[identity profile] blankrevolution.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] bait_backup
*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.*

Date: 2012-01-03 11:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com
*It's only an ordinary Saturday, so the party isn't quite as extravagant as her birthday celebrations, and not nearly as brightly-colored and fun. The crowd is a little rougher, the lighting lower, and nobody seems to be smiling, not even the pairs clustered and pressed together in couches and corners. It's starting to show what all of this is really about, for Fiona and her guests and hangers-on: about hiding from the war, from the Ministry, from the very real danger that's pressing in on all of them every moment. It's about spending every night like it's your last, because it very well might be--but after a few months of that, the glitter starts to wear off.

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.
Edited Date: 2012-01-03 11:12 pm (UTC)

Date: 2012-01-03 11:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com
Suit yourself, darling.

*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.*
Edited Date: 2012-01-03 11:41 pm (UTC)

Date: 2012-01-03 11:52 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com
*She's already feeling it, the wash of clean invincibility and bravado. Slightly glassy-eyed, she does one better: Fiona pulls him in kissing-close and exhales curling blue smoke between his lips.*

There.

Date: 2012-01-04 12:21 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com
*They have. Many times before. She isn't much bothered, though: her house, her rules.*

I hope you aren't complaining.

*All sweetness and solicitousness and a bright, speedy smile, she leans over to light the pipe for him.*

Date: 2012-01-04 02:04 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com
Probably.

*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.

Date: 2012-01-04 05:03 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com
*Fiona shoots him a mildly affronted look. She has sympathy for his predicament, really and truly, and she isn't anything near jealous, but no one wants to hear the person they're sleeping with wax rhapsodical about some other girl they are kind-of-sort-of-with-but-it's-complicated. It's rude. Even worse, it's tiresome, and she's in no mood for it.*

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.
Edited Date: 2012-01-04 05:12 am (UTC)

Date: 2012-01-04 06:20 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] dyeforyourart.livejournal.com
Of course it is.

*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.

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