Katya_Derevko
Cadet
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Me poor grad student. No sue.
A/N: I think you need to read at least the last chapter of my "Nightmare" fic to get this. Enjoy!
Cold Tonight
I hate it, you know. You thinking that I could actually want you.
I just hate it.
I hate the way your lips felt on mine. I hate that I even remember. I hate the way your hand massaged the back on my neck and made me melt. I hate the way you snaked your arm around my waist, so possessively, as if you had some sort of right to do what you did, drawing me closer, kissing me harder, making me forget how to breathe.
I hate it so much.
Why can’t you just leave well enough alone? The only reason I didn’t pull away immediately was because of shock. Don’t flatter yourself. So maybe it’s been a while since I’ve gotten any. I’d still choose lifelong celibacy over any sort of night with you. Not that I’d ever have to. I don’t need to be … manhandled … by you to remind myself that I am still attractive, still desirable despite my years. I know.
Yes, your compliments unsettle me. But it is only because I can never be sure of the motivations behind them. And you always have ulterior motives, Arvin – don’t even try to deny it. Whether your skills as a master manipulator have led to your obsession with Rambaldi, or whether your obsession with Rambaldi led to the development of those skills, they are a part of everything you say and do. That is why I know I must be wary.
So don’t mistake irritation for some kind of … attraction-masking embarrassment, or whatever label you want to put on it. You don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do, Arvin. Not by a long shot. There is a difference between being flustered by someone, and simply being disturbed by him. What you do to me is the latter. There is no possibility of a pleasant connotation there. Just so you don’t misunderstand me.
When you had my son and my sister, Arvin, you were going to force me to choose between them, to choose which one lived and which one died. Do you remember that? Even if I had any sort of … attachment … to you, do you think such an act would be forgiven so easily? I will not let you harm me or mine. Ever. I will kill you myself, slowly and painfully, before I ever let you hurt any of them. Yes, even Yelena. Even in the face of her betrayal.
And please don’t tell me my death threats turn you on. It’s not funny. Really. It’s vulgar. Disgusting. When you said that, I wasn’t fighting the urge to laugh. No, not even a little bit.
Were I so inclined, I might feel sorry for you; after all, you have no family to cherish. All you have is your obsession with the apoplectic work of man who has been dead for 500 years. If you weren’t such an obsessive megalomaniac, it would be almost sad. But I suppose you are no so very different from the rest of us mere mortals, in that you need something, anything, to believe in. Just something to cling to when all the doubts of this world threaten to drown out the sound of your own voice.
You were clever when you complimented me, I suppose. Instead of some inane flattery about my physical appearance, you made a comment on my character. How did you know this would be so much more effective than praising my ‘beauty?’ I will concede that you know something of my nature.
You do not know me well, but what you do know you will never cease to use to your advantage. That is why I must always be careful around you, Arvin. Interacting with you is like playing chess with a Grand Master.
Yes, I can admit that. I can give credit where it is due. Though you are disturbingly arrogant, I know that at least some of your arrogance is justified. Your considerable skills make you a formidable enemy, and a worthy adversary for me to face. If you were less loathsome, I might even enjoy the way we play this game together.
And even if I admitted to you that I enjoyed it … that I enjoyed you, or anything about you at all … where do you possibly think it could go from there? Do you think I would betray all those I love, simply because I find you … intriguing? Do you think I could trust you just because you show a more-than-cursory interest in me, or because you seem to notice things in me that other people do not? Don’t ever think you’ve gotten to me, Arvin. Don’t be a fool.
And exactly how would you counter my objections to the hypothetical interest I could see myself having in you? Hypothetical. Remember that. Would you just smirk, and smile, and offer a share of the power that you imagine will one day be yours? Surely, you know that this would earn you nothing but laughter and contempt. Or would you say something trite, tell me something about how I should follow the old adage, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?” Well, I don’t follow old adages.
Besides which, I don’t want to keep you close to me. Your touch makes me too … uncomfortable. I told you that I hated it. I wasn’t lying. I really do.
Wanting you. Yes, I’d hate that too.
I’d just hate it.
I do hate it. So much.
This is all your fault, Arvin. It’s all your fault, for kissing me. But you will say that it can’t be all your fault. You will say that we kissed, that I kissed you back, that I responded, and that there’s nothing I can do to change that immutable fact. Do you think if you keep repeating this story that you will convince me it’s true?
I hate it, you know.
I hate your touch. I hate that I remember it, and I hate that it stirs up such sensations in me. I hate the fear that I will never forget what it felt like to have you hold me. I have to. I have to forget.
But most of all, I hate that it is cold tonight. I hate that I’m alone, that my thoughts are of you, and that no matter how tightly I wrap these covers around me, I just can’t seem to stay warm. I blame you; I might as well. Because tonight, I think to myself, as I shiver and try to fall asleep, absolutely everything is your fault.
A/N: I think you need to read at least the last chapter of my "Nightmare" fic to get this. Enjoy!
Cold Tonight
I hate it, you know. You thinking that I could actually want you.
I just hate it.
I hate the way your lips felt on mine. I hate that I even remember. I hate the way your hand massaged the back on my neck and made me melt. I hate the way you snaked your arm around my waist, so possessively, as if you had some sort of right to do what you did, drawing me closer, kissing me harder, making me forget how to breathe.
I hate it so much.
Why can’t you just leave well enough alone? The only reason I didn’t pull away immediately was because of shock. Don’t flatter yourself. So maybe it’s been a while since I’ve gotten any. I’d still choose lifelong celibacy over any sort of night with you. Not that I’d ever have to. I don’t need to be … manhandled … by you to remind myself that I am still attractive, still desirable despite my years. I know.
Yes, your compliments unsettle me. But it is only because I can never be sure of the motivations behind them. And you always have ulterior motives, Arvin – don’t even try to deny it. Whether your skills as a master manipulator have led to your obsession with Rambaldi, or whether your obsession with Rambaldi led to the development of those skills, they are a part of everything you say and do. That is why I know I must be wary.
So don’t mistake irritation for some kind of … attraction-masking embarrassment, or whatever label you want to put on it. You don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do, Arvin. Not by a long shot. There is a difference between being flustered by someone, and simply being disturbed by him. What you do to me is the latter. There is no possibility of a pleasant connotation there. Just so you don’t misunderstand me.
When you had my son and my sister, Arvin, you were going to force me to choose between them, to choose which one lived and which one died. Do you remember that? Even if I had any sort of … attachment … to you, do you think such an act would be forgiven so easily? I will not let you harm me or mine. Ever. I will kill you myself, slowly and painfully, before I ever let you hurt any of them. Yes, even Yelena. Even in the face of her betrayal.
And please don’t tell me my death threats turn you on. It’s not funny. Really. It’s vulgar. Disgusting. When you said that, I wasn’t fighting the urge to laugh. No, not even a little bit.
Were I so inclined, I might feel sorry for you; after all, you have no family to cherish. All you have is your obsession with the apoplectic work of man who has been dead for 500 years. If you weren’t such an obsessive megalomaniac, it would be almost sad. But I suppose you are no so very different from the rest of us mere mortals, in that you need something, anything, to believe in. Just something to cling to when all the doubts of this world threaten to drown out the sound of your own voice.
You were clever when you complimented me, I suppose. Instead of some inane flattery about my physical appearance, you made a comment on my character. How did you know this would be so much more effective than praising my ‘beauty?’ I will concede that you know something of my nature.
You do not know me well, but what you do know you will never cease to use to your advantage. That is why I must always be careful around you, Arvin. Interacting with you is like playing chess with a Grand Master.
Yes, I can admit that. I can give credit where it is due. Though you are disturbingly arrogant, I know that at least some of your arrogance is justified. Your considerable skills make you a formidable enemy, and a worthy adversary for me to face. If you were less loathsome, I might even enjoy the way we play this game together.
And even if I admitted to you that I enjoyed it … that I enjoyed you, or anything about you at all … where do you possibly think it could go from there? Do you think I would betray all those I love, simply because I find you … intriguing? Do you think I could trust you just because you show a more-than-cursory interest in me, or because you seem to notice things in me that other people do not? Don’t ever think you’ve gotten to me, Arvin. Don’t be a fool.
And exactly how would you counter my objections to the hypothetical interest I could see myself having in you? Hypothetical. Remember that. Would you just smirk, and smile, and offer a share of the power that you imagine will one day be yours? Surely, you know that this would earn you nothing but laughter and contempt. Or would you say something trite, tell me something about how I should follow the old adage, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?” Well, I don’t follow old adages.
Besides which, I don’t want to keep you close to me. Your touch makes me too … uncomfortable. I told you that I hated it. I wasn’t lying. I really do.
Wanting you. Yes, I’d hate that too.
I’d just hate it.
I do hate it. So much.
This is all your fault, Arvin. It’s all your fault, for kissing me. But you will say that it can’t be all your fault. You will say that we kissed, that I kissed you back, that I responded, and that there’s nothing I can do to change that immutable fact. Do you think if you keep repeating this story that you will convince me it’s true?
I hate it, you know.
I hate your touch. I hate that I remember it, and I hate that it stirs up such sensations in me. I hate the fear that I will never forget what it felt like to have you hold me. I have to. I have to forget.
But most of all, I hate that it is cold tonight. I hate that I’m alone, that my thoughts are of you, and that no matter how tightly I wrap these covers around me, I just can’t seem to stay warm. I blame you; I might as well. Because tonight, I think to myself, as I shiver and try to fall asleep, absolutely everything is your fault.