Entry tags:
[fic] night people.
It’s a little after three in the morning by the time they make it back to the motel they’ve been living out of the last few days. They don’t even bother reaching for the light switch, letting the murky street lights filter through the blinds. The air is stale and hot; Stella peels off her jacket, dumps it on the back of a chair and eases herself to sit on the bed. Another long day, a longer night; her bones sink within her, trying to relax themselves – they’ve been holding themselves too tight. Crash moves to the window, habitually checking outside. The world is surprisingly quiet outside. He doesn’t fucking trust it.
“When was the last time you slept?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer her. Not immediately, anyway. He keeps his eyes on what lies through the blinds for another five minutes before he finally steps away and lights a cigarette. The flicker of flame catches his face in the dim: eyes heavy and unfocused.
“You should sleep.” he perches himself on the small table by the window; cigarette held between his lips, he pulls off his own jacket.
“So should you,” she raises her eyebrows at him, pushing herself off the bed again. “You’ll kill yourself from the sleep deprivation.”
He smiles at that, distant and sad, a low chuckle rumbling somewhere in the back of his throat. Stella looks mildly unimpressed but he can see the corners of her mouth curling upwards. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, in those few seconds she’s closed in on him by a few steps. There’s still a space between them: “I mean it, Crash.” she tells him.
He shrugs lazily and he watches her for a few moments. His gaze flickers to her side, his brow furrowing. “C’mere.” a hand reaches for her.
It settles on her hip as soon as its within reach. He settles the cigarette between his lips, his hand free to slide up the fabric of her shirt. Even in the semi-darkness, he can make it out: a dark flowering of bruises along her ribs. He still feels bad about it. His fingertips brush along the pattern. Gently, he presses along the bruising, checking. Stella pulls in a sharp, quiet breath but doesn’t react much other than that. He meets her eye again.
“That hurt?” he gives her a poignant look. He’s not after some stupid, brave answer from her. It’s genuine, there’s concern here.
“No more than yesterday.” she says, “It’s getting there.”
He holds her gaze for a few moments, his fingers lingering a little too long on her skin. Neither of them speak. Satisfied, he pulls her shirt back down and nods, removing his other hand from her hip. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, his head rolling back. “Get some sleep, Stella.” he says finally.
“And what about you?”
He doesn’t reply.
“Crash.”
He utters a tight-lipped ‘fuck’ under his breath, looking at her again with a dour look, cigarette smouldering between his lips.
She takes the cigarette from his lips, pausing slightly to allow him one final drag. Stubbing it out in an already-full ashtray, she takes his hands and pulls him from where he’s perched. He lets out a grumble of protest, as he exhales smoke, his eyes closing for a moment. And yet, he lets her pull him to bed. It happens more often than not, recently. He doesn’t mind. He still protests, though.
They lie in silence on the bed, side by side on their backs, staring at the ceiling. They don’t even bother to take off their boots. Neither of them say anything, not even when Stella reaches for his hand in the darkness.
“If I stay here, are you gonna go the fuck to sleep?” Crash asks.
“That’s the idea.” she lets out a small hum, “And for you to fall asleep too.”
She can’t see the look he’s giving her but she can imagine it clearly enough. He exhales heavily: dammit, woman, leave me alone. She smirks in the dark, “’night, Crash.”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s still morning when she opens her eyes, an uncomfortable sweat on her brow and a warm, heavy weight pressing down on her. She turns her head a fraction to find him lying half on top of her, his face buried into her neck. Her fingers find his hair, gently threading through it. He doesn’t stir. Stella smiles to herself: a small victory.
“When was the last time you slept?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer her. Not immediately, anyway. He keeps his eyes on what lies through the blinds for another five minutes before he finally steps away and lights a cigarette. The flicker of flame catches his face in the dim: eyes heavy and unfocused.
“You should sleep.” he perches himself on the small table by the window; cigarette held between his lips, he pulls off his own jacket.
“So should you,” she raises her eyebrows at him, pushing herself off the bed again. “You’ll kill yourself from the sleep deprivation.”
He smiles at that, distant and sad, a low chuckle rumbling somewhere in the back of his throat. Stella looks mildly unimpressed but he can see the corners of her mouth curling upwards. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, in those few seconds she’s closed in on him by a few steps. There’s still a space between them: “I mean it, Crash.” she tells him.
He shrugs lazily and he watches her for a few moments. His gaze flickers to her side, his brow furrowing. “C’mere.” a hand reaches for her.
It settles on her hip as soon as its within reach. He settles the cigarette between his lips, his hand free to slide up the fabric of her shirt. Even in the semi-darkness, he can make it out: a dark flowering of bruises along her ribs. He still feels bad about it. His fingertips brush along the pattern. Gently, he presses along the bruising, checking. Stella pulls in a sharp, quiet breath but doesn’t react much other than that. He meets her eye again.
“That hurt?” he gives her a poignant look. He’s not after some stupid, brave answer from her. It’s genuine, there’s concern here.
“No more than yesterday.” she says, “It’s getting there.”
He holds her gaze for a few moments, his fingers lingering a little too long on her skin. Neither of them speak. Satisfied, he pulls her shirt back down and nods, removing his other hand from her hip. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, his head rolling back. “Get some sleep, Stella.” he says finally.
“And what about you?”
He doesn’t reply.
“Crash.”
He utters a tight-lipped ‘fuck’ under his breath, looking at her again with a dour look, cigarette smouldering between his lips.
She takes the cigarette from his lips, pausing slightly to allow him one final drag. Stubbing it out in an already-full ashtray, she takes his hands and pulls him from where he’s perched. He lets out a grumble of protest, as he exhales smoke, his eyes closing for a moment. And yet, he lets her pull him to bed. It happens more often than not, recently. He doesn’t mind. He still protests, though.
They lie in silence on the bed, side by side on their backs, staring at the ceiling. They don’t even bother to take off their boots. Neither of them say anything, not even when Stella reaches for his hand in the darkness.
“If I stay here, are you gonna go the fuck to sleep?” Crash asks.
“That’s the idea.” she lets out a small hum, “And for you to fall asleep too.”
She can’t see the look he’s giving her but she can imagine it clearly enough. He exhales heavily: dammit, woman, leave me alone. She smirks in the dark, “’night, Crash.”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s still morning when she opens her eyes, an uncomfortable sweat on her brow and a warm, heavy weight pressing down on her. She turns her head a fraction to find him lying half on top of her, his face buried into her neck. Her fingers find his hair, gently threading through it. He doesn’t stir. Stella smiles to herself: a small victory.