Sleep without a dream

[MICHAEL ZOTTI]

"She has declined to meet you," the man told him.

Michael continued the slow survey of his surroundings. He'd been in the pent house before; most of the council members lived here. They were all spacious apartments occupying an entire floor; they were opulent and they were built for pleasure, not for protection. He'd walked the perimeter of the building twice already, he'd taken the elevator and he'd walked the stairwell, marking exits and measuring distances in his mind, gauging how long it would take him to reach one place coming from another. How quantified and added and subtracted random circumstances to his calculations. How long would it take him to reach Riviera's door at a dead run from the street, how long would take him injured.

"Did you hear what I said," the man pressed, his voice more urgent; a soft rustle of snake like movement cutting through meaning. He worked for the council, this man, and had been set up as his contact.

Michael's roaming eyes settled on the man in front of him. He'd given the man a once over earlier and then had dismissed him, sparing only the bare minimum amount of attention because he was saying nothing important to him, nothing he didn't already know.

"She goes through body guards very quickly," the man said, his wide lips lifting at their corner into a fluttering smirk. "Most of them quit. But many are dismissed." The older man shrugged his shoulders, obviously enjoying imparting this information. "They can't seem to keep up with her."

"I've been briefed," Michael informed him, the words curt, calm. He shifted his gaze again, this time to the windows. It was the eleventh floor, he saw darkness and the building across the street, its windows glittering with lamp lights and television screens.

"It seems to me," the man went on, "that only certain men are assigned this job."

Only certain men. Michael shifted his eyes again, this time settling their full weight on the man in front of him. It was giving the man exactly what he wanted, but that was Michael's intent.

"You must have gotten on someone's bad side," the man went on, his tone lower, more conversational, almost preening under the attention he'd won for himself.

"Maybe," he admitted, the word flat. "I don't like a lot of innuendo. Or bull shit."

The man's face tightened; his lips became a thin line. Quiet, they faced each other, quiet. The older man looking at the younger one. He was big, the man admitted inwardly. Big built but not slow looking, calm and unfazed by any of the questions or unsolicited advice he'd been offering him. But he would fail too, the way they all had failed. And now, he was going to particularly enjoy seeing this one humbled.

"We take bets," he said, his smile broadening. "Most of us think you won't last the night."

The eyes of the pent house workers he'd felt assessing him since he'd walked through the door took on a slightly different meaning. The gardener's cheerful hello and the maids smiling giggle while their eyes had darted up and down him organized themselves out of casual conversation into derision.

"It must be humiliating, I'm sure," the man said, his words full of false empathy. He shook his head, sighing under his breath. "I've seen so many men like you, so sure of themselves, forced to resign and admit they'd failed to do the one thing they were tasked with. And it seems so simple, the job. Follow her around, make sure she is safe." The man smiled, because although he was no fan of the council woman who lived on this floor, at this moment, her ability to elude her protection was his ally in the pleasure he was taking in his taunting. "And you look so young yourself. Is this your first assignment? Usually they send much more, well, experienced men."

It was obvious the man was trying to antagonize him; the why was not obvious to him and he decided it didn't matter. He did not rise to the bait and he was finished with the conversation. "Excuse me," he said, and he walked away from the man without looking back at him.

"Of course," the man said, obviously pleased, maybe thinking that his jibes had driven Michael to want to get away. It didn't bother Michael to let him believe it; he didn't look back to see the gloating expression. His attention was ahead, on the near empty rooms he passed though and the hall as he came to it. He'd been given a tour of the apartment earlier in the day and he knew which door was hers, he'd memorized the layout before he'd reported here this afternoon. When they'd assigned him to her a few days ago he'd started his studying. He'd looked at blueprints of the building. He'd looked at a map of the street. He'd learned the names of every employee who worked at the pent house, and knew the man he'd just been talking to was Tom Yates, 37 years old, and he was a manager here, hiring the maids and the cook and ordering the food, arranging for whatever secretarial needs the council members might need.

He knew garbage pick-up was on Wednesday.

He knew Riviera had a habit of trying to elude her body guards. He knew she was successful, every time, she'd managed to throw off the men assigned to protect her and every time they'd either been fired by the council or had resigned in disgrace. Tom Yates was right, he considered. He must have gotten on someone's bad side to be awarded this position. The list of possible people he'd offended wasn't a small one.

Outside of Riviera's bedroom door, he came to a stop. The hallway here was narrower, the carpeted floor crushed red softness and the lights on the walls glowing globes of muted amber. There were only a few other doors beyond this one, an office and a library, a gym. But behind the double doors was where he focused his attention, listening above the low electric hum of silence. He stood still, listening. Time passed slowly. Minutes. He stood still. Hours. He stood still.

Movement. Quiet.

He shifted, closing his eyes. Movement to the front right of the room. The hushed sound of lifting and sliding.

Quiet, he pivoted; quickly, he walked back down the hallway. He walked back through the empty apartment. He took the stairs because he could take them faster then the elevator. He walked out the front door of the building and he walked to the left, never breaking stride. He turned down the side street and he walked to its end and turned its corner to the back alley where the part of the building Riviera's bedroom windows were facing. It was late, hours had passed since he'd walked up to the hallway to wait outside of the door. Cold night air blew against his bare arms and down his neck in a welcoming stir, urging him out of the stillness he'd forced himself into, waking his muscles into a pacing readiness. Prowling by being still, patient, he waited again now. He stood there, his eyes turned up. Watching. She was above him. He knew it was her, not only because these were her bedroom windows he was standing beneath. He knew it was her because he'd studied her pictures. From the front, from the sides, from the rear.She was eleven stories in the air, and he knew it was her.

From the shadows he watched her. She was already out and over the sash, already lowering herself down the outside wall. Pictures were different then reality. She was much stronger then her pictures suggested. He watched her, rifling quiet eyed against the movements of her arms and her legs, measuring the easy way she descended down the wall. Impressed by her. Annoyed by her. He stood readied, calculating how he could break her fall if she slipped. He made mental notes, filing them into his growing picture of Ashe Riviera. She favored her right, she was agile, she was fearless. She was dressed for going out, not for climbing and the wind and her movements revealed more then he felt right seeing; he kept his ears on her, listening in case she should slip but as she came lower his eyes looked aside, down the alley, at the street. Surveying, listening. Looking at her surroundings. They were alone in the alley, the only sound her soft breathing and the scuff of her shoes against the wall she was climbing. Then silence. She was letting herself down the last five feet to land quietly on the concrete, he knew without seeing. He turned back towards her, her back was facing him and before she turned around, he stepped forward a pace, enough to let the light from the streetlamps illuminate him. He kept his stance neutral, his were arms at his sides and his hands open, hanging where she could see them. He stood straight backed, his weight distributed, his muscles tensed and loose. Readied internally to defend himself but only by absorbing or deflecting any reaction she might have to being surprised. Or pissed.

She hits was one of the scrawled off file notes one of her bodyguards had left for future reference, or she stabs.

"Next time," he said, more forceful then he intended to say it, "you will tell me when you're leaving." She didn't want an introduction, and he would honor her decision. His words were to the point, his point. She'd been ditching her body guards by climbing out the window. He should have known immediately, but he'd assumed that maybe some of the men assigned to her hadn't stood vigilantly in the hallway. He hadn't been sure whether she'd slipped by them that way somehow and he wasn't going to judge those men, but he wasn't the men she'd dealt with before. And he was going to make sure she knew it.

[ASHE RIVIERA]

[cs=2][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; border-left: 15px solid #000000; height: 520px, bTable] AND EVERY TIME I LOOK INSIDE YOUR EYES YOU MAKE ME WANNA DIE "Are you kidding me?" A pause; then a low, threatening snarl. "Are you fucking kidding me?" The Shade spat out the words, eyes wide with disbelief, yet slowly narrowing with growing anger. Riviera leaned forward, fingers laced together, elbows resting on her knees; a somewhat casual posture, but something about the way she held herself had it spitting with frightening rage. She tilted her head slightly to the left, one brow lifting in question. "What, did you just say?" She was a woman who commanded orders and expected to be obeyed. She, was a woman who preferred solidarity to companionship, a woman who could take care of herself. This, Tom Yates all knew, and he knew more. And so, as he straightened himself up, it was with this information that he carried that he took great joy in reminding the Council Member that how many bodyguards you got rid of, there would always be more. "I'm afraid, Miss Riviera, that we've had to decline your, ah, requests, and have assigned you a new bodyguard. He starts today." The edge of his lips twisted into a cocky grin, his eyes dancing with joy. Another pause. A sigh. "I," she began, striving for calm, "do not need a bodyguard. I can take care of myself." She paused once more, cerulean glaring at hazel. Her voice low and quiet, she continued. "They are nothing but an inconvenience to me. They're useless, and a waste of time." Tom shrugged, too carefree for her taste. He threw his hands up in the air, as if to ask, what can I do about it? But of course, he could. He was the one who pulled the strings for matters such as these, after all. He knew it, and so did she. Yet still, he shrugged. "Sorry. They're there to protect you -- it's for your own safety." Her eyes narrowed once more, her lip curling into a sneer. "My safety?" She barked out a laugh, one brow rising in a skeptical manner, her voice dripping with cold amusement. "Have you forgotten already, Tom? The last bodyguard you assigned to protect me?" She paused, the edge of her lips tugging up into a humorless smirk. "I ended up protecting him, Tom. It was me who saved his life, not the other way round." She gave him a look that showed arrogance, but only slightly so; just enough to prove her point. "I'm better than those fools you give me, and I'm better than you. So why don't you go back to living your pointless life, and let me live mine." She gave him a sickeningly sweet smile, before rising from her seat; this conversation was over. Tom's lip thinned as he pressed them together, a thin sheen of sweat gathering above his brow as he fought to stay in control. Because, it was true. The last bodyguard had ended up entirely useless, losing his mind over a simple fight in some alley. Furthermore, Tom had bet, and lost a huge amount of money on the stupid boy; he was still suffering for the consequences. Riviera slid out from her seat, and he quickly did the same, the smile on his face now faltering. "But Miss Riviera, I think you'll find this one to be quite different from the others," he lied, hurrying now to keep up with her fast pace. Truth was, Tom didn't expect the new guy -- Michael? Mason? -- to last 2 days. But she didn't have to know that. "He's young, and ski--" She pressed a hand against his shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze; sharp nails digging in to soft skin. All pretense of sweetness was gone -- she had had enough of playing games. Eyes cold and hard, she leaned forward to speak in his ear, her tone sending shivers down his back. "I don't care; I'll get rid of him soon enough. And then, I'll get rid of you." A pause. A sharp look, then another arrogant smirk. She let go of his shoulder and turned, walking out of there and to her floor, slamming the door behind her. Letting out a scream of frustration, she punched the wall beside her, welcoming the biting pain that came shooting afterward. Since when would they learn? She didn't need -- or want -- a bodyguard! She wasn't Nix; she didn't care for companionship. She didn't think of bodyguards as friends. They were nothing. A nuisance. A pest. Vermin. Did they not learn? Did they not think? Riviera always got away from her bodyguards. Every time, without fail, she managed to slip away from the grasp, proving over and over again that she was not a Council member that needed protecting. Couldn't they tell from the way the men assigned to her were either fired, or quit? Didn't they know to leave her be? The thought of Tom Yates, and his infuriating smirk had her thoughts darkening. Obviously not. The Shade turned and yanked open her door, stepping outside into the hallway, before spotting a maid scurrying around. She beckoned for her to come with an impatient flick of her hand, ignoring the way the maid flinched when she stepped forwards. The girl was somewhat young; eighteen, maybe nineteen. Shade, or Half-breed, it was hard to tell, but the option of an Angelli was ruled out by that dark mess of hair piled on top of her head. Her face seemed sweet and innocent, but her eyes held a different story. Something wicked, youthful. Rebellious. Riviera snorted. Deficient. After a seconds silence, Riviera pointed vaguely to where she had left Tom Yates; a wave of hand too quick to understand. "D'you know when my bodyguard is gunna arrive, love?" She asked, raising a brow when the maid failed to answer quick enough for her liking. The girl faltered for a second, obviously in panic. "Oh, yes, he's here now; just arrived, in fact. Mr Yates is talking with him right now, actually." The girl fidgeted, obviously wanting to ask questions, but smart enough to know they wouldn't be answered. With a roll of the eyes, Riviera turned and walked back into her room, shutting the door and leaving the stunned maid behind her. It wouldn't be long before Tom had the bodyguard attached to her like some disgusting leech. She had to go; now. Grabbing her beloved bow and arrows from the corner, she slipped them over her shoulder and made her way to the window, thrusting it open with more force than necessary. She climbed out and grabbed the thick vines that she knew were there, and began her descent, smirking a little at how idiotic people were. She had done this so many times, Riviera could do it in her sleep. You'd think they'd know, by now. But, such were the minds of simpletons. She continued making her way down, feeling only slight annoyance as the wind lifted up her white dress, gritting her teeth a little at the cold. 11 stories high was a long way, but Riviera was better than most. After a few short minutes, she landed quietly on the ground, silently congratulating another escape. She laughed, brushing a few russet waves away from her eyes, before leaning down to remove her shoes. A necessity for climbing, but a irritation for walking. Riviera preferred going barefoot; she was quieter then. Made less noise when hunting. She threw them recklessly away from her, before turning around to walk to some forest, or maybe the park again. She didn't know, and she didn't care. Like always. The man watching her stepped out into the light, and she blinked, surprised. But shock quickly turned to suspicion then anger, and she took one menacing step forward, hand already reaching for her weapon. She didn't know who he was, but she didn't give a shit. He was here, he had been watching her, and she didn't like it. So, he was going to pay for it. People didn't annoy Riviera and get away with it; that was not the way of life. Before she had time to shoot, or threaten, the man spoke. "Next time, you will tell me when you're leaving." His voice; powerful, yet not authoritative. Gentle, yet harsh. He was a man who expected to be listened to, but he was also a man who listened to to others. She didn't get it at first. Calmly, she drew her bow and pointed the arrow at the man's chest. A smile. A smirk. A scowl. "Who the fuck are you?" She demanded, eyes narrowing, lip curling. "And why the fuck are you telling me what to do -- do you not know who I am?" She had him at death point; his life in her hands. He was hers. words 1499 :: tags michael :: notes eh, sorry, not a great post~~ :: made by prism!

[MICHAEL ZOTTI]

His expression unchanged, his eyes stayed on the woman in front of him. The woman he'd sworn to himself to protect. The woman that was his first assignment and the one he was determined to be his his last, unless Riviera left the council and had no need of protection. Because he was not going to quit. And he was not going to be dismissed.

The woman he stood in front of without reacting while she pulled her bow from her back and notched an arrow, the woman who aimed that arrow point at his chest was the woman he was sworn to protect. His own personal oaths and commitments were even deeper then the ones he'd taken to the council. He would not react Ashe the way he would react to anyone else. He did not kick at her ankle; he did not leap aside and reach for her arms, use his strength to contain her. His hands remained loose and open at his sides. His stance stayed straight, his muscles tensed into an automatic readiness. His stomach and his thighs became stone. Disarm her, his instinct demanded, and he strangled it down. He had a sharp object poised at his heart; self preservation demanded action. Only his will power kept him still. It kept him stoic, staring; his blue eyes meeting her darker ones calmly. She was demanding to know who he was. Asking him if he knew who she was.

She didn't get it. And her reaction to what she didn't know was to hold a deadly weapon at his heart. Quiet eyed, he looked at her. He liked her reaction to the danger. Already she'd shown him she was fast, she was fearless.

"You are Ashe Rivieria," he told her in the same firm, quiet voice. He stayed still; only his chest moved with the slow and steadied rise and fall of his breathing. "You don't know me because you were disinclined to an introduction." His next breath deepened and his chest expanded, forcing the point of the arrow to graze at the tee shirt covering his chest.

The taunting words of the man who'd walked him through the house came back to him; they took bets, he'd told him. Only certain kinds of men were assigned this job. Had he been put here to fail. He'd made enemies in the ranks of men who would assign him; they don't like you, he'd been told by some of the men he worked with. Why, he hadn't asked them. It didn't matter. And he would not fail.

He would not. He pushed the possibility aside; he would not entertain it.

"I have been assigned by the council to protect you." For the first time since their meeting he dropped his gaze from her eyes, letting his own eyes flick down to the arrow pointing at his heart. It was not the first time he'd been threatened with mortal danger. He'd fought in cages where the referees were bribed to look away, he'd fought in places where the crowd bayed for blood. He had only ever fought to contain and neutralize, but some of his opponents had taken a perverse pleasure in inflicting injuries. Especially, he'd discovered later, on him. Why, he'd asked one of the men he'd fought. The man had ended up being someone Michael considered a friend and an ally, although they were very different. Because you didn't react, Starvich had told him, shrugging. I wanted to break you.

He'd very nearly succeeded.

It had been another learning experience. He'd learned his tolerance for pain was high. And he'd learned that people liked reactions. He rarely, if ever, gave them. He rarely, if ever, felt them. He didn't know why. But he'd always been that way, above himself and looking down at the things he was experiencing with a detachment that made his stoicism seem almost fanatical. There had been times his own lack of expression startled himself. The time he'd stood still and had watched a knife plunge into his arm and had calmly pulled it out, using it on the man who'd attacked him. The time he'd kept fighting even bleeding, fighting through the slow ebb of his own life leaving him, surprised at himself when he'd fallen and could not get up. And still, on his back, he'd kept fighting. It wasn't only fighting though. It was everywhere, in all things. The woman last week, the one who'd walked up to him and had stood there, her body brushed against his. He'd stood there looking down at her, quiet while she'd whispered at him, quiet while her quiet hands ran down his sides, quiet in the suggestion of her eyes. Her intent was obvious but it had seemed too far away to tug the deadness out of his nerves. He was too distant to feel things that didn't go down deep enough, that didn't strike him hard enough. He'd disengaged himself gently from the woman's hands and he'd walked away from her, feeling the ice of her eyes stabbing at his back as he'd went.

He had no need to prove himself, no ego to feed with the illusion of being better then anyone else. He knew he was not better; he was only more willing, he was only making the effort to try harder then most others.

He had no reaction, and his patience was almost terrible; it could stand through hours of nothing, waiting for the right moment to strike or stand down. He could stand here, this way, readied and waiting, and not react until the point was pushing into him. Then, his actions would be swift, decisive.

But looking at the arrow Ashe had pointed at his heart felt different. He looked down at it, breathing slowly, his chest tensing against the point where it brushed at him. He wanted. He wanted to show this woman who thought he was nothing what he could do. He wanted to. He stood there, looking at the arrow where it grazed against the simple black shirt he'd thrown on earlier and he wanted to move his arm, bat it away and reach for her simultaneously with his free hand, pull her around to him into a hold she could not break out of.His wanting confused him.

He was not usually motivated by a need to prove himself. The feeling was so foreign in him he couldn't name it, standing still, staring at her. But it was there. It was not something he gave into. He stayed calm above the energy pacing in him. He worked for her; she was in, in essence, in charge of him. He was in essence, hers. And he knew it. But she was his too, in another way. She was his to protect even though she didn't want it. She needed it, even though she didn't think it. She needed it even though she was capable.

She knew who he was now.

"Are you going to shoot me," he said, his eyes rising again to settle onto hers. The question asked the way he did almost taunting. Almost a telling. Telling her again what to do because he was telling her what he'd do if she did. Without words, he was saying. He would disarm her; it was promised in the quiet power lurking beneath his almost unnatural stillness.

(I thought your post was great which was why I felt inspired to reply so quickly!)

[ASHE RIVIERA]

[cs=2][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; border-left: 15px solid #000000; height: 520px, bTable] AND EVERY TIME I LOOK INSIDE YOUR EYES YOU MAKE ME WANNA DIE How long had he been there? How had he stood there, and how had she not known? How was he so silent? How? The questions were infuriating; the answers long lost. She didn't know. There was too much she didn't know, and she hated it. And so, she hated him. Arrow drawn and stance offensive, she glared at the man, silently demanding an answer to all her questions. Brows furrowed, lip curled and head tilted upwards, she portrayed aggression at its fullest; the menacing step forward only further showing her wrath. "You are Ashe Rivieria," he said, never moving, never flinching; voice firm and sure. "You don't know me because you were disinclined to an introduction." He breathed deeply, letting the top of the arrow graze the front of his chest, yet still, never making any movements to show fear. Annoying. She paused, letting the words sink in. He knew who she was; but many people did. She was a Council member, after all. Next: he had told her information about herself, that she had somehow slipped by. Piece by piece, she connected. Logic dawned. Eyes narrowed. Breath hissed. She snarled in protest; he was her newest bodyguard. The young one. The different one. The edge of her lips tugged up to form an aggressive smirk; different? Young? It didn't matter. They all failed. And so will you, she thought. And so will you. She took another minute step forward, letting the arrow dig itself slightly into his chest; just enough to cause pain, but not to break skin. Yet. Riviera paused, cocking her head slightly to the left, wondering when he would back down. When he would break. Not long -- they never lasted more than a week. She cocked a brow. Why should he be any different? "I have been assigned by the council to protect you." He said. She frowned; she couldn't detect any emotions. Riviera had always been good at reading people, but him? Nothing. Just a sense of determination, but that was nothing new. They all started off like this, after all; confident and proud. Until she broke them to nothing. Always. The Shade snorted, cocking a brow, a bemused smile twisting onto her lips. "Protect?" She barked out a cold laugh, glaring at the man with a colder glare. "I am the Council, and I do not need protecting." She sneered. "Save yourself the embarrassment, and quit whilst you still have that little shred of dignity. Or, just wait until I get you dismissed; either way, I don't care. I'll still get rid of you, sooner or later." She murmured nonchalantly, offering a sweet, painful smile. "You won't last a week." And he would not. She would not allow it. Never. "Are you going to shoot me," he asked, in a somewhat taunting manner; as if urging her to do it, to shoot. To see the consequences of doing such things. To see what he could do back. A challenge. And such a tempting one, at that. She flexed her fingers, eyes still trained on his, brows furrowed in concentration. It would be so easy, so simple. But that was it. It'd be too easy. Too simple. It wouldn't be fun. Riviera smirked. Withdrawing her bow, she tucked it back across her shoulder. "No," she purred, leaning forward ever so slightly in a teasing manner, her smirk coy and arrogant. "No fun in that, sweetheart. I'll get rid of you, by other means, easily; just a matter of very short time." She reached up and slapped his face twice in a mocking manner, dismissing him as if he was some sort of pet. "You might as well go and pack your bags. You're not needed for the rest of the night." She darted around him with speed and agility, turning so that she faced him, the arrogance back on show. "Either quit, or be forced to quit. Your choice." Another smirk. She was quick, and she was good. So was he, but she was better. Always. Riviera turned back, about to make her way down the street. By the time she was back, he'd be gone; she was sure of it. words 712 :: tags michael :: notes aw thank you ^^ sorry i didn't give you much to reply to on this one<3 :: made by prism!

[MICHAEL ZOTTI]

'Protect? I am the Council, and I do not need protecting.'

He stayed still, staring at her. You are the council, which is exactly why you do need protecting, he thought. He'd been briefed on the history of the security breeches and he'd done his own research. And while it was true that until now there had been no serious attempts at assassination, at least on public record, it was a statistic that could easily change at any moment. Now was already past, and the future was unknown. It didn't matter whether Ashe was more able at defending herself then her peers. Anyone could be taken down. There were no exceptions. But she was not expendable. He didn't say those things to her, but he met her dark eyed glare with the cold blue eyes of his indifference, impervious to her argument. Unwilling to bend.

'Save yourself the embarrassment, and quit whilst you still have that little shred of dignity.'

That too brought no response from him; he weathered the words effortlessly, letting them roll off of his shoulders. Dignity wasn't something he sought from other men or women; it was a quiet contract he kept only with himself.

'Or, just wait until I get you dismissed; either way, I don't care. I'll still get rid of you, sooner or later.'

He watched her, his head bent on his neck, the quiet in him lifting at the edge at those words. He didn't know why, something about the way she said them. It irritated and amused him; he repressed the urge to stretch but was unable to stifle the small emblem of a sigh. Stretching would graze the arrow point deeper against his chest and the indifference of the sigh likely infuriate her; he wasn't tired and the short intake of breath made no sense to him. He didn't do things for show, but he'd met her sneer and emotion with the ultimate detachment he could imagine. It was a small thing, it would hardly register as a reaction at all on most people, but on him and his stillness, it shouted.

He was amused. Slightly worried. Annoyed. More determined then ever.

'You won't last a week.' She smirked, withdrawing her bow. 'No,' she purred, closing the distance with her body instead of her arrow. She wasn't going to shoot him. 'No fun in that, sweetheart. I'll get rid of you, by other means, easily; just a matter of very short time.'

He stayed still; the stillness stayed against the rise of her hand and the impact of her palm against his cheeks. Nothing in him moved, his shoulders stayed straight, his breathing stayed easy, his legs stayed rooted. He stared at her, the slight sting of the mocking dismissal rising pink into his skin.

'You might as well go and pack your bags. You're not needed for the rest of the night.' Turning, she darted then, down the street and away from him. 'Either quit, or be forced to quit. Your choice.'

His choice. He watched her for another moment before he moved after her, his long strides closing the distance between them. He moved easily, the way she did, careful and balanced and readied for the unexpected. Her back to him left her exposed to his own speed; he bounded forward and took the corner hard around her, cutting in front of her in the alleyway. Without intending to do it his size became a wall in front of her and stopped in front of her, he looked down at her, his eyes dark through the shadows. Behind him the city murmured; he stayed tensed to it, listening to the language of the silence shift with the chatter of cars and pedestrians. His senses felt heightened, the way they did before a fight and he wondered whether he'd already convinced himself into that kind of physical hyper awareness when he was around her. He'd thought about it; he'd talked himself through it. Ashe's safety was his responsibility. It was his priority.

"I will not quit," he told her. His eyes were settled, firm, unyielding. "And I will not be forced to quit."

"I will protect you," he said, his voice lower, heated. When she walked forward he was going to walk with her. He was going to watch the streets; he was going to eye the buildings, look for open windows and shadows on rooftops. He was going to listen; he was going to put himself in front of her if he deemed it necessary, he was going to put her her where he felt she was safest. "That," he said, "is something you have no choice in." It never would be.

There was no hint of a smirk ghosting in his lips, any of the amusement he felt earlier was gone. She needed to know how it was going to be; he stayed standing there for less then a moment more before he moved again, turning himself to the side to leave her free to pass by him.


(but you did!)

[ASHE RIVIERA]

[cs=2][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; border-left: 15px solid #000000; height: 520px, bTable] AND EVERY TIME I LOOK INSIDE YOUR EYES YOU MAKE ME WANNA DIE She didn't really know what to expect; some sort of pathetic resistance, or at least some kind of verbal retort, i guess. Nothing new, something that she had already seen many a time before. But he didn't. React, I mean. Riviera drove each insult home, sending one after the other, yet he continued to remain unaffected, and instead looked at her with what she could almost describe as a bored expression. Bored. It made her blood boil; and one way or another, Riviera would make sure that he would pay for it. She looked him in the eye aggressively, urging him to rise up to take the challenge. To snap out a comeback -- to fight for his place. But, disappointingly, he did no such thing. She shouldn't have been surprised really; all of her bodyguards turned out to be incompetent fools. Why should this one be any different? With a look of victory, she gave him a sneer, before darting away from him, confident that he'd leave her alone -- for now. They were always like this. Defeated the first day, before bouncing back full of energy the next. She didn't care. The more confident they were, the more amusing it was to break them back down. It wasn't a matter of if; it was matter of when. And for this one? She intended for that when to be very soon. Riviera walked away, leaving him further and further behind. With every step she took, the arrogant smirk widened, her form relaxed. See? He was all talk, and nothing more. 'But Miss Riviera, I think you'll find this one to be quite different from the others,' Tom said. 'He's young and skilled.' She scoffed. Right. She could hardly wait until she saw the look of utter embarrassed slap him across the face once he realised that he, had once again, failed to supply Riviera with a bodyguard -- one that could actually do their job. And then suddenly -- she didn't even see it coming. He was there. In front of her. Blocking her. Humiliating her. He stared defiantly down at her -- damn his stupid height -- still silent, yet somehow screaming out words that Riviera would never quite catch. They stood together but alone, quiet but shouting. Eyes wide, she gaped at the boy, unable to comprehend. You see, she was fast. But he was quicker. And that, Riviera could not accept. "I will not quit," he said, his voice full of the confidence and sureness, "And I will not be forced to quit. I will protect you." His voice dropped; finally gaining some emotion. Those few words, so little in length, said it all. He was determined; professional. He would not break. Not to her. Especially not to her. "That," he said, "is something you have no choice in." She could see it all in his eyes; his certainty, his brashness, his pride. The way he showed put so much control in not showing emotion, the way he forced himself to stay still and keep to the post of a bodyguard. The way he looked at her, as if she was a game that he must -- and would -- win. He meant every word, and he would stick to it -- whatever it took. She could see it all. He paused, and she stared, both perhaps waiting for something; anything. She, always so sure and dauntless, stood where she was, as lost as a child. This wasn't supposed to happen. The bodyguards were supposed to introduce themselves, and she'd dismiss them. And that was that, like it always was. So, why was he, and different? He turned to his side, opening the street for her, giving her the option to carry on walking. As if without that, she wouldn't have possibly been able to. As if without his consent, she was a mere puppet for his strings; a piece for his games. As if he, could control her. Ridiculous. She stared; the edge of her lips tugging up to form that signature smirk of hers -- as if she knew something that others did not. Calmly, she stalked forward, posture relaxed with an air of supremacy, cerulean trained onto a lighter blue, brow cocked and eyes narrowed. "You know my name," she stated, "and you most likely think you know who i am." Her smirk vanished; lips ripping back into a snarl, blue orbs sharp and dangerous. "But," she walked even closer, pausing to reach forward with speed, one elegant hand reaching up, her fingers entwining themselves in his blonde hair, before twisting them sharply, giving his head a sharp yank so that his eyes were level with hers. "You have no idea who i am, and therefore have no idea of what i am capable of. Do not mess with me, otherwise I'll send you home to your parents in a fucking box." She pulled harder. "Understood?" Her face relaxed into a sweet smile, her fingers finally letting go. Her bow screamed to be used, -- to be pulled, to kill -- but she ignored it, choosing to do this herself, with her own bare hands. "I will murder you, if you continue to be a pest. And believe me, it won't be pleasant." She hissed, eyes narrowing in warning. "Keep that in mind, next time you choose to stop me from doing what I want." Of course, Riviera always had a firm policy on never killing innocent people; not after her brother. But for him, she'd make an exception. words 994 :: tags michael :: notes kinda pooey. eh. sorry about the slight godmoddingness btw, i hope you don't mind? if you want me to change it then i will. ^^; :: made by prism!