[No, he didn't know that last part. And it doesn't make any sense, really--why would an angel want anyone to commit suicide--and why her, of all people. The vague feeling of unease sets in on him, but Sirius washes it mostly away by taking another swallow of space liquor.]
[She shifts a bit, like she's uncomfortable. That's a hard question because as shitty as things are here, it's not like her life at home is great, either.]
I don't exactly feel comfortable anywhere.
Sometimes I think this is some kind of purgatory. A stay of execution for something that's coming, but I can't figure out what.
[But he gets it, maybe a little, he thinks. Edgeworth was always questioning magic, telling him it wasn't real, it was some sort of science. But Sirius had been born into magic, with magic actually in him. It had never occurred to him, to think of it as false.]
It's like someone asking if air is real. You don't say it every day, 'cos of course it is. So?
[He stares over toward her, keenly--just for a moment, a moment where he's really focused on her, drunkenness and all.]
You don't like talking about this. Or any of it.
[Which might seem like an incredibly obvious observation, but it's better than he usually does. Or maybe it's just that he's come out and said it. Maybe that's what makes the difference.]
[She takes another drink, because she needs it to get through this conversation.]
No. That's why I almost never do it.
[It may be incredibly obvious, but it's something no one asks her. So much of Seraphim is caught up in how cute she is, in how tiny and innocent she looks, in how scared she feels, that no one looks past that to see what she's really like.]
[Talk, that is. But the way that he smiles--grim and unhappy--sort of suggests what he thinks about that as a suggestion. In case it needs clarifying:]
But fuck that. Right?
[Which is a toast, and he holds his glass out to her to indicate that.]
[She toasts and drinks, and holds still for a moment, waits for a while after the burn fades from her throat and mouth, takes another drink-]
This was easier when we just made out.
[She is definitely getting tipsy - it's not hard, she's small and she doesn't drink often. In fact, she might be edging just past tipsy now, because her skin is flushed. Still.]
[She takes another drink before she primly sets her cup down, takes his and puts it down too, and then she moves and kisses him, in the way she knows he likes.
Because fuck talking.
Because dealing with emotions is a stupid game that Seraphim may actually be tired of playing.
And because responsible coping mechanisms are for adults, and there are no adults in this room.
Her hands are on his face, no less, just across his cheekbones.]
[Quickly, his hands come up to hold to her--to ground himself, and to help with the kiss. Sera was always a good kisser. That hasn't changed at all. If anything, it seems better, because it's been awhile. She had learnt him pretty quickly, and then used that to her advantage. Maybe he should feel bitter about that, too, like it was part of her act, like she'd used that cleverness to keep him.
But so what, if she had. He'd liked the kissing. He likes this kissing, right now. He moves against her without any hesitation, responding easily, kissing back, one hand at her cheek, the other pushed back through her hair.]
[She breathes into that kiss, she pulls him closer, her hands moving
down onto his shoulders. It's kissing and it's familiar and in a way, it's
a kind of sweetness, something that they can share, something that proves
maybe not everything was faked. She doesn't crawl into his lap, she tugs
him, almost onto hers, and keeps kissing him.
Everything tastes like space liquor and chocolate and it's maddening
how good that makes Seraphim feel.]
[It's not exactly forceful, that tug, but it's enough to get him to follow. Even the light application of force is something that he can appreciate, and go along with. He shifts closer at her prompting, and the fit of him is easy, hardly requires any thought. This, they're good at, and he can settle for that right now.
Eager, his fingers push through her hair; his mouth works against hers, open, good; this is undeniably good.]
[She keeps kissing him, keeps this going, her hands in his hair, her mouth going for his to his neck, leaving a mark there. Maybe she needs this too, after fighting with Lucifer and after Castiel giving her a panic attack, this ridiculous release of hormones and pressure feels good.
After a while, after kissing and dragging him on top of her, her hair is mussed from his hands and she looks calm, she pulls back.]
[His mouth is more than a little sore, a soreness that echoes the sore feeling on his neck--and it's a little difficult to breathe, and there's a flush in his cheeks, he can feel it, and a tightness in his jeans, because let's face it, he's only human.]
Yeah.
[It comes out a little rough, a little uncertain. But surely this is all right? To just-- forget, for a little while. It isn't better, but it feels good. Maybe it's not. Maybe he shouldn't.
He pushes his fingers through her hair, combs it back from her face.]
[She considers it for a moment. Considers everything, but then her hands are running at the line of his trousers, and her fingers write against his hips, inching his shirt up to find skin.]
Now it really feels like he's bloody suffocating, just a little. His breath catches, muscles tense and seize up, and the shift of his hand is almost automatic--fingers touched against her cheek one second, and then down, following the curve of her jaw, skimmed along her neck.]
Yeah. [And then, right--] Only if you want.
[Or don't want, to stop, or-- whatever. He leans in to kiss her again, fingers hooked in to the neck of her shirt.]
[Yes, he does, absolutely he does. A great deal, and then some. He pushes closer when she tightens her grip; when she backs up, he starts to follow, lists closer, a little like she's got a string tied to him and he just has to follow after.
He stops himself before he crashes into her or anything, making a quick study of her face. And then, right, yes, this is what he wants. His mouth tastes of space liquor and her fingers are warm and he moves in to kiss her again, as his hand slips down between them, pushing up the hem of her shirt.]
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Sounds brilliant. So do you want to? Go back?
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I don't exactly feel comfortable anywhere.
Sometimes I think this is some kind of purgatory. A stay of execution for something that's coming, but I can't figure out what.
[She takes a long drink, then.]
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So, what. All the deadly illnesses and beasts and-- stupid temperature changes and things. Those are all just trials?
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I didn't say it was my purgatory.
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You're not honestly suggesting we're all just living in someone else's purgatory, are you. Because that's even more unbelievable.
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I don't really have a very firm grasp on faith, anyway.
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And what does that mean. Aren't you-- connected, to all of that?
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It's hard to have faith when you know. Do you say you believe magic is real?
[She knows God is real. It makes faith pointless.]
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[But he gets it, maybe a little, he thinks. Edgeworth was always questioning magic, telling him it wasn't real, it was some sort of science. But Sirius had been born into magic, with magic actually in him. It had never occurred to him, to think of it as false.]
It's like someone asking if air is real. You don't say it every day, 'cos of course it is. So?
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[She takes another drink. There is a sour look on her face.]
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You don't like talking about this. Or any of it.
[Which might seem like an incredibly obvious observation, but it's better than he usually does. Or maybe it's just that he's come out and said it. Maybe that's what makes the difference.]
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No. That's why I almost never do it.
[It may be incredibly obvious, but it's something no one asks her. So much of Seraphim is caught up in how cute she is, in how tiny and innocent she looks, in how scared she feels, that no one looks past that to see what she's really like.]
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[Talk, that is. But the way that he smiles--grim and unhappy--sort of suggests what he thinks about that as a suggestion. In case it needs clarifying:]
But fuck that. Right?
[Which is a toast, and he holds his glass out to her to indicate that.]
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This was easier when we just made out.
[She is definitely getting tipsy - it's not hard, she's small and she doesn't drink often. In fact, she might be edging just past tipsy now, because her skin is flushed. Still.]
better than talking.
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[And you know what, he's going to drink to that as well, because fuck talking.. She agrees, whether or not she drinks to it as well.
Once he's swallowed that sip, he shrugs.]
We could, instead.
[Make out. It seems like a good idea.]
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Because fuck talking.
Because dealing with emotions is a stupid game that Seraphim may actually be tired of playing.
And because responsible coping mechanisms are for adults, and there are no adults in this room.
Her hands are on his face, no less, just across his cheekbones.]
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But so what, if she had. He'd liked the kissing. He likes this kissing, right now. He moves against her without any hesitation, responding easily, kissing back, one hand at her cheek, the other pushed back through her hair.]
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[She breathes into that kiss, she pulls him closer, her hands moving down onto his shoulders. It's kissing and it's familiar and in a way, it's a kind of sweetness, something that they can share, something that proves maybe not everything was faked. She doesn't crawl into his lap, she tugs him, almost onto hers, and keeps kissing him.
Everything tastes like space liquor and chocolate and it's maddening how good that makes Seraphim feel.]
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Eager, his fingers push through her hair; his mouth works against hers, open, good; this is undeniably good.]
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After a while, after kissing and dragging him on top of her, her hair is mussed from his hands and she looks calm, she pulls back.]
Feeling any better?
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Yeah.
[It comes out a little rough, a little uncertain. But surely this is all right? To just-- forget, for a little while. It isn't better, but it feels good. Maybe it's not. Maybe he shouldn't.
He pushes his fingers through her hair, combs it back from her face.]
I don't want to stop.
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We don't have to stop.
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lin
Now it really feels like he's bloody suffocating, just a little. His breath catches, muscles tense and seize up, and the shift of his hand is almost automatic--fingers touched against her cheek one second, and then down, following the curve of her jaw, skimmed along her neck.]
Yeah. [And then, right--] Only if you want.
[Or don't want, to stop, or-- whatever. He leans in to kiss her again, fingers hooked in to the neck of her shirt.]
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Yes, yes.
Don't stop.
[She backs up a bit, then gauging his interest, her smile and the tilt of her head asking don't you? in a teasing! suggestive way.]
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He stops himself before he crashes into her or anything, making a quick study of her face. And then, right, yes, this is what he wants. His mouth tastes of space liquor and her fingers are warm and he moves in to kiss her again, as his hand slips down between them, pushing up the hem of her shirt.]
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