No, she needs no aid against him, maybe if he wanted to harm her in earnest she would require saving but like this Bardot is in no danger from the blue mustang. He tilts his chin up, keeping his grey eye beyond the reach of that smoky weapon. That needled point drags against the flesh of his cheek as he raises his head drawing a bead of blood that he watches roll sluggishly down the spire. From there, his grey eyes that have so often appeared flat, distant, and cold, meet her golden ones full storminess that now rages there all the time.
There is nothing to read in those golden eyes, beyond anger. He has no practice in weighing the emotions of women, at least not any more evolved than anger and fear. There is a moment when he feels that they are about to fall into the motions of what could almost be a familiar dance. Though they haven’t had time for familiarity, for habits to form, to know the ways to disagree with, or comfort one another. If he might ever be taught such things. Bardot pulls back and doesn’t trace the damage she has left on his body. So they do not touch unless his blood settling very discreetly against her brow can be counted.
Why did he approach her? He has tried more than once to remember. What he does recall is a feeling like letting the darkness fall away from his skin, only so much slower. Tunnel well knows how she looks in the bright sunlight (a sight now more difficult for him to enjoy), her floral scent that he’d found cloying and unappealing on that first day. A muscle jumps in his jaw, his focus dropping to the snow at their feet and flicking back to her dark face. “I’ve thought about that. It was like I couldn’t see you. I could, of course.” Tunnel exhales, it is a loud sound in the quiet stillness of the night, but his voice when he continues is still low and quiet. “Bardot.” He says her name with a tinge of frustration because he does remember that day, remembers how she is given to mocking him when he gives her the warnings he has rarely given anyone. “I’ve tried to tell you before that I am a monster.”
The stallion turns his face away from her, his other cheek is home to the long scar she had left upon it. “I have been one. Before.” Though he says this he does not want to confess to her those distant deeds committed by a man who feels like him, but was not this him. A man with only one eye open, with only one ear listening, with a mind closed to anything that did not inspire primitive needs, violence, dominion. Nor does he mean to swear he is changed by her hand, though she must be a part of things somehow, it isn’t mystical. Passion has not broken a spell. He wants her to know about this all the same.
@Bardot oh look a story instead of a porno :O
