ONE DAY I HOPE TO BEAT YOU

[youruniverse]

WHO: Spades Slick and Snowman.
WHERE: In whatever dump Slick was crashing in at the time.
WHEN: The wee hours of the morning after she gets 'ported in.
WARNINGS: Vio...lence......
SUMMARY:
FORMAT: Whatever just go with it.

When she fades back into view, it's with a much more familiar backdrop. Cracked and flaking paint, numerous bullet holes, a single tacky painting (askew, of course)... It could be any wall, in any cheap motel, in any part of the country.

But, it's not. It's a very particular wall.

The wall directly behind him, to be exact.

"You're one to talk, Slick." She drawls, blowing smoke at the back of his head when she exhales.

Comments

[beatstheclock]

Slick jumps, off the couch and facing her in a second. He's clearly not expecting company, even more unkempt than he usually is, pants and undershirt, hat beside him.

So she still has her old tricks. Fine. He still has his. A knife's in his hands in less than seconds, less than milliseconds, up at his side and sharp as his scowl.

"Thought you might've grown out of this song and dance," he hisses, rounding the couch to get closer to her, prowling sideways like a caged thing.

[youruniverse]

Calmly, ignoring him, she turns off her communicator and slides it into her jacket pocket. It's the same jacket, of course, sickly green and inky black, scaled up to fit a human being. There's nothing in her hands now but the cigarette, halfway to the filter.

"Thought you might've grown." She shoots back, blatantly looking him up and down. "The monkey suit is fitting, though."

[beatstheclock]

It takes him a moment to process the jibe, the wheels going in his head before they clunk into place. The height difference isn't as immense anymore, but it's still present, and he makes a noise like a peeved cat.

What is there even to say, between them? They're done. They were done with everything. The curtains closed, and now they're supposed to pick back up in the middle of the song.

That's surprisingly easy, with her.

"What do you want?" he growls. "I just hauled myself across god knows how many miles of ice back to this stinking hole. I'm not in the mood."

[youruniverse]

"Easy, Slick." She says calmly, and gives him a look of pure disdain. She takes a single, long step towards him, ignoring the knife in his hand. "You know, if anyone has a right to be angry, it's me. So why don't you just--"

Snowman grabs his shoulder with her free hand, digging her fingernails into his collarbone and shoving him down bodily towards the arm of the sofa. "Take a seat." She says coldly, looking down her nose at him, splayed on the couch. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Slick. And I want you to listen very carefully, because I don't like to repeat myself."

She leans over him, arms crossed, and gives him what could generously be described as a smile. "I don't really care about your mood."

[beatstheclock]

He doesn't actually hurt her. He doesn't actually plunge the knife into her heart and laugh while everything goes fuzzy at the edges. He doesn't actually even push back at her when she shoves him.

Slick means every word he said, every one about how he's died once and now, well, the sting's gone out of it. Every one about how he's going to be the one to cut the miserable thread of her life and kick her corpse one last time in retaliation.

Does he WANT to kill her? Well. He never stops wanting that. But right now, he's sat on the couch, staring up at her and barely restraining a scream.

(He's not going to kill her because wanting to kill her feels too good.)

"You get to be angry?" he snarls, his fingers curling into fists, his hold on the knife handle making his knuckles go hot-white. "My crew's dead. I've had to live as a flesh-sack in this waste of a city for months. And I don't even get to say I killed you the way I wanted. Don't talk to me about angry."