albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[The cabinet's snapped shut again, firmly enough to carry. If he's careful enough to listen in, the action's capped off with muttering that sounds somewhat like the words 'stubborn pendejo'.

Still, she moves out of the bathroom, ducks down beside the bed to pull up a medical sewing kit and settle in across the edge of the mattress, long nails surprisingly helpful in threading the needle. She cuts it with her teeth, twists the end to knot it and triple checks her work before leaning forward to call him in.] Ven aca. I need light to try and do this and you've shot up half of yours already.

[It's the kind of tone she uses (rare as anything) when she intends to brook no arguments, no compromises. Her patience is run through, and however much she owes him is currently being tempered by his...well temper. That tireless commitment to seeing things through his way, without bothering to consider her strategic analysis.

No wonder he wound up stuck in Dorado.]

[He doesn't bother arguing with her this time, and eventually ventures back into the room with a cloth pressed over the cut. Its hardly sterile, but its all he has. When he joins her on the bed, its without much preamble aside from the removal of the cloth, already soaked a deep red.

It would stop once it got sewn up and had a chance to clot. He's not all that worried about it.]

Don't be so dramatic.

[Its all he can think of to say -- the fact of the matter is that he'd let one of them get away. It wasn't like him, even if he had no control over his body's (few) limitations.]

Dramatic.

[Her eyes flick upwards when she says it, head still tilted down to face the open wound. It comes only a beat before she jabs the needle under his skin.] How long have you known me, 'La Muerte'.

[It's unsettling work. Maybe that's why she's more eager to talk while she does it, pulling thread and pinning flesh with a meticulous sort of care. Whether she agrees with his decision to stay or not, he's done his part in looking out for her; if he's making a blunt call based on the only information he knows, is it so fair of her to be frustrated? Probably not.

And yet.] Do you really think I'd be telling you to leave if I didn't think this was serious?

[She isn't a coward. She never has been.]

[Meticulous and stone faced as ever, Gabriel makes no sound when Sombra threads the needle through his skin. It hurts, of course it does, but he keeps his eyes forward, one hand balled into a fist in front of his mouth to bite in case she went deep enough to cause actual damage and force him out of silence.

He doesn't think she'll make that move, but he can't be certain.]

I don't doubt it. But I am still not leaving.

[Let them come. He didn't earn La Muerte without reason.]

If their attention is here, then it's not anywhere important.

Important. [This time she pauses when she echoes him, halfway done with her needlework. Looking up only gives her a clearer view of his obvious pain - it takes less than a second of soaking up that grim expression before she turns back to frustrating stitchwork, more careful this time.]

Define 'important'.

[Shipments they can handle, intel they've got, Los Muertos— they'll survive as long as he does, as she does. If there's anything else to worry about, she can't seem to think of it. A rare moment, as far as her mechanical mind is concerned.]

Whatever you've been chasing down.

[He says it without taking his eyes off the point on that wall, like its nothing.]

Unless you had me gather all of that intel for fun.

[There's something in his growling tone that suggests it better fucking not have just been for fun, or it might be the very last time he runs a personal errand.]

If the eyes are on me, then they're not on you.

[That guarantee only lasts as long as he's alive. She'd remind him of that much— but honestly? It isn't her. There's a quiet little exhale under her breath as she ties off the last of her bloodied stitchwork, cutting the strands and grabbing an alcoholic swab to wash away both tacky crimson smears and what's left of their mixed phosphorescent paint.

There.

Gross ass gesture of good will done.] That mean you're not gonna tell me to take a friggin' break anytime soon?

[There's a wet little smack as Sombra distastefully throws the swab away in the trash can beside them, angling a look at him from the corner of her peripheral vision that acts as punctuation for her joke.]

Because I could get used to that.

[Reyes finds himself grunting an acknowledgement, shifting his shoulders to alleviate the numb spots that have formed. Sombra had inflicted herself on him, she could deal with all the habits that came with his presence. But her question makes enough sense with context, so:]

Pay attention when I speak and I won't have to tell you anything. Ever think of that?

You want to know what I think? [Flat, blunt: the look of someone raised on the streets without an ounce of comfort to their name that wasn't just bought and paid for. She thins her lips from where she's sitting beside him, violet eyes glinting in the dark.]

I think you want someone to kill you.

[It's an accusation she's been nursing for a long time, braced by his habits, his needs and demands— for everyone. Himself included.

He lives like a leader with assets under his fingers. He talks like someone that wants nothing but death, in every form.

She's Los Muertos; she would know.]

[That's the rub, isn't it? It was only a matter of time before Sombra tried to call him out. Rather than refute her accusation, he turns to look at her -- really look at her, this time.]

I've had plenty of chances to die. Still here. How's that fit into your theory?

[His back finds the headboard of the bed, still just as stubborn to remain in his base of operations, rather than move to somewhere safe. Whether or not he wanted to die, he wasn't an easy man to kill.]

[Like the look on someone's face when they're trying to unravel a particularly difficult puzzle, Sombra's mouth pulls tight at the corner, brow line going significantly flat— peering at him as if she's somehow missed some crucial amount of information, and...]

Maybe no one's been able to do it. Really finish the job.

[Because the alternative is some tangled idea that he might be hanging on out of obligation. Making sure the crew doesn't devour themselves like something starved, or her in the process.

She can't imagine he's that sentimental. Mostly because she doesn't know what that's like.]

You're right. They haven't.

[Which doesn't answer her question about him looking to die; that's probably an answer she'll never get out of him willingly.]

And they're not going to start now.

[If nothing else, his mind is a tactical one, not just that of a rabid dog.]

Good enough for you?

Claro.

[Good enough for her. Pulling away, she snaps the lid back on the medical kit, thumb resting across the latch almost pensively. She likes to think of herself as pragmatic, efficient— but for as long as she can remember, ever since he showed up, he's always been...

Different. Understands her work in his own way. Maybe it's that they both operate so similarly on opposite ends of the spectrum: working in isolation through the shadows where no one else bothers to look. She always thought if it came down to it, she'd be fine with the eventuality that he'd lose his footing in Los Muertos somewhere. Someone would want him gone. A lot of someones, even.

Walking into his apartment, thinking he might be dead— it's waded through those assumptions with a pinprick sensation of brittleness. Something that's eased now, despite her frustrations.]

I'll keep you updated.

[Not on what she finds— that, at least, he's better off not knowing— but on how much leverage she can bet on with it. Picking it apart, sorting out who might buckle under the threat of it. He's right: eventually they might realize it isn't La Muerte that's in possession of their stolen information, and she needs all the seconds he can spare.]

[He gives a slow nod and returns his eyes to the injury she'd closed up for him. Whatever Sombra chooses to do with the time he had given her is her business. Ultimately, he had done everything he could for Los Muertos. If they didn't respect him by now, they never would.

And he could only stomach disreaspect and contempt for so long. The neon paint washed and smudged too easily, and it didn't belong to him like it belonged to the others. They all knew.]

You can stay. If it's more convenient.

[Or not. It doesn't matter -- at least, he will never admit that he wants the company.]

[She'd been gearing up to go. It was the smarter step, leaving now. Putting distance between them. He had to know it as much as she did when he asked, but she stops at the edge of his room— vibrant green lines painted across her skin, catching moonlight.

There's a quick glance upwards towards the ceiling, a short pause for a routine inhale.]

You sure you've got room for me?

[His place was bigger than hers, but her question's punctuated by the way she knocks on a stockpile of carted weapons and ammunition, stacked higher than her head. A joke...and a conversational segue. Something to alleviate the pressure.]

I thought you liked a firm sleeping space.

[The deadpan note in his voice is the only thing that gives, the only piece that hints that he is leaning into her attempt to lighten the air between them. It's the only real way to do it, given that they had polished off the beer as fast as they had.]

Assuming the rumors are true and you do actually sleep when pressed.

Maybe I just like pissing you off, Los Angeles.

[It could be a barbed comment— but it isn't. There's an upwards curl to her lip that crooks the paintlines of her mask. An easiness to the way she turns, scrubbing at the circuitry near the base of her skull.]

Do you even have a computer here?

[A beat, and then:] ...or a light bulb?

Not as fancy as your's.

[He turns with the expectation that she will follow, leading her back to his room. The stitching supplies, still strewn on the covers. He gestures to the corner, where a camera feed plays, rotating between traffic cameras. She can take it or leave it.

As for lights, there is only one-- a reading lamp, next to his bed on a nightstand. Not even enough to fill the room.]

...

[Her tongue clicks audibly against the roof of her mouth, and then, absolutely deadpan:] Wow.

You really went all out.

If you were expecting something else, you haven't been paying attention.

[And the way he says it suggests that he doesn't believe that for a second. With that in mind, he sets to cleaning up the bloody needle and thread, setting everything back on his nightstand. The mixture of paint, still uncapped under the lamp. Since Sombra is the only human he plans to see in the next 24 hours, he closes it without hesitation.]

It's just me.

No email, no browser... [Counting them off as she leans forward to snap the light on— wincing against the brightness of its glow after her eyes have adjusted so well to the clear moonlight from outside. Blinking it away a few beats later, she gets to work jacking into his monitoring systems.

Offering accepted, it seems.] What do you even do for fun?

Irritate you.

[Was that a joke? He doesn't look like he's joking, given the hard lines of his expression. But he is clearly looking for a reaction from her.]

Edited 2017-05-04 23:25 (UTC)

OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

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