailored to their exact measurements, because, as Sylus often remarks- brands are so pedestrian.
His impenetrable demeanor is as impressive as it is annoying, the drawn and bored tilt of his brow, the luscious line of his lips, garnet eyes as unbothered as they are gorgeous.
He barely even reacts when she steps on his shoes.
Well. Not that she’s trying very hard not to.
She steps on him once more, just for the fun of it- and lets her mind cackle for her when she looks away, turning her head to the side in such a motion one might think she had nothing nefarious lurking behind her eyes. He catches the glint in her expression with such a deadpan expression she might as well have poured cranberry syrup over his head.
She might be pushing her luck.
…
Once more though.
She yelps softly when he contra checks them, punishing her with a movement to their right that makes everything in the room spin into blurry shapes.
“…Mean.”
“Maybe you should stop abusing my feet, and I'd be kinder.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about.”
“Oh really? So, it’s just a coincidence that you’ve stepped on my shoes at least twelve times in the past half hour.”
“I think you’re imagining things, Sylus. Is the wine getting to your head?”
He draws in a deep breath, and she revels in roles reversed- because managing to make the most irritating of human specimens irritated is an achievement in itself. A true mark of personal value.
Besides, stubbornness is a virtue, she tells herself.
“It’s your own fault, you know,” she murmurs, tilting her head up so it slots into the space above his right shoulder and neck, whispering low enough that only he can hear.
“What is?”
“Bringing me to this. Could’ve chose anyone and you picked a hunter with literally no dancing experience. As well as someone who’s shot you. Where are your survival instincts, Sylus?”
She almost hears him mutter, something along the lines of- dead apparently- before he sighs.
“I chose you because I knew you could handle it. Besides, it’s not so fun to blow up venues without your company.”
“Pardon, blow up-”
He shushes her with a condescending little flick of his head, and makes an amused sound when she does not, in fact, shut up.
A small beep goes off in Sylus’ coat pocket, and he grins unmercifully as she stares at him in somewhat familiar, abject horror.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“It’s only a small explosion, Sweetie. Unless, of course, you can’t handle it?”
Fuck him.
Her grip on his hand tightens as he pulls them away to the edge of the dancing group, sliding a hand down her hip to tap the gun holster strapped to her thigh- in an unmistakable motion of, you’re-going-to-need-it.
Her other hand slides down his velvet suited chest with a little shiver of panic- trembling just a little, with a mixture of anger and a smidgen- truckload of nerves.
A gasp of air catches in her throat, like leaden earth, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach, mind flashing all the warning signs that accompany explosions- the last couple of words granted to her by her Caleb, and the feeling of a dog tag necklace clutched in her bleeding palm.
She hates it, how her mind goes sharp and hazy all at once, the edge of reality chipping away into terror, the beginnings of a panic attack clawing its way up her skin without mercy, dragging nails through the meat of her flesh- like old ghosts sinking daggers past her sternum. The Auction house disappears into nothingness in that moment, and a different house flashes before her eyes, burning until her throat goes ragged with sobs. Her childhood home, the death of the two people she could scrape together in her hands and proudly call, family.
She doesn’t even notice how badly her hands are shaking- fisted in the fabric of Sylus’ suit until a large, warm palm settles over it, slotted horizontally over her own, as if to drag her back to the moment.
“Breathe,” comes the soft murmur in her ear, a low voice made of smoke and woodfire, and all the patience in the world, “Focus on me.”
The last part is said firm, pulling her out of the debris and into reality, where Sylus’ form drapes almost protectively over her own, as if sheltering her from falling meteors.
“Sylus-”
And her hand is over his heart- thump, thump, thump- gentle and low and somewhat erratic, as is she beginning to remember his heartbeat always is. Alive. Real.
“Breathe,” he repeats, ever solid- there.
“I can’t-”
“Yes, you can. You always can. You are more capable than anyone in this room, and you know it, Miss Hunter. Now, breathe.”
She does.
One, Two, Three.
Inhale, Exhale, Inhale.
Exhale.
The world sharpens into clarity- like a pair of glasses slid over her nose, and right there, Sylus stands, stood just exactly in the center of her vision, crowding out everything else until only woodpine and saffron heightens her senses- the edges of his gem cut suit.
“There she is,” he murmurs quietly, almost as if he meant it more to himself than her, “With me?”
Her voice still lingers somewhere too far for her to reach, so she simply nods, and blinks slowly as his thumb traces a slow line across the highest point of her cheekbone.
He goes on, words pitched low between them.
“This place is rigged to blow in 60 seconds.” He begins, and before the panic can take ahold again, he slides her hand and presses it harder over the beat of his heart. “Don’t wander off on me. You’re my partner, aren’t you, Miss Hunter?”
The words are covers for everything his eyes say instead- I’m here. I have you. Stay with me.
“Now, shall we go?”
—-
The place explodes in a matter of a minute, and Sylus keeps her so occupied in the passenger seat of the car, pitched partially out of the window with her gun aimed dead straight at the tires of the pursuing car- that her body never takes the jump to shut down at the sound of the explosion.
Her gun feels steady in the cup of her hand, wind rushing past her ears like screaming. The car veers off to the side, dragging into what must be a rather painful death towards the east edge of the only highway in the N109 Zone, careening to an end. With their mediocre tails shot down, she slumps back into the seat of Sylus’ racing car, her chest rising one two, with a burn of adrenaline- life searing through her veins like fire. Everything is a sharp blur, and emotions blare past her, for once, achingly clear instead of suffocating her, easy to breathe past rather than the deafening crush of a badly gone therapy session.
Then, the anger seeps in, crashing past her defenses like the floodgates have opened- and she turns to the man at her right, mouth open with fury like iron.
“What the fuck was that?!” she demands, voice pitched higher than she probably could control, and his expression doesn’t alter.
He doesn’t respond, not immediately, not until he turns his gaze to her in a disconcerting and frankly worrying little swoop of her form, as if cataloging any injuries- locking down on even a small scrape south of her elbow. It sends her a little aflutter, but she tucks it away for later, into the small box lingering right behind her cor, waiting for a label of 5 letters she refuses to name.
“You’re angry,” he comments.
“Yes!”
“Good.”
And the anger rears its head again, an uglier version of whatever she possessed as a child, now baring teeth and sharp fangs. But before that shadow can bite, the car veers into what is a familiar alcove of the N109 Zone, a car manufacturing shop hiding one of Sylus’ bases. The rusted sign hangs lazily above the windows of the shop, a once red scrawl of “Burkes’ Studio” in flashy letters- the entire place begging for a lick of paint on its walls, and she pauses as the ignition turns off, two forms settled into partial darkness in the shade of the garage.
The words and accusations sit heavily in her throat, the traces of panic still fluttering in her stomach. The speak-up-traitor and the you-know-it-hurts-so-why?
“Before you attempt to mangle my corpse in my backyard, hear me out.”
And that makes her pause, because Sylus as she knows him does not ask anyone to hear him out. He speaks and the world bends itself to listen. He commands, and the shadows beneath his feet scramble to attend to him.
Sylus does not ask, except, apparently, he does.
Just with her.
Into the box.
“You needed it.” He says, and there goes all the goodwill she’d saved up. Fuck him.
“What the fuck is that supposed to-”
“You needed it.”
“-mean?! I needed it, what am I some sort of invalid-”
“You needed it- the exposure. You’ve been avoiding it and i wanted to give you time to figure it out, but clearly-”
“-as if it’s any of your business what I-”
“nothing else is helping you- and what you need is a push because-”
“-it’s my life, not yours and I’m starting to wonder-”
“-you’re avoiding it.”
She’s fuming- seething, itching to bite off his head, to snarl and push and kick him out of the car, out of her life too, the insufferable-
“I’m not avoiding anything.”
“Yes, you are.” And why is he so calm, dammit-
They stare at each other, or rather, she stares at him while he stares at the windshield, hands firmly on the steering wheel- almost perfectly at ease, if not for the white knuckled grip he has on what should be a carefully managed vehicle. She hates this- hates that some logical part of her, tucked away in some corner of her subconscious mind knows he’s right- that this is the first time she hasn’t spun into a ball of terror at the sound of an explosion- used her gun with such ease.
He stays silent for just a moment. Then:
“Hit me.”
“What?”
“You need something to take your anger out on, if I'm not wrong. Go ahead, Miss Hunter.” And he turns those bloody red eyes upon her, shifting in the car seat to face her own body, moonspun hair almost grey silver in the darkness- mouth set in a line of neutrality.
It takes a full 30 seconds of blinking and gaping to absorb the stupidity of the clear words from his mouth. Hit him?
Hit Sylus.
Him.
“Are you insane-”
“What, too scared to-”
Before another word can leave his mouth, she’s scrambling over the front console- shins scraping against the sides with slight thuds, ignoring the way his eyes dart to them with a sharp look, opening his mouth to say something- about hurting herself or the console, she wouldn’t know- before those pools of red go wide as legs settle around his waist, straddling his thighs. He doesn’t make a sound when her fists grip the fabric of his waistcoat, bunching up the expensive textile with shaking hands- ruining something that probably costs more than multiple of her paychecks.
“Shut. Up.” she grits out.
Chest rising- breath short in her lungs- hair falling in frizzed waves from the elegant bun it had once resided in- her entire form is tense as a bow, ready to snap- or maybe break entirely. His face settles into neutrality, head resting against the supple leather of the seat- not a word from his mouth- still as a saint sat in a chair- if he could ever be something as insipid as a saint. The heat of his body seeps slow into her own, the slit in her dress riding up till she shivers involuntarily, leaning into the radiator of his skin like warmth itself.
She’s so cold.
She doesn’t want to hit him, she thinks. Doesn’t want to put another bullet in his chest, watch him bleed out crimson and human into her hands. Doesn’t want to be the source of his pain. She wants to take the anger in her chest and kill herself with it. Wants all the grief that wells up beneath her skin to flow away, to explode, put everything out of its misery. Wants the warmth in his hands to wash over her until it’s all gone.
She wants him closer.
His skin is soft under her hands when she slides her palm over his jaw- and the muscle under it stirs in flutters as he blinks at her- shocked for the first moment- like an animal afraid to be touched, lest compassionate hands be taken away or turn harsh. Its all wrong, the feeling of his skin beneath her fingers- soft- like real skin- it should be scarred and uncomfortable and everything she could never touch. A monster's flesh.
She doesn’t want to hit him.
“Sylus,” she whispers. And the tears slide down the length of her face, despite every effort to contain the stinging in her eyes. They are salty and shameful, and the bitter taste of grief- pride melted into the kind of loneliness that lingers despite all efforts to cleanse it. It’s the smell of ashes, the sound of flinching at movies when bombs go off- it is the feel of chill in her bones at 3 am when the nightmares won’t stop following her into bed.
“I know,” he murmurs, and his hands are so, so gentle, “I know.”
It is the irony of the world that the only person who holds her in her grief is a devil. A fiend. That the one person to soothe their scarred hands down her back and brush her hair out of her face is a villain- that he is the only one who thought to drag her out of her ditch by force, and light her senses back on fire- alive. It is the wonderful, unending irony that he is the only one who will let her break in their arms, safe enough to know they will help gather the shattered pieces back together.
She doesn’t know why. Why she trusts this man like nothing else, as if it is written down in the handbook of her heart- as if she knows in her soul that he will drag her limp body out of whatever cage and dust her off- put fire in her hands- with the painstaking gentleness of a kindred spirit.
Like no one else could understand the particular way her irregular heartbeat, protocore syndrome or not.
Sylus gathers her up- all twenty-five years of her scarred and strange body, and tucks her into himself, drawing her in until all she can smell is him- the spiced and sweet smoke-like scent of his cologne and underneath, that note of him, Sylus- raspberries and oranges, and something that sounds like da-tu-ra- though she’s not sure what that is. His arms come up slow, a hand behind her knee to ensure her legs are pulled as close as possible to him, that her shoulders aren’t pressed into an uncomfortable angle.
His hands drift to her ankles, busying themselves with the straps of her heels, unfastening them with a surprising deftness, slipping them off as her whole leg stops throbbing in agony. She shudders as his thumbs smooth softly over the inflamed area, soothing the line of her calves and her shoes clatter mutely against the floor of the car.
His evol pulls that one pin that’s been bothering her all night clean out of her hairdo, disheveling the brown curls into something even more terrible than imagined, but utterly satisfying. Her gold earrings- gifted in a small box along with the dress- are taken out and placed into the notch of the cup holder while the same crimson-charcoal mist drapes what must be a woolen blanket- from god-knows-where, over the line of her shoulders, so that she is nestled between his warmth and the softness of the fabric.
She’s ashamed to admit she never wants to leave this place- his arms. She wants to crawl under his ribs and revel in him- just him, for as long as he will keep her with him.
It’s a humbling thought, and one so jarring, that she nearly pulls clean out of his lap- or she would, if he doesn’t wrap two large hands over the plane of her back and slip her in closer. Like he wants her to do just that- crawl beneath his skin.
It’s only then that she finally looks at him.
God, he’s beautiful.
Hair so otherworldly it could have been spun by a million silver spiders, messy now- over skin both scarred and as clear as the face of the moon- lips curved into the generous line of a cupid's bow, even his nose, just slightly crooked, as if it was only natural for a sculptor's hands to shake a bit as they created a masterpiece.
She could die staring at him, is her immediate thought- because his eyes are works of art. Not quite like anything else she’s seen before- whirlpools of pomegranate crushed gems, swimming in some emotion she will not name, not now- and the mournful look of someone holding onto a someone so dear to them it makes their soul hurt.
Her- the her that still speaks the language of logic knows that cannot be true- but even so, she is nearly screaming to ask.
“Why do you look so sad?” she murmurs, quiet as feathers in the silence, “Is it my fault?”
Her eyes follow the shape of a swallow in his throat, and he lets out a soft huff, almost humorous if not for the pretty sigh that escapes his lips.
“What would you do, sweetie, if it was?” Sylus whispers back, and at her loss, smiles so softly it hurts her heart- she doesn’t know why. His thumb glides along the smooth skin of the scar that runs jagged across her jaw and down the line of her throat- so careful. His head tilts up, or down, she doesn’t know, and Sylus lines up his forehead to hers, gently pressing their skin together until her eyelids flutter shut in his presence- breaths mixing together- sharing air with each inhale.
“It's alright. I’m alright now that you’re here.”
———————
In past lives the only promises Sylus remembers are ones made by him- in service to her.
He’d always felt them rather greedy things, promises- not that he minded- as if you could make another stay true to one thing for eternity if you simply locked pinkies. And yet, he’d indulged it to the very end, held truer to a centuries forgotten promise than anything else, dragged the words along with him into a new body, a new time, a new language.
Today, he understands it. The cor of a promise.
It is selfish, yes- but more than anything- an action of someone holding onto another with the sheer determination that only fools in love can muster- the bravery and audacity to want words to last beyond a millennium and the bare temerity to make it so.
Sylus throws Fate another offhand insult when he abandons caution, yet again, in the presence of the only darling soul that holds both his and her own reckless boldness inside of her. His hand slips beneath her jaw, tilts it up toward his own, and Sylus leans down until he can feel the berry flush of her cheeks heat the air between them.
“Make me a promise,” he whispers and lets his mouth curve when his beloved’s eyes flash sharp- ever the kitten with claws. That hasn't changed, although her penchant for bothering him seems to have been lit on fire. “Come with me to the next auction.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm asking, kitten.”
“And why do you think I'll say yes?”
“Because you owe me,” he says against the shell of her ear- lips brushing her skin in a devilish smirk- revealing in the shiver she attempts to conceal when his low voice flows down the line of her spine.
“Look, if it’s the clothes and the jewelry, I can-”
“No.”
“-return- what?”
“You owe me for our dance, sweetie. It got cut short,” he murmurs, “I want a redo.”
———-
The idiot is asking for a dance. Of all the things the presumptuous bastard could ask from her- he picks the one thing she would be willing to give on her deathbed. They’re so close- her head tilted down so her nose nearly brushes his- the flicker of fluorescent lighting in the garage lining the edges of his face.
She nods slowly.
He shakes his head, apparently unsatisfied, raising a lone pinky in the few inches of space between them.
…
She stares at it for a moment before bursting out into loud, utterly stunned laughter, her shoulders shaking with the muffled sound behind her fingertips.
The actual dork.
“A-Aren’t- you- ha-” cough, “pushing thirty- hahaha-”
“-amusing, is it-”
“-a crime lord- is this how you seal your business deals-”
“-really, sweetie?”
“-pinky promise- what are you; five- oh my god-”
He sighs long-sufferingly as she goes on laughing, hands loose on the sides of her waist as she cackles in notes of unladylike snickers- clicks his tongue in a show of annoyance, even as the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Are you quite done laughing at me yet, sweetie?”
She wipes tears from her eyes with the edge of her thumb, attempting to regain herself.
“Yeah, yes- totally- ahem.”
She sits up straight, or as much as she can in the low ceiling of the car. As she locks pinkies with his own, she turns to align her gaze with his.
“Why a pinky promise?”
He stares at her for a moment. His eyes are sheered over with a film of crimson- a little pinker than the usual garnet crushed colour- as they rove over her face, like looking at an old acquaintance and calculating how much their features have changed along with their voice.
“What?”
“Someone told me it was how promises should be done.”
“‘Should be done’, huh? Who was this person?”
She makes a muffled sound of ouch, when he flicks her forehead.
“Just make the promise.”
“Alright, alright, boss-man, jeez.”
As per the general etiquette of a pinky promise, she locks her pinkie with his, shutting her eyes until the promise is made, and then lifting their joined fingers to her lips, placing a small kiss to seal the deal- as the promisee.
It’s a little embarrassing to do at twenty-five, but hey, if she’s going to make a pinky promise, she might as well do it right. Her mind is crawling with silver spiders and lingering warmth, adrenaline still pumping through her veins.
Even if it is a crime lord.
Who cares really, though- because it’s Sylus, and she is beginning to care less and less how much of her neck she exposes to him.
He’s staring at her again.
She’s realizing he does a lot of that, the weirdo. What’s stranger, though, is that she finds she really doesn’t mind. She’s so preoccupied with slipping out of his lap that she doesn’t quite notice the tint of pink high up on the cut of his cheekbones- lilting roses across the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears.
Sylus slips his pinky and whole hand into the curve of his other palm- cradling a treasure.