if i can get the things i want

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

She understands the third eye reference from before but the way her sight becomes hyper focused speaks nothing of reading between the lines—only of reading between the veins, between the pause of breath to draw another scream from war-cried out lungs.

Seras is in a daze, unmoving though saliva in her mouth rises to her tongue and her nose twitches at the line of salt-sweat that drips down Wilson’s face, sluicing into the hollow of his throat. So much life radiates from something so fragile, crumpled on the ground. Chaos reigns around her, shouts of panic, barked orders are muffled in her ears because it all comes to a head to the slowing heartbeat that could be beneath her fingertips, her fangs, in moments. She just needs to take one step.

A rough hand pushes her out of the way, Pip’s braid nearly flopping into her eyes.

“Everyone get the fuck outta the way—get pressure on that, don’t just stand there with your thumbs up your asses.”

That single green eye draws her in, draws her to the line of his pistol in his hands, the way her heart sinks just like Wilson had. Crumpled. That easy, sleazy grin doesn’t mar his face; he scowls, heated with a rage that could burn her if she doesn’t watch out.

[that burns all monsters with torches]

[Master had said only humans can slay monsters]

“Seras—” sharp, his Captain’s voice, as if she were just one of the guys, what she’s always wanted, not some cutesy nickname but—

“You’d better make yourself scarce for awhile.”

His gaze is as hard as his aim is accurate—bang, right to the heart. He might as well have pulled the trigger. Something flimsily, stubbornly human within her squelches.

The worst part is she can’t blame him. You’d think being immortal you wouldn’t have to flee.

Another telling moment of Moments and losing track of time, when Seras loses track of it. It’s almost dawn, almost time to sleep, but she isn’t tired. What the grave dirt can’t bury her heart sure drags along. Most of the Wild Geese are asleep in their barrack area, though some are thrown over furniture, splayed like dirty laundry [incredibly accurate].

It’s easy to follow Wilson’s raspy, labored breathing, easier to slither between bedding and passed out bodies; the shadows part for her darkness. In exchange of being afraid of her own shadows, at least she isn’t scared of walking alone at night anymore.

He’s pale as a sheet. Usually he’s up and laughing, grumbling at the various stupid antics of the younger men, crowded around those mercs who are his age like gossiping old ladies. His mouth is slack with sleep and pain, his eyelids flutter; she wonders what he dreams about.

Seras doesn’t realize she’s started to cry until tepid drops of liquid plop onto her folded hands. Don’t need to smear it away to know it’s blood, to know as it cools immediately that it’s hers. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wills the tears away, anxiety to that horrible night in Latin America fizzles through her mind [“Stop crying, Draculina!”], mouth downturned, lip bitten.

Her chest aches.

“Oh no…this, this right here is the loneliest thing I’ve ever done,” snarks a reedy voice from below.
Seras’ eyes snap open.

“Wilson—you—“ She stumbles over her words, her tongue, the sobs that pepper the ends of her words.

“Seriously,” he continues, and squints up at her in half disbelief, half acceptance. “I thought having a gorgeous girl crying over my unconscious body would feel great but man. This is worse than the internal bleeding.”

She feels her cheeks flush; her hands are too small to cover both her eyes and those warm cheeks.

“I can’t believe I was worried! You’re over here joking when I…I…” She crumbles from the shoulders, her head, bowed, follows. “I could have gotten you killed.”

“You really gonna carry that guilt around?” He asks, his voice rises, gaze sharpened on hers. “Gonna carry me around for the rest of your life? I’m not that heavy, but it takes its toll after a while. Not to mention,” now Wilson’s voice softens, as if they’re conspirators, “half the STDs these idiots carry around could take me out one day via sheer association.”

It’s gross, this feeling; like a sickly yellow bruise, it aches every time words like these brush against it. Weak laughter bubbles from her throat, snots from her nose.

“Besides, I don’t have the money to talk about you in therapy. You’ll haveta make us all honest men instead.”

Instead of shoving him like she would had he been healthy, she fixes him with a scowl. “I can’t, and won’t, marry all of you!”

“Don’t tell the Captain we even mentioned that—you said it though, not me.”

With a groan Seras rises [from the pre-ash of her ashes], dusts off some imaginary lint. “I’m going to bed—and you should too. You need all the energy you can get if you don’t want to be carried out of here—“

Seeing his mind shake the haze of pain to come to a conclusion, she quickly adds:

“And no, I won’t be carrying you. I’m sure your masculinity will thank me.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply; the moon is calling for one last dance, and Seras must rise to meet it.