Chapter Text
It's a hell of a hike in this weather, but Duncan finally makes it to the frozen banks of the stream where he first saw the albino stag.
He settles in for a long stakeout: stool, snacks, a thermos of Camille's finest winter coffee, a tarpaulin to keep off the snow. He's armed, and not just for the sake of old habits. Blut and his crew have been rotting for six months now, but Duncan keeps his guard up since that whole fucked up mess. Even in the deepest woods. Plenty of people still want him dead.
He could be here a while. He doesn't mind. If this turns out to be the place where he can reliably spot the stag, it’ll be worth freezing his balls off. Because then he can show Camille. He can bring her here, surprise her with something rare and beautiful. And man, will she be happy. Picturing her face when she first sees the animal keeps at bay the foul mood Duncan's been pickling in for days.
He pours the coffee, lights a cigarette and watches the snow come down between the pines. Wind catches flurries of fat flakes and blows them back against the trees, plastering the trunks in white. Duncan is content to just sit and stare and wait. He doesn't need to concentrate too hard — this isn't a job. And that's just as well. His mind keeps drifting and blowing, like the snow, back into last week.
The woman. That woman. Her silence, her skin. The way she tasted.
He thought he could masturbate his way out of this, but a week's come and gone and he still can’t get her out of his head.
Half an hour into his watch, the reason for his protracted foul mood dawns on Duncan at last: he'll probably never see her again.
---
Last Tuesday — the same day he first saw the stag.
He drops Camille off at the animal shelter (she started volunteering, thinks he should too), potters around the pet shop for a while, then heads for the diner.
No one else there, only the woman two seats down from him, sat at the counter in perfect profile. She's taking big, measured bites of her pear tart. She's still got her gloves on. The black leather makes the fork in her hand look oddly like a weapon. It's the gleam of the fork as it precision-disassembles the pastry that makes Duncan side-stare.
Had he seen the woman before? He can’t shake the sense of familiarity. Like Duncan himself, she sticks out in this part of the world: too lean, without a sliver of winter blubber. Coat, hair and boots, all too dark for this Fair Isle knit town. Duncan likes the boots: knee-high lace-ups in dark brown leather, practical with sturdy winter soles. It's the sort of boots he'd buy for himself if he were a woman. Before he can dwell on the weirdness of that thought, he finds that his stare has been returned.
The woman has finished her tart and swivelled on her stool to face Duncan so directly that he briefly worries his look had been too lecherous, or that his eyepatch is giving her the creeps, and he's going to be told to fuck off.
Duncan does a little nod to try and smooth things over. He gets one in return, followed by something like a smile.
It's not the sort-of-smile that sets him off — it's her eyes. Knowing and dark, with something soft and molten underneath, they scan him up and down slowly and send him straight on his way to a semi. Christ. She's not even his type. Does he have one? Did he ever get a chance to settle on a type while fucking his way through the paid women that came with the jobs, or the one night stands that came in between?
It's too late to debate: she's decided for him. She pays, picks up her pharmacy carrier bag and makes for the door. When her gloved fingers drum between his shoulder blades as she passes, it's more like a secret handshake than a seduction. Duncan is done for. He leaves his coffee on the counter and follows her outside, only vaguely caring about the wide stare of the waitress who watches the whole thing happen.
Half-way down the streets, the woman stops in her stride and turns to face him.
"Have you changed your mind?" she asks.
"No. Why?"
"You've slowed down your pace."
How perceptive is she? He had slowed down. Caution had knocked him back, and he'd started to reconsider the wisdom of this pursuit. The woman could easily be another setup, though she looks like the furthest thing from a honey trap.
She steps closer, boots creaking in the slush. She puts her hands on him, palms pressed flat against chest like she's going to slide it open and have a look inside. She lifts her face up to his face.
"If you are concerned for your safety," she says quietly, "you may choose the motel yourself."
Shouldn't you be the one to worry? Duncan thinks. In the end, he only nods dumbly while he stares at the shape of her mouth and tries to decide where his curiosity ends and arousal begins.
---
As soon as they're inside, Duncan starts to strip. That's how these things go — in, out. Besides, Camille will be done in another hour or two, and he'll need to pick her up from the shelter. No time to waste.
Hands still gloved and folded before her, the woman watches him in silence, backlit by the deficient winter light that makes its way in through cheap curtains.
"Stop," she says when he's out of his coat and sweater.
He raises an eyebrow, but lets his arms drop to his sides. She steps closer, all purpose and stealth. When she's within reach, he draws her in, tries to kiss her, but she shrugs him off and eases his arms back down again.
"I'd like to touch you first," she whispers.
This is going off script, he thinks, but nods his agreement. Off come her gloves, laid neatly aside on the nightstand, and nothing else. Her hands are beautiful, absurdly delicate when they land against his battered body. What the hell does she want to touch him for? No one bothers to touch him. Oddly transfixed, he watches the soft concentration on her face as she moves her fingertips down his shoulders and chest, like instruments for charting constellations between his scars. Her fingernails are trimmed and plain, not the acrylic red claws he's used to having dragged down his back or tugging at his chest hair. It dawns on him, with a kind of shock, that he is being caressed.
"What's your name?" he mutters distractedly. At least that line's from the script.
Her index finger slides down the long white scar on his belly. "Are you proud of these?" she asks, as if she didn't hear him.
"No," he says. The honesty unwinds him. He reaches to stroke the dark waves of her hair. She leans into his touch with a sigh, presses herself whole against his body, then opens her mouth against his shoulder scar and starts to suck.
Duncan nearly swears. The curse falters in his throat and comes up as a groan. He tangles his fingers in her hair, doesn't know what to do except just hold her there against his skin, hot mouth, hot breath, all of her strange and unexpected. He shuts his eyes and feels into the little fast twirls of her tongue that seem to open up the aches and burns of his ancient wounds.
What the fuck has he gotten himself into?
She comes up for air, mouth red and softly panting, eyes bright and fixed on him. He can't remember the last time he wanted anyone so badly. He can't wait anymore. He cups her face whole and kisses her, hungry and rough. She doesn't object. Her tongue twists hot in his mouth while she dumps her coat on the floor and climbs on him, scales him, feather light and rifle lean in his arms when he finally gets his bearings and picks her up whole.
They come crashing on the bed. He's on his knees on the mattress, struggling with one boot while she peels out of the other. The lace-ups go flying. Then her trousers, then whatever soft cashmere thing she wears on top, and then he's got her down to a little silk camisole and panties, both a shimmering beetle green. They look so fucking good on her that he wants to rip them off with his teeth.
For only a moment, she's sprawled and pliant under him, all dark silk and creamy skin, legs sliding up his shoulders. He kisses the arch of her foot, nips at her toes and wishes he could savour this view — not a chance. With a sharp inhale, she twists and shoves him down. Before he can struggle, she's climbed on top and has got him by the wrists.
Damn. He really wanted his hands free so he could slide them under that silk. He grunts and struggles against her grip. How can this slip of a woman be so strong? Or is it just his wreck of an old body giving up on him?
“Be still,” she says softly and bends down over him, skewering him with those molten eyes. She kisses his mouth, the sharp line of scar tissue on his cheek, all slow and tender. By degrees, he stops putting up a fight.
When she reaches his eyepatch, she stops. “May I see?” she asks.
He stares up at her with his good eye, speechless.
Everything around them has grown still. He’s suddenly ill at ease. The tenderness of her mouth against his brow and cheekbone only makes him feel more exposed.
In the end, he shakes his head no.
She sits up slowly, thumbs caressing circles into his wrists.
“The eye. Was it a sacrifice?”
He turns his head towards the room’s interior and stares into the murk. A strange pain settles in his chest, deep under his bones. He thinks about Camille. “No,” he says after a moment. “A downpayment on old debts.”
Enough of this. He twists his wrists and gets himself free, sending her lurching down over him. When he catches her, she lets out a little laugh, then sinks down to spear him with a kiss. She's finally his to touch.
He snakes one hand under the insect-coloured silk, gets his fill of her tiny breasts, dives into her panties and finds her so sweetly soaked it makes his teeth clench with want. With his other he fumbles for his belt, shoves down his pants and finds, godfuckingdamnit, that he's not even half hard.