a/n: Meant to be a one-shot, but...yes, I loved the characters too much and I loved the review -s and -ers too much, so I had to continue. Had to! I highly, HIGHLY recommend changing the "text pref" at the top of this page to Serif (press the A on the left) and then making it slightly bigger (the B.) It should look something like Times New Roman, size 11, and mmhmm that's the font I wrote this in and it just looks better that way to me.

I am completely anal, thanks for asking.

Reviews will be reciprocated. Reviewers will be worshipped. Conversations may or may not be saved to disk for posterity and to boost my ego. Thank you. :3

ETA, 7/28/06: Changed the formatting, changed the author note, and edited one line at the suggestion of Winterbridge, who leaves beautiful reviews and, with the right amount of internets, could probably create world peace. :D

Superficial Ways To Make Amends / "Méthodes Superficilles"
Chapter One
Intermèdes & Incertitudes


I figured out early on it was too much to ask for him to come crawling back to me. And, I mean, I was actually starting to get used to it. Which just goes to show that fuck, someday I'd need to stop this, because the one thing I knew damn sure about myself was that I practically couldn't survive without being reassured every coupla days that I was needed. For something. I dunno, anything. And that was one of the things he just wouldn't do for me—it wasn't bad, at first, when it was just fucking. But then it got bad, and I mean real bad, real fast, like I was just begging for the reassurance he wouldn't ditch me some night and I'd be left there, wherever, cold and stuck to the sheets and broken like a fresh whore. And it ain't that hard a thing to do, neither, to pretend like he cared a little. Made it that much worse.

So yeah. I kept coming back, because I knew if I didn't I'd probably never see him again, and for some damned reason the thought of that hurt more than my injured pride, so I kept it quiet. And sometimes I thought like he knew that I wasn't saying nothing about it, like he could just read what I was fucking thinking exactly the way I could never read nothing about him. And I mean, if I could read any shit about him, then I'd already know too damn much more than I'd want to, and I'd never end up coming back, which wouldn't be good for nobody.

I knocked on the door, feeling kinda shifty that I'd remembered where he lived after being there all of once, and drunk besides. He had the lights on all over the damn place—like he always did in the hotels, loved fucking with every light on—which means he had to be there, and I was just getting ready to knock again when the door opened.

I dropped my fist real quick. Fuck, it was like seeing him on the quay for the first time, with his teal sea-water eyes that looked permanently caught between curiosity and superiority, staring at me like for all the fucking world he'd knew I was going to show but couldn't bring himself to give a shit either way. And I wasn't used to seeing him at home anyways and he was out of uniform and everything, messy brown hair tied back in a red bandana I felt sure I'd seen somewhere before, and the whole thing just stunned the almighty shit out of me, so I figured I should say something before I looked like too much of a dumbfuck.

"I—" And oh sweet bleeding fuck, what was I supposed to say? I was just about sweating bullets on his doorstep, and naturally he was just standing there calm as you please, holding a bowl of something edible and no fucking doubt drenched in hot sauce—the evidence was all over his lips and the tips of his fingers.

And I ain't sure exactly when it happened, but I realized he wasn't gonna say nothing 'til I did, so I looked him straight in the eye—which took a lot more guts than I usually got, 'cause Trash could be as cold as the fucking Arctic when he wanted to—and tried to work up an an apology. And fuck those couple of seconds were nasty, trying to think of a decent I'm-sorry for something that wasn't half my fault anyway.

"Don't," he said, probably guessing what I was about to say and cutting me off before I got in too deep. "Just don't." He tossed aside the bowl of whatever the fuck it was, grabbed my arm and pulled me up to his chest, kissing me hard and relentless and sexy, just like I imagined it would be when we hadn't done it for a week.

"Mmm. Missed you," I managed to say, once he pulled away and we were breathing hot and hard against each other, the hot sauce from his mouth stinging my lips, wrists hurting where Trash was holding on like he never wanted to let go. Fuck, bruises aside, I hoped he never would.

"Don't apologize," he said, knowing me too fucking well. "Don't explain." He pulled me inside and shoved me against a wall, and I could feel myself hardening against him like I always did when he was kinda rough with me.

"Shit," he said, all soft like he didn't have any breath left to make it louder. "You've been here—what, five minutes?—and you're already getting off on this." Yeah, I was. Make-up sex. He kissed my throat, slow and wet, and I shivered, which only made him push me harder against the wall.

And it occurred to me—real slow, 'course, 'cause I couldn't think that well at the moment—it was the first time he'd ever fucking jumped me without sitting back and pretending he was listening to my explanations. So I kinda wondered what the fuck was going on, even though I more or less didn't care, and managed to push him off me long enough to get a word in. "Listen, I, um—" didn't come here just to fuck you, not that I have a problem with that, "know I didn't really tell you the fuck was going on last week, and—" I don't want you having no bad feelings about it while we're here, 'cause the last time you did I ended up outside wearing nothing but a fucking bedsheet, "I figured you deserved to know." Yeah, that sounded okay.

He looked sort of surprised at first, like just kinda stared at me a little sideways, but then recovered, real obviously amused. That was new. "Don't think about it," he said. "It's not your fault, I just…want it to be."

"Oh," I said, and fuck that explained a lot. "'S means next time we fight, you chase me instead?"

"No," Trash said, mouth twisting in a sort of half-smile that meant he was feeling a little sheepish.

"But—"

"Shut the door." He kissed me again, long and languorous, then let me go, flushed and actually fucking sincere. "Just shut the door, and don't say a word."

And fuck that's when I started being able to read shit about him, because I knew exactly what he meant was "Don't say nothing 'cause you don't got to," only with better grammar, and that was the closest thing to an apology I was ever going to get.


fin.