Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: 'R' for mild language and implied adult situations, Skye/Coleman, angst.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mullethead and the Wildcat.
Summary: There's just *something*.
There's something familiar about the dead-angry look in her big, brown eyes. Something almost...haunting. How it talks about parents who never cared and a world that shits on you. It transcends her milk-white-rich-girl skin and becomes a mirror. One where he sees himself and he doesn't look so bad. Where he looks like potential and ambition. It's his doorway, his opportunity. The chance he never had, that no one ever gave him.
Not that Skye wants to give it either. She flinches every time he touches her... like she expects to come away filthy. But then she fights him, teeth and tongue and claw, and he wakes up with his back cut to ribbons and his body wanting more.
"I hate you," she whispers, palm centered on his heart, where a rifle barrel was only a week ago...long, manicured, nails, drawing patterns, obscenities, in his chest hair.
"I'm all you've got," he reminds again, the smile painted on his mouth like his momma's cheap lipstick as she pushes off, leaving him in the tangle of sheets.
There's something familiar about the dead-angry space in his shriveled, black heart.
There's something freeing about the slide-burn of the vodka down her throat. How easy it makes everything. It trickles into her stunted vocal chords and lets the screams loose. It heats up her icy skin from the inside out, until she can fool herself into thinking that the warm glow comes from love and not Absolut and a fire burning in the fireplace. It lets her stumble and fall and scrape her palms against the dirt so she can't say she's been pushed...or waiting for someone to catch her.
Coleman...he doesn't catch her. Raised up on his elbows, he watches her uneven progress back to the bed like a dispassionate, clinical observer. And he takes the half-full tumbler out of her hands, effortlessly placing it on the night table before his bruising grip closes around her pale wrist and he yanks her forward. "You don't need that," he rasps, the sharp tendrils of his hair and beard slicing the numb skin of her face.
She blinks at the dots of pain, slurs perhaps on purpose, "Oh yeah...? What do I need?" A challenge. A denial.
He traces the swollen curve of her mouth with his thumb and she doesn't want to look too closely...in case there's dirt under his fingernails...but that shallow concern gets buried in...in..."This."
There's something freeing about the slide-burn of the man down her throat.
How easy he makes everything.
There's something between them. Something that allows them to cling to each other in the sweat-soaked darkness, in the place where he smiles like a wolf to her Little Red Riding Hood and she's the fairy godmother to his shoeless Cinderella. Something that transcends her alcoholic need to drown and his obsessive desire to swim to the surface.
There's something between them.
Hate. Lust. Blackmail. More lust.
And more than that.
December 20, 2002.
December 20, 2002.