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"Convince me," she says, her hands sliding up your thighs, and you know what she wants. You hesitate as if you didn't know, because for a fraction of a second you're not sure you can do this. (You weren't sure, when you poked the syringe into your veins that first time, whether you'd be able to stop once you'd started; but you still held the plunger down.)
You lean forward, then, as if the idea's just occurred to you. You swallow the disgust that's rising in your throat, and you kiss her.
It's familiar, this sensation. You remember it from all those years ago, when you still trusted her, when you could look at her without your trigger finger itching. You remember the shape of her lips, the way her tongue darts in and out of your mouth like it's not sure of its welcome. You'd imagine that was down to your situation, except she's always kissed like that, at least with you. Not like Claudia, who kisses like you're a fountain and she's dying of thirst. Not like --
Detach. Detach. Don't feel. Don't think. Just act.
She breaks away and you turn to chase her lips with your own. Instinct. Got to convince her. Got to keep cover. She lets out a breath against your cheek and kisses you there, licks down your jawline to the side of your neck. Tongues a spot just underneath your ear that always makes you shiver, like it's hardwired to the pleasure centres of your brain.
It's night and it's cold and you don't want to close your eyes because you don't want to forget who she is: she's evil and she's dangerous and she might still try something. But you're already handcuffed and if she wanted you dead you'd be dead and besides, you can't help yourself: your eyes slide shut as she licks, nuzzles, kisses your throat, all the way across from one ear to the other.
You're panting a little now, which is good. It has to be real, like a needle in a vein, or else they won't -- she won't buy it, and there's too much at stake. You turn your head again, burying your face in her hair just as she lets out a throaty little purr against the side of your neck. Her hair is tangled. She smells dusty and sour. (She's been sweating.)
Her lips creep up to your ear. "I missed you," she murmurs, liar liar you never I never get away get away before I rip your throat out "missed what we used to do. Mmm..."
She kisses you again, on the mouth this time, and you're thankful because it means you don't have to speak, don't have to lie, at least not with words. Your skin is tingling where she's been touching you and her hands are still on your thighs and you're not even lying with your mouth any more, you're kissing her like you mean it because you do mean it, because whatever happened there was always something, there was always this between you: like that perfect moment when the drug kicks in and you don't care about anything any more.
She shifts her fingers on your thighs, digs in a little. You remember that, too. Little digs and pinches and they didn't hurt, exactly, but they nagged at you: she's already got you, so why so hard, why so aggressive, why can't she be gentle, like --
no no no don't think about her don't think about
-- fuck, fuck, fuck, it's too late, too late, and your eyes come open and your skin is still tingling and you feel sick.
She is still kissing you. Your eyes are open, but you don't see her face or the walls of the church, only Teri, Teri, Teri, slumped over, facing the wall, duct tape on her mouth, her stomach bloody, her eyes dead. Teri the gentle, Teri the sweet, Teri the kind, Teri who never had anything to protect her but her goodness and her love -- and you, but you weren't enough, not enough to save her.
Your fingers twitch and flex and you swallow again. You can taste something bitter in your mouth and you can't tell if it's bile or adrenaline.
Nina breaks away. "I'm sorry, Jack," she says. "I wanted to think you've changed, but... You're lying. You still despise me. I can feel it."
You protest, going through the motions, but you're not even sorry that you've blown your cover: no matter how much you despise her, you would despise yourself far more if you could fool her.
So once more you stop feeling, stop thinking, and act. This time, you're pushing a chunk of wood up against her throat by the time conscious thought returns, and it feels good. How much better would it feel to push a little harder? Just hard enough to make her eyes bulge and her face turn purple? You're not going to kill her -- there's too much at stake -- but couldn't you scare her a little?
But your hand is already shaking with the effort not to crush her windpipe. "You can believe whatever you want," you say, forcing out the words, "but I need this deal to happen. I'm a fugitive. I don't have a choice."
(Like you didn't have a choice but to push the plunger down and let the heroin chase your pain away. Like you didn't have a choice but to kiss her when you could as easily have done what you ended up having to do anyway.)
This is not about you. Keep telling yourself that until you believe it. This is not about you.
You swallow the bitter taste in your mouth and get back to work.
[end]