Michael speaks. It is percussive in the marked quiet of the bar, and as soon as he finishes, the music starts up again, and the moment is gone. Moira looks sad, or shocked, or some blend of both, and he is searching her face for something -- delight? fear? anything? There is an ache in him so deep and so sudden that when her eyes drop from his he worries he might die where he stands.
Michael's eyes follow hers to the newly placed drink, and he certainly feels like her rabbit with its heart racing so fast it might stop altogether. If he is being hunted he does not know by what.
(What do you want, Michael?
Eleven had asked him, and though there are literally hundred of years between him and this question, he still does not know the answer.)
Moira leans forward with her eyes half-closed and her voice little more than a sigh on the air. When she touches his face, his neck, his back, it wracks through his body like fire. Michael smiles like apple cider, like warm summer morning and soft feather pillows and though he knows the answer - though it can be no other answer but the one he knows - Michael says, "Is that a threat or a promise?" before floating one stray hair out from between her eyes. He tilts his head as if to examine her, now. He hopes he does not look quite as lost as he feels.
(What does he want? Happiness? Peace? Death? And what can he even lay claim to when there is nothing but empty air between him and his happiness, or him and his peace, or him and his death? What if his heart is some big black hole and whatever could fill it is nameless and shapeless, some concept known only by stars and that planets that orbit them?)
(What if all he wants is this?
What if someone asks him, what do you want, Michael? and his answer is this sunset bar with the leering bartender and his shaking hands and Moira touching his forehead, his cheek, and Michael's heart sighing into her touch? Why can't this be enough? Why can't anything be enough?)
Moira, eyes still cast down, nudges her drink toward Michael, who bites his tongue and chuckles through his nose. "Honestly, every second with you is one wonderful surprise after another - but yes, I do believe that." he says, tipping back a polite mouthful, and grimacing as he sets it down. It is certainly strong. "If I say anything regrettable it is because of that beast of a drink, and not because you make me weak - just for the record."
Michael's eyes follow hers to the newly placed drink, and he certainly feels like her rabbit with its heart racing so fast it might stop altogether. If he is being hunted he does not know by what.
(What do you want, Michael?
Eleven had asked him, and though there are literally hundred of years between him and this question, he still does not know the answer.)
Moira leans forward with her eyes half-closed and her voice little more than a sigh on the air. When she touches his face, his neck, his back, it wracks through his body like fire. Michael smiles like apple cider, like warm summer morning and soft feather pillows and though he knows the answer - though it can be no other answer but the one he knows - Michael says, "Is that a threat or a promise?" before floating one stray hair out from between her eyes. He tilts his head as if to examine her, now. He hopes he does not look quite as lost as he feels.
(What does he want? Happiness? Peace? Death? And what can he even lay claim to when there is nothing but empty air between him and his happiness, or him and his peace, or him and his death? What if his heart is some big black hole and whatever could fill it is nameless and shapeless, some concept known only by stars and that planets that orbit them?)
(What if all he wants is this?
What if someone asks him, what do you want, Michael? and his answer is this sunset bar with the leering bartender and his shaking hands and Moira touching his forehead, his cheek, and Michael's heart sighing into her touch? Why can't this be enough? Why can't anything be enough?)
Moira, eyes still cast down, nudges her drink toward Michael, who bites his tongue and chuckles through his nose. "Honestly, every second with you is one wonderful surprise after another - but yes, I do believe that." he says, tipping back a polite mouthful, and grimacing as he sets it down. It is certainly strong. "If I say anything regrettable it is because of that beast of a drink, and not because you make me weak - just for the record."
"Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us."
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