Don't be cross, it's sick what I want
Jul. 29th, 2011 12:48 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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*Fake.
They're all fucking fake, complete with fake laughs and fake smiles. The only thing real is the money and the excess. It's sickening, watching people that don't care, people who seem to give fuck all about anything but dancing as people are killed en masse. While these idiots are here, without a care in the world, he's sitting in a corner, afraid.
These days he feels safest with his back flush against a wall and his wand at his hip. Sleeping is terrifying, as is breathing. Breathe too hard, too loudly, and they might hear him, catch on to his scent. Can't stay in one place too long, because they'll find him and probably kill him without hesitation. Justice and fairness doesn't exist anymore. Davey wonders if it ever really did.
It's maddening, being on the run in the dead of summer. Days are longer, nights are shorter. Every makeshift hideout is hot and damp and smells of armpits. He slept by every mosquito infested river, and lay awake in every scummy inn around the UK, and nothing feels safe. At the beginning, every false sense of security was met with too many near misses. Now, nearly two months later, he's certain the Ministry has lost his trail. At least, that's what he's certain of today.
And now he's here, hiding out in Fiona's home for the fourth day in a row. The company is shit, but he's becoming far too comfortable with the nonstop hedonism.
It was easy, using again. It started out as quick, sporadic fixes. Nothing more than a cheap perk up to counter episodes of deep depression when he could do nothing more than stare at the moths takings up residence in his tiny tavern hideaways. It took his mind off guilt and anger, and destructive scenarios of what Ministry pigs might have done to his family, or his friends, or Emmeline.
Davey lights a cigarette, but his body is jonesing for more. This particular come down has been agonizingly long, and all he wants is some fucking speed. He wanted to see how long he could function without it.
It's been thirty-nine hours and twenty seven minutes. He's counted.*
They're all fucking fake, complete with fake laughs and fake smiles. The only thing real is the money and the excess. It's sickening, watching people that don't care, people who seem to give fuck all about anything but dancing as people are killed en masse. While these idiots are here, without a care in the world, he's sitting in a corner, afraid.
These days he feels safest with his back flush against a wall and his wand at his hip. Sleeping is terrifying, as is breathing. Breathe too hard, too loudly, and they might hear him, catch on to his scent. Can't stay in one place too long, because they'll find him and probably kill him without hesitation. Justice and fairness doesn't exist anymore. Davey wonders if it ever really did.
It's maddening, being on the run in the dead of summer. Days are longer, nights are shorter. Every makeshift hideout is hot and damp and smells of armpits. He slept by every mosquito infested river, and lay awake in every scummy inn around the UK, and nothing feels safe. At the beginning, every false sense of security was met with too many near misses. Now, nearly two months later, he's certain the Ministry has lost his trail. At least, that's what he's certain of today.
And now he's here, hiding out in Fiona's home for the fourth day in a row. The company is shit, but he's becoming far too comfortable with the nonstop hedonism.
It was easy, using again. It started out as quick, sporadic fixes. Nothing more than a cheap perk up to counter episodes of deep depression when he could do nothing more than stare at the moths takings up residence in his tiny tavern hideaways. It took his mind off guilt and anger, and destructive scenarios of what Ministry pigs might have done to his family, or his friends, or Emmeline.
Davey lights a cigarette, but his body is jonesing for more. This particular come down has been agonizingly long, and all he wants is some fucking speed. He wanted to see how long he could function without it.
It's been thirty-nine hours and twenty seven minutes. He's counted.*
no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 11:07 pm (UTC)She looks flawless, though, as always: an artfully tousled mane of pumpkin-juice orange, shiny, second-skin trousers, glittery nails. They and her jewelry flash and wink in the dim light as she stuffs the fairy into the pipe.*
Look alive, handsome. Do you want one?
*Flawed as she is, Fiona's deeply generous and didn't hesitate to welcome Davey into her home--or her bed. Manhunt or no manhunt, he's hardly the most illegal thing under her roof; besides, she has a soft spot for wayward fellow freaks, and he's precisely her type--which is to say more than a little dangerous and in possession of a pulse.*
You look like you could use it.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 11:26 pm (UTC)*But his eyes disagree, and he's watching each and every movement of Fiona's hands.
He blinks.*
I shouldn't.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 11:37 pm (UTC)*She knows that look, but he did say no, and she isn't about to put a wand to anyone's heart. The fairy gives a tinny little scream as it dies, and she inhales deeply, holding the smoke in and watching him.*
no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 11:44 pm (UTC)*Davey stubs out his cigarette.*
Pass it.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 11:52 pm (UTC)There.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 12:07 am (UTC)He nearly smiles.*
Anyone ever told you that you're a bit of a slag, Fiona?
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 12:21 am (UTC)I hope you aren't complaining.
*All sweetness and solicitousness and a bright, speedy smile, she leans over to light the pipe for him.*
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 01:53 am (UTC)*Davey inhales and closes his eyes. He leans his head back and exhales in a steady stream of smoke towards the ceiling.*
Am I crazy?
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 02:04 am (UTC)*She shimmies a little closer until she's practically in his lap, and throws an arm around him. One foot is tapping impatiently at the floor.*
C'mon, let's dance.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 02:39 am (UTC)I was asking because...
*He's not there yet, just teetering on the edge of a weak high and artificial joy, but his lips haven't gotten the memo. It's a smile, wide and practically manic, that just reaches his eyes.*
I want to see her.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 05:03 am (UTC)Ugh. Don't start.
*She's done, and so is the poor little cinder of a thing left in the pipe. But Davey's obviously looking for a bit more, so she deftly taps out the ash and grabs another fairy for him.*
It's your funeral, anyway.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 05:38 am (UTC)*Fiona's feeling don't come to mind as he takes another hit. He holds the smoke in for several seconds before exhaling with a laugh.*
I love her, you know. I told her before the Ministry was up my arse.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 05:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 06:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-04 06:20 am (UTC)*But she doesn't quite have the heart to mock him any more than that--he's too cute, too much in earnest, and it'd be altogether too easy. Almost fondly, she reaches out and fiddles with his hair a little. She'd insisted on cutting it when he arrived, declaring it 'a sight' and 'unacceptable'. He's almost presentable, now.*
If you'd rather pine, there's always the guest room.