broken doll. drunken wolf.

broken doll

It's a costume ball.

You know that it's a ball because it is actually held in a ballroom. A ballroom in a Moorish-revival building that is over a hundred years old, a ballroom crafted in the Byzantine style, grand as hell, with a wraparound mezzanine and sumptuous lights, wallpaper, the works. It's a gorgeous, creepy old building, and the night is perfect for it: a black sky, a gleaming half-moon, a few drifting clouds.

Inside, there are dimmed lights. Things are tinged red and orange and shadowy. The bar is open; drinks are included in ticket prices. So are tips. Supposedly everything is for charity. No one cares much which one. These are the end times; one parties like these are the end times. The point of the party is to forget. The point of the holiday is to remember.

Tonight is Devon's new year. This is when the wheel turns over. This is the meeting place between the worlds. This is a holy time, and she should be at some fire wearing some wreath of leaves or dancing skyclad or something, but

she's at this party with its hundred-some-odd-dollar tickets and its open bar and costumes-required, 21-and-over entry. She is dressed in a pretty white dress with ever-so-slightly poofed short sleeves, a delicate collar, and pink flowers on green vines decorating the silk. She wears a little necklace with a blue flower, little earrings to match. Her hair is straightened and glossed, almost motionless, the ends curled. Her lips seem small, painted dark, dark red that is almost brown.

Her eyes are black. Those sharp sapphire eyes are covered in contacts that cover her sclera, turning everything black, lifeless, horrific. Her arms and neck and partof her face and even her bare legs -- in lacy ankle socks, in Mary Jane shoes beneath the poof of her dress and crinoline -- have rather impressively done makeup to show dark cracks in her skin, places where porcelain has shattered. Her freckles don't even show.

And she is not drinking. She's standing very still in the middle of the party, the dancing. A few people have screamed upon seeing her. Occasionally she moves, walking somewhere else, terrifying some new group.

Dolls are one of the eight most common phobias in the world. Did you know?

wolfman

It's not his damn costume ball.

Wolf's here anyway, though. Not because he wants to be. He doesn't want to be. He doesn't like costumes and he doesn't like balls and he fucking hates charity events, the hypocrisy of it, the spending of so, so, so much money on decadent and selfish pleasures, the exoneration of all their sins because at the end of the night all proceeds are donated to charity. Modern-day indulgences: don't even need a pope to sell 'em.

Still. He's here. Probably because someone made him. Guilted him into it. Probably James. Said something to the effect of you have a responsibility to your name. Or maybe even something vaguely threatening, infuriating, something like there are others who will if you won't. Fuck him.

So he's here, and he's spent most of the night at the bar, and though he didn't drink a drop the night the girl broke out the syrah he drinks much, much, much more than a drop now. Tequila, vodka, bourbon, scotch. Absinthe, brandy, gin, rum. The bartenders are thinking about cutting him off, weighing collective peace against the possibility of personal injury. They're relieved when he gets up himself, leaves a haphazard tip. Heads off in search of the toilets.

Lights are dim. Faces a blur. Everything's bit of a blur, really. He's fucking smashed. Feet unsteady, balance weaving. Halfway across the floor there's a still point in the spinning world. She has cracks on her skin and her eyes are the stuff of nightmares.

Wolf doesn't scream. He startles though, visibly, before he recognizes. "What the fuck," as though her costume were a personal affront.

Haven't seen each other since the syrah incident. She got a key to his townhouse, though. Was slipped under her door, shining on the carpet the morning after. He was gone by then. Didn't come back for days.

broken doll

For the first time all night, the doll laughs when someone screams at her.

Normally she just stares, then slowly turns, walking away, vanishing into the crowd. This time she is standing there, and people move as Rafael walks nearby, and he startles. And says what the fuck.

And she, recognizing him and not having expected to see him at all, laughs.

--

She's been scarce. Drank a bottle of wine by herself and he didn't find her dead by morning. Found that she tidied up in the kitchen, having bottled her goop. Raided the fridge for fruit and meatloaf. Passed out. He sees and hears traces of her, has been, whenever he is there, which is not always: leftovers in the fridge. A small bottle of that white-willow stuff that makes things not hurt anymore dangling from his bedroom doorknob by a long string tied not unlike a noose around the cap. The television set turned to some old movie channel when he next clicks it on.

His servants may bring her up to him. She's still there. Even when he's not. She was given a key. She basically lives in his townhouse. Some nights she's not there; some days she's not. But she fucking lives in his house, rent-free, and so: they may mention.

Or they may not. May know better. May have noticed who gave her the key in the first place.

--

"Rafaeeel," she says, moving toward him, lifting her arms slowly, hands outstretched like claws, her tone barely audible through the music. She laughs again.

wolfman

Wolf grabs her wrists and pushes her arms down. "You look like a fucking fomor. Just be a sexy nurse next time."

Notably, he's not in a costume. At all.

broken doll

She's grinning. "And what are you supposed to be? A stock broker?"

If she weren't at least a little lubricated by alcohol herself at the moment, she wouldn't take that grab and shove quite as in stride as she does now. But she does, ignoring it. She wasn't going to grab him. But she's so delighted, drunk on delight, at the fact that he startled like that when he saw her.

"Almost as bad as a fomor," she informs him.

wolfman

"I'm drunk and I need to piss," he answers crossly. "How'd you even get in?"

broken doll

"Second -- third -- time I met you, you got me into an invite-only soirée for rich people," she says. And that is her only explanation. Her arms are lifted; she crosses her wrists above her head, smiling that black-eyed smile, and gives a little twirl.

"So go piss. Off," she says, clearly pleased with her clever little wordplay.

wolfman

"Can't even look at you." So he doesn't. He looks away, scowling, that heavy brow, that hard mouth. "And I definitely didn't get you into this."

Piss off, she says. He sends her a black glance. Walks off, shouldering through crowds when people don't get out of his way fast enough.

Back three minutes later. Least his hands look washed. He has a pair of sunglasses in hand. Women's sunglasses. Obviously not his. Wonder who he 'borrowed' them from. Wolf hands them to her, or at least pushes them her way.

"Fuck's with your skin."

broken doll

He has no idea if he got her into this. Or someone else. Someone wanting to fuck her or someone who met her, talked to her, was convinced. Easily, or not at all; she doesn't like to beg.

He moves past her, like he's angry to have run into her. And she smirks a bit, turns around, starts dancing. When he comes back she's not in the same place. When he finds her, he's holding sunglasses, and she just scoffs at them.

"Makeup," she says. "You scared of dolls?"

wolfman

"Shut up and put it on." Charming fellow. "Hell are you supposed to be, anyway."

broken doll

Her eyebrows lift. "So that's a yes."

She ignores the sunglasses.

"A broken doll," she explains, slowly. Her arms bend at the elbows. She stands still. Cocks her head to the side.

wolfman

Wolf walks away again.

--

Much later:

crowd's thinned a bit. Older contingent's left. Turned in for the night. Just the young and wealthy now. Music's gotten better. Drinks are still flowing. Wolf's had a couple more drinks; cleared a couple from his bloodstream in compensation. Maybe girl dances or maybe she keeps standing there scaring the shit out of people, and then

wolf's behind her, tapping her roughly on the shoulder. More like a double poke, really.

"Leaving. Need a ride?"

broken doll

He fucking leaves. This time she doesn't call after him. Or follow him.

Or show up in his eyeline again for a couple of hours.

--

Younger crowd. Louder music, better music, fewer lights, more noise. She's not out there scaring the shit out of people. She doesn't look like she did before. Dress is gone. Lacy socks and Mary Janes are still there. Hair is no longer even slightly smooth; looks tousled, teased, looks like a madwoman's. Eyes have lost the contacts. Skin still looks broken in places, shattered, cracked. She's wearing whatever was under that pretty dress, which is basically lingerie, but in her case -- since it includes a black corset lined in white satin -- covers her more than plenty of costumes being worn tonight. The ribbon that was in her hair is tied several times around her wrist.

And she is dancing.

Until some asshole jabs her shoulder twice with his finger, making her stop, whipping around to lash out at whatever motherfucker --

She scowls. "Fuck off," she says, turning back around.

wolfman

Girl's clothes, or lack thereof, suddenly make an impression. Wolf scowls. He taps her shoulder again.

"Where the fuck are your clothes?"

broken doll

This time when she whips around she actually does lash out with her arm, still painted and made up like cracked procelain.

"Fuck off," she says again, more forcefully.

wolfman

Her wrist instantly caught. Second time tonight. That slender bone smacking solidly into his palm, like a baseball into a catcher's mitt. Wolf's standing close, in her face, glaring.

Then he ducks. His shoulder to her midsection. He heaves her up: picks her up like a sack of flour and starts carrying her -- somewhere. Some idiots nearby whoop encouragingly.

broken doll

For a second, or a half second, or four full seconds, he's holding her wrist and standing far too close, glaring in her face. Her back is arched to give her eyes more distance to see him clearly, she doesn't like how close he pushes himself, how hard he glares, and right now she doesn't seem to like him, if she ever has or does, but that doesn't make her glare. Just makes her stand there, frozen a moment, caught the way that all prey animals are caught when they realize that the predator has seen them. Somehow they still can't make themselves do anything, just yet, but be perfectly still.

He tackles her. Lifts her up. She sucks in a breath, but she doesn't panic. Tell her heart that. She doesn't kick, scream, though she wants to beat the living shit out of those assholes who whoop encouragingly when they see a man do this to a woman. She sets her teeth, and does squirm, and does twist, and then she balls up her fist and punches him, hard as she can, in the back of his skull.

See him block that.

broken doll

[so punch]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 4, 7) ( success x 1 )

broken doll

[very damage]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (1) ( fail )

broken doll

[such fail]

broken doll

[so punch]

Dice: 4 d10 TN4 (1, 2, 3, 7) ( success x 1 )

broken doll

[very damage]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (1) ( fail )

broken doll

[still such fail]

broken doll

[wtf nevermind. FIRST ROLL WAS DIFF 4 = 3 suxx.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5) ( fail )

broken doll

[IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE]

wolfman

Like thudding a small boulder. Probably hurts her hand more than it does him. Wolf makes an affronted noise. Gives his head a quick whip of a shake. Keeps going.

Passes one of the hooting idiots. Punches him in the fucking face. Swift, controlled, vicious jab, smooth as an inkstroke. Out and back and there's blood on his knuckles, there's one less hooting idiot, there's one more howling idiot crashing back into the crowd holding a gushing nose.

Wolf hauls the girl off the dance floor, down a short hallway that leads to the bathrooms or the coat checks or something. Sets her down there, which is to say: dumps her unceremoniously on her high heels. When she rights herself he's there in her face again, aggressive.

"Three times now you've tried to smack me. Once at the bus stop. Twice tonight. Stop."

wolfman

[retroactive perception!!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )

wolfman

[change that to just, "Stop trying to smack me."!]

broken doll

It doesn't hurt her hand. No more than punching any hard surface hurts. Which is to say: quite a bit. But her knuckles don't bruise or split against his head. The point is made, which perhaps was all it was meant to be: stop. no. put me down. I HATE YOU. Whatever it was. Another point is made, less intended and more obvious and yet maybe still in need of a reminder: she's quite weak. There's little strength in those arms, whatever she has going for her in her mind.

All he does is jerk his head. So she beats at his neck, his back, jabs her knee into his chest, does not go quietly. Does not give up. By the time he gets to the hooting idiot there is more than one person who sees how obvious it is that there is a man carrying a woman over his shoulder against her fucking will. By the time there's blood on his knuckles from that hooting idiot, it's very fucking clear that she's thrashing, she's swearing.

And she's actively shouting for help, too.

He may not see as clearly, or care, that security has been alerted, that people are following him, particularly a group of women, some of them shouting at him to put her down! His rage is ferocious, it's true. But sometimes fear motivates more than it represses. And often, the urge of the herd to defend its own -- or what it thinks of as its own -- is a powerful shield. If human beings were always so easily cowed, they wouldn't be the dominant lifeform on the planet these days.

Somewhere else, he puts her down. And she is on half-inch heels. They are Mary Janes. They have a little strap and buckle over the top of her socks. He could see them clear enough, round-toed and everything, when he hauled her off.

She's enraged. And he's telling her something about smacking him or trying to smack him and counting off the times, getting in her face, and there are tears in her eyes from how angry she is, how humiliated, how genuinely afraid.

"Fuck off!" she shouts at him, shaking. Pulls back, as though startled by herself, shivering. "What the fuck is wrong with you."

wolfman

Wolf doesn't put her down when she thumps the back of his head. Wolf doesn't put her down when she does her best to knee him in the chest and elbow him in the back. Wolf does put her down when she starts screaming for help, fucking hell.

Somewhere else then. Middle of the dance floor, or at least middle of the party. People gathering around to watch the spectacle. Maybe a few of them pulling out cell phones because obviously this was breaking news worthy of youtube, worthy of twitter, worthy of the 24/7 news cycle that was the internet.

Wolf looks at her, angry and not quite comprehending. Wolf looks at the staring faces, the upraised cameras. Wolf bares his teeth and snarls something impolite and bulls into the crowd. People giving way before him, the nearest of the herd skittering back in self-preservation. Not fast enough. He grabs someone's cell phone and whips it hard against the ground, smashes it to bits. Shoves someone else. Sends a third guy sprawling, and by now people are doing a better job of getting the fuck out of the way. A path clears, and by god it'd better be open all the way to the door, by god some diligent rent-a-cop better not get in his way or he was going to

lose

his

temper.

broken doll

What a triumph. They confronted him and he put the girl down and went away. And that's enough, if she's safe. It's enough if they can excuse not chasing after him, especially if he's violent.

They gather around the girl they think is one of their own, who in reality is nothing like them. She doesn't smell like one of them. She doesn't think like they think. But they gather around her, some women in troll-doll costumes with neon-rainbow sky-reaching wigs touching her shoulders and asking her if she's okay, if she's hurt, what happened. Some nearby guys are picking up the one who went sprawling, talking about that fucker, talking about going after him since they have no intention of actually doing so.

She tells them don't, don't. Shrugs off touching, soothing hands. She doesn't want to be soothed. "Don't, just -- he's just drunk. Don't."

Girl in a bright blue dress and a blonde wig in a side-braid -- she's Queen Elsa, of course -- tells her she shouldn't put up with a guy who treats her like that. The sentiment is echoed by a few others, and that's about when Devon thinks she's going to smack someone. She shrugs. She squirms away from people and escapes, bolts, wants to go, get out, not wait for police or security or anyone. Vanish.

--

It's later. By an hour or so. And there's a cab pulling up to the townhouse, and a girl with madwoman hair gets out. She is wearing a white dress with pink flowers unzipped down the back to reveal the black lingerie beneath, and Mary Jane shoes. She goes inside, shivering from the cold -- she has no coat with her -- and going up to the stairs, quick as you like.

wolfman

Except there's someone sitting on the stairs.

Wolf's sitting on the stairs. Feet planted apart, ass two steps higher. Glass of something in the one hand. Brandy or whiskey or rum by the color. Because apparently this is what you do after storming out of a fancy party. Because apparently this is where you drink when you're not drinking at a fancy party, or at your breakfast bar, or on your expensive couch in front of your expensive TV.

On the stairs. In the dark. Blocking the way of girls who live upstairs in your spare room. He looks at her as she comes up the stairs. If she tries to pass him he puts out an arm and blocks her way.

And takes a sip. And sets the glass aside.

broken doll

No stairs, then. She walks in, shutting the door behind her with the stealth of someone who has snuck in and out of more places than you want to think about. She feels the rage as soon as her mind unfocuses from that door and her heart seizes in her chest. She exhales, and it shakes. Taking a few slow, quiet steps further in, she looks up and sees him up there, close to the top of the stairs.

She stays where she is. Night thing about an open plan like this; she can see him and be two rooms away. She doesn't try to pass him. She doesn't even try to approach the stairs.

Looks at him a moment, thinking of all her stuff upstairs, of the lack of money she has on her after the cab ride. And thinking of everything else, she turns again, opening the door, and walks back out of his house.

wolfman

Few seconds go by in peace. Half a minute even. Enough that maybe she thinks it's fine, he isn't coming after her, she's safe.

Then the door opens. He's still carrying that glass, his umpteenth. He follows her, quick, closing the distance.

"Devon."

broken doll

A few seconds, and a minute. She walks out, and with those shoes and with her dress undone and that hair and that makeup making her look cracked and no coat, she starts walking along the sidewalk. It's a nice area. Pretty houses. Most of them decorated. No one is out, though. Trick-or-treaters have already come through and lights have been turned off. For now she feels safe enough, walking alone like this. Soon enough she'll get to a point where she has no idea where she's going and no real choice but to go back or keep walking or hope to hitchhike, and no one picking up a hitchhiker tonight at this hour is going to be savory and no matter what: she has to think of where she's going.

So he comes out, and she's halfway down the sidewalk. Still in his pretty city neighborhood, just a few blocks away from a bad area, when suddenly from one street to another the property values skyrocket and the skin color of the residents all bleaches out.

A door behind her opens and closes and footsteps, lighter than someone his size has a right to be, and the heat of rage at her back. She hates herself a little for finding it comforting, in some strange instinctive way. Warming, when it's cold and dark. What human beings fear at nighttime is this. And she knows deep down that of all two-legged creatures, she's safer than most. It's despicable, what instinct makes us feel.

"What." she snaps at him. At least it's not fuck off again. And the only reason it's not is that she is very, very cold.

wolfman

Compared to fuck off that's enough to encourage him. He follows her. He catches up, his longer strides chewing up all the distance between them. Wasn't lying when he said there wouldn't be a mark on him in a few days' time. There isn't a mark on him now. Even if she had managed to do some damage beating on him with knees and fist, they'd be gone by now too.

Still in his suit. Still in his nice shirt. Tie disappeared a long time ago. Still with a glass of something-strong in his hand, which he empties in a quick toss. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and holds it out to her.

broken doll

If he puts the jacket on her shoulders she doesn't fight it. She just scowls, gritting her teeth. Still walks, skinny legs moving quick. "Got another bullshit apology chambered?" she wants to know.

wolfman

Wolf keeps that jacket held out a while, until it gets obvious that she's not gonna take it. Or reject it. So that's when he opens it up and drops it over her shoulders. Lining's satin, slippery-smooth, still warm from his body. Heavy, too, and large enough to swallow her entirely. Probably covers more of her than her dress does. Definitely covers more than her lingerie did.

"No," he says.

A dozen steps go by. He keeps pace. "Come back inside."

broken doll

God, it's warm. The satin or silk seems to have soaked in his body heat. The coat itself is made for autumn, though light enough to have worn to an indoor party. She exhales as it drapes over her shoulders, and after a moment she lets her fingertips close on the edges, keeping it around her. Smells, too. Smells that way that nothing of her own smells, a smell that has its own heat, its own life, isn't taken from soap or detergent or magic. Not that she turns her head into the lining and inhales; it's just hard not to notice. It's as pervasive as the warmth.

She stops. He doesn't apologize, but tells her to come back inside.

"You never answered me," she says. But she's not walking anymore.

wolfman

So he stops too. A step or two after her, going ahead, looking into the distance. Nice area. Lots of streetlights. Safe enough even for a lone woman to walk at night, as long as she didn't cross the wrong street. Cross the wrong stranger's past. Wolf turns, comes back that step. Light at his back now, face in shadow.

"About what?"

broken doll

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

It's what she asked him, eyes full of tears, back at the costume ball, before he stormed out. She was shaking then, almost sobbing and almost screaming the words. Now she's looking at him, her shivering subsided a bit thanks to his jacket, and she sounds earnest.

"The way you treat me. What is it. What is your problem with me?"

wolfman

Frowning when he asked her what she meant. Scowling, suddenly and tempestuously, when she answers. Then she goes on and he figures it out. That wasn't an answer after all. It was the question.

They face each other on that well-manicured street. Not a single car goes by. This is a nice neighborhood, rich neighborhood, full of cul-de-sacs and curving drives. No one uses these streets as thoroughfares.

Wolf shrugs after a while. Jacket off, his white shirt looks even more out of place on his body. Shoulders too broad, biceps somehow managing to strain even the tailored lines of the garment. For a while, doesn't seem like she'll get anything else out of him.

"You put me off my balance." Then she does get something else out of him. "Never expect to see you. Never know what to expect when I do. So I keep my guard up."

Quiet a minute. Looking down the street again. Pale streetlights casting a sheen off his nose, the planes of his brow and cheeks. "And I fucking hate fancy parties. Feel out of place and don't know how to fit in. Don't like it when you see me like that. Didn't like seeing you with your clothes half off either. Someone must've taken it off you, yeah? Belong there even less than me but you obviously have no trouble fitting in."

Looks back at her. Too dark to see the color of his eyes. That glinting wolf green. He jerks his head homeward.

"Freezing cold out here. Come back inside."

broken doll

"I'm not doing anything to you," she insists, when he says he keeps his guard up. She says it like someone says it's not my fault!, because it isn't. Not her fault that just seeing her puts him off. Not her fault that he doesn't know her yet, doesn't have a read.

She exhales, her breath steaming. He tells her what he hates. And that he doesn't fit in. And he really doesn't like her being there when he feels like he doesn't fit in. She just scowls at him. Or frowns: deeply.

Then he mentions her clothes half off, his guess as to how that happened. Makes some comment about where she does and doesn't belong. Now she really is scowling.

"None of that deserves the shit you give me," she informs him, and turns sharply, walking back toward his stupid stupid townhouse with its central heating and air and whirlpool jets in the garden-size tubs and well-stocked liquor cabinet and 900 channels and high thread count sheets and all her stuff.

wolfman

"Didn't say it did. But you asked."

Now she's going back. He follows. A step behind and a step to the side. Easier that way; doesn't feel like he needs to keep up a conversation. His hands shove into his pockets. Cold outside, after all.

Up ahead, his house. Neat and handsome and aglow from within. Can even see the window to her bedroom from here; it looks out over the street. His looks out over the tiny yard in the back. As they near he comes up alongside her after all.

broken doll

She flinches away, at first, when he comes up alongside. Just a little. It's more habit than reflex.

But they get to the door and she turns the handle, going inside. It's warm inside but not stifling; she exhales relief without meaning to but doesn't shed his coat. She goes toward the stairs.

wolfman

Wolf sets his emptied glass on the nearest convenient surface when he gets back in. Shuts and locks the door.

Seems his servants go where he does. When he's in town James is here, and usually Franklin too. His cook shows up during the day to cook. His housekeeper shows up during the day to clean. Those days he wasn't in town, girl might only see the housekeeper coming in to keep things in order.

Tonight it's James. Tonight it's Franklin. Former comes in sight of the doorway but doesn't approach. Girl goes upstairs. Wolf follows. James retreats. Keeps his thoughts his own.

Top of the stairs and that's where they should part. Her room one way and his the other. Wolf reaches out -- fingers brush the wool of his own coat but then he thinks better of it. Doesn't catch her by the arm. "Devon," he says. "I am sorry I scared you. Again."

broken doll

Gradually she goes up the stairs. Had he not started to follow she might have turned to tell him to come on. As it is, she doesn't say anything to him. They come in from the cold, her in her tousled hair and dark lips and wearing his jacket over her doll-like dress, and they go up the stairs.

At the top she doesn't pause. He does reach out, touches, but only faintly. And she turns to look at him, having felt it. He says her name. And says he is sorry. And given everything else, here is where she rips him to pieces. Calls it bullshit.

Devon doesn't say anything. She puts her hand out for his, her palm up, her fingers slightly curled.