sailing in the devil's triangle [brad+mav, 98, jb]

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[attr="class","mavText2"]"No, I won't be accepting any other visitors thank you."

The peacekeeper - Twitchy I call him, 'cause his hand goes toward his gun every time Brad moves - gives a solemn nod. Though I'd placed myself between them, I don't think I breathe until the door falls shut behind us, the last sliver of outside light snuffed out by solid oak. Then it's just us and the velvet cushions, soaked in halos cast by a hanging chandelier.

Though I haven't answered Brad's question, I don't think he notices. Or maybe he's used to the gaps I leave in our conversations, the answers I have but never offer. There's a blister on the tip of my tongue from all the times it's been bitten.



I laugh. I hate when I do that.

"They don't allow weapons in here," I hook my pointer finger under Brad's, soothing it into an open palm, "or swearing." And I shake my head like I'm disappointed in him. A good a reason as any to keep from meeting his good eye, from knowing whatever emotion it holds. Brad can't hide something like that, and I don't make a habit of looking for answers I don't wanna know.

"I'm gonna have to tell Mrs. Bradford, I'm afraid." As if I'll ever see her again. The eye-patch is slightly askew, folding down the top of his ear so that the skin irritates a blush. I reach up, slowly 'cause he gets nervous on his blind side, and fix the strap. "There, now you're perfect."

"And very badass." I wink conspiratorially, and it's the best promise I have.

(Whatever trouble finds you, it won't find you alone.)

I keep waiting for the regret to settle in, but all I feel's a brittle anger. "This date kind of sucks." I drop his hand, slumping down on one of the chairs and pulling my knees up to my chest, "What's with getting reaped, huh? This is all so inconvenient. We were supposed to-"

Fall in love? Get married some day?

I realize I've never thought about a foreseeable future.

"have a picnic. Or something."

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[attr="class","mavText2"]He's got a better imagination than I do. Paints a pasture out of carpet floors in the blink of an eye. Worse, even, that he has me believing it. Suddenly there are daiseies pushing up through nylon fibers and it's a lot harder to keep scowling. "Stop it." I say, muffled by my knees.

There's a lump in my throat, a new kind of feeling. It tastes bittersweet.

"I don't want to smile." So I put a furrow in my brows instead, "or laugh. Or pretend."

It'd do me well to remember I met him standing on an old grave. Gav was rotten not six months after they'd buried him. Closed casket, his skull was blown to bits by Cecily Deerling - there wasn't much to put back together. Of him, or any of her freedom fighters.

Maybe I'll die stupid and heartbroken too.

"I wanna go home. With you." I slide down onto his jacket, mindful of the imaginary basket. I shove it to the side and wrap my arms around him. I've never held him before, at least not like this. Without feigning reluctance or holding my heart in my hand a ways away from where his beats. I've been careful not to let him know how much I'm feeling.

Now my hands are shaking, fisting the back of his shirt to pull him closer. Maybe there are tears, but I don't sound like I'm crying.

"Tell me we will. Lie to me."