She
pours another glass of wine, and waits.
And
waits.
Erik
continues to stare at the board, the pewter goblet beneath his notice. She
almost sighs a little in frustration, but restrains herself from any obvious
display; she takes a great amount of pride in her ability to remain in
character, and Erik expects no less from her.
But
she cannot survive on pride alone, and chess has never been her game. It's all
she can do to keep from jiggling her foot impatiently – doubly bad move,
since she's the older Charles tonight, and Erik's in the mood for the
realistic – or from tapping the perfectly-manicured fingernails against the
edge of the board.
Her
blood itches.
There's
nothing more she'd love right now than to become some wild young thing – a
man, tonight – and find some out-of-the-way bar. Insult a few rednecks'
manhoods, start a brawl or two, and find some pretty little girl to fuck
against the back wall. See just how much trouble she can cause in one night,
how close she can come to true danger. See if she can spill more blood than
the last time.
She
doesn't need alcohol when she goes out, although she plays at the pretence for
appearances' sake; she gets off more on the control she wields than she ever
could from any drug.
Now,
though, looking at Erik's downcast face, she feels the need for a drink more
than ever, and picks up her as-yet-untouched glass. She knows from experience
that nothing can snap Erik out of one of these melancholy moods, and that it's
foolish to even attempt to do so. There's nothing for it but to try and make
the best of the situation; and so she takes a large swallow of wine, welcoming
the soft burn. Wants to drink the whole damned glass and get started on the
bottle, but she can't ruin the illusion.
Erik
raises his gaze with a small, sad smile, eyes bearing the faintest sheen of
tears. He murmurs quiet endearments in German, and reaches for her hand. His
skin is smoother than one would expect. She is used to it.
For
one moment, his guard comes down completely. Countless emotions flicker across
his face – sorrow, regret, anger, frustration – but mostly, he just looks
old. Tired beyond imagining.
A
gentle caress of her thumb against his palm, and he bows his head in what
looks like acknowledgment. Rising carefully to his feet, he pauses for a
moment, eyes roaming over her borrowed features. His voice, when it comes, is
quiet.
"Thank
you for a wonderful evening, Charles." He turns, and heads towards the
door, the only sound the quiet shuffle of his feet.
He
looks almost broken.
And
she remembers why she doesn't leave him, doesn't find an excuse to hit the
town and cause a little chaos.
A
few fleeting moments of weakness on his part, and the buzz is almost
overwhelming. Only she can bring him to his knees like this, chip away at his
assuredness each time she speaks in that voice.
He
is her addiction, and she isn't looking for a cure.
--The
End--