Chapter Text
Following the Tango Scene in Ruslan Denisov
In the end it was inevitable, the line she had once more drawn was disappearing under the burgeoning force of his unwavering tone and patient recitation. But she would not move forward to meet him - she was resolved on that point — no matter how great the attraction.
He was graceful and elusive, even with the smell of expensive cognac on his breath. Once she had thought that she could define him by the seductive care that she had considered the one true thing about him — even at times when she had raged against him — now that had been blown out the water.
It had been a hard awakening that she wished she could accustom herself to. She felt raw and wounded even now.
Tom had been the blunt fist, this was the sharp cut that caused no pain except for a slow bleeding out. She had always been wary of others, and finding someone, two someones even, who could see past the barriers she always put up had seemed exhilarating, but now, now she had failed twice; first Tom— coming face to face with his pity had been deeply humiliating, and now Red. But at least Red seemed to want her forgiveness.
She hadn’t forgiven him, what did he need forgiving for? If the affection had never been real than the only person she was going to blame was herself for thinking that someone could feel that way about her. But she wouldn’t deny herself the pleasure of striking back at him.
Not even though it hurt.