((I haven’t been posting much at all so this might be extremely obvious, but I thought I might as well make it official - both demongent and returnfromhell are on hiatus until June. Exams are a bitch.))

redskyeatnight:

She catches herself a moment before its too late, before she asks ‘who’. Lana realises quickly exactly who he means and just like that, everything falls apart. It all stood on shaky ground as it was, but the whole scene, every single atom, crumbles and falls in on top of itself.

He expects her to arrest him, to drag him back to jail where he so rightfully belongs. And she hasn’t even thought of it.

It runs through her head that she should’ve thought about this, she should’ve taken action, should’ve been on her toes— He would be disappointed in her, he’s taught her this— Hell, she’s disappointed in herself. Her standing in the police department has already taken enough blows as well, and this would be the one to end her career in law enforcement entirely.

Lana Skye is a grade-A idiot. If only the ground would open to swallow her up.

She feels a crack form in the facade, imagines tiny people rapidly trying to fix it before it grows. A small voice in the back of her mind yells and screams at her, hoping she listens. The crack is fixed, and the call goes through to voicemail.

“Let’s have dessert first. If I have to send you back, I hope I have the decency to do so with a full stomach. Our last supper, even.”

Downcast eyes grow darker, tint with grey shadows, cover with a dark echo of pride. Suddenly, it’s not hard to see the man sat across convicted. Every second that passes ages him, rots him, cuts away at his mask and shows the jailbird underneath. Lana Skye fell headfirst into the smoke and mirrors Damon expertly raises all around him, but for unsuspecting police officers or horridly determined lawyers, not the one woman he’s ever trusted, albeit the short time span. She knows him just as little as.. everyone else, now. That’s what she’s part of: everyone else. Though, without her- there isn’t an “else”. No-one to be there to see the true sight through the window, not the murky reflection on the chipped, dust coated glass. Lana Skye is just another “someone” in the ever-expanding anti-fanclub of his called “everyone”.

He’s read the word “toffee” around twenty times now, brain stuck on an emergency loop.

“Ha.. ha.” Toffee and.. Toffee and..

”..Lana, please.” His eyes don’t move. Toffee and banana.. Ban.. Banana.. 

“Please, tell me you didn’t come here alone.” Toffee and banana crumble; £7.50. The menu slowly bends inwards as Gant’s fingers grip tighter and tighter from their relaxed hold. Not now. It’s too early. She can’t see how much of a changed man he is, but she needs to learn- She was taught. 9 years ago, she was taught. Did she listen? Or did she forget, make herself wipe every memory, every lesson from him. Clear herself for good. Take off those weights and sail away. He’d smirk here. If his lips weren’t pulled down by the words he wants to say. She’s sailing into the clouds now. Unsafe, reckless and in perfect danger. Him.

“If you have to. If you have the decency- I don’t really think you understand what’s happening here, my dear.” 

Gant’s attention never wavers from the locked glare fixed on his menu. 

(Source: demongent)

redskyeatnight:

demongent:

The tap of her skin on his hand is enough to let him feel how warm, alive and awake she is, even through the barrier of leather. Emerald eyes close and open narrowed, his body swaying forward slightly, only slightly, the ghostly presence making his entire being freezing despite such warmth around him lets go, or, better put, is dragged out, kicking and screaming and yelling down the empty tunnels of his deaf ears some moral, some message, some truth that is soon lost to the echos. Light fills Damon’s eyes, the sharp green lit up and ready for another performance.

“Oh, ah, sorry about that! Hoh ho! Must have ‘zoned out..’” Air quotes, followed by another short laugh, complete with innocent, happy wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, and the most delightful smile, which begins to melt as he looks around the restaurant for no distinct reason- the waiter is in full view and yet he seems lost somehow.

No matter the situation, if food- especially steak -is put in front of Damon Gant, you become second priority, even if you’re up in flames. He’s a wolfer- especially with steak, oh god forbid- and he hardly given himself enough time to chew, let alone form sentences. The most out of him are the odd, “Mmm!” and “Hummho!” as he forces back those incessant laughs, now is not the time. It takes him a minute, but Damon finally pauses for breath, and answers, a glint in his eye;

“Oh, you’re safe, for now, my dear.” Gant winks, before returning his concentration to the near-done plate of meat. “It’s simply delightful! Exactly how I remember it!” A pause. He quickly cuts a small, bite-sized square of the steak with mocking precision, as if following a drummed in rule, his tongue stuck out of his lips in concentration. Finally, once his masterpiece is complete, Damon beams wide;

“Here!” He offers it to Lana. “Have a taste.”

“Call it.. a final farewell treat.”

Farewell.

This is farewell, isn’t it?

Except that feels wrong. Like a landscape suddenly losing a landmark. That doesn’t just happen without some effect.

Wasn’t she just happy he’s leaving? Happy he will be rid from her life forever?

Lana considers herself thoroughly confused. 

She pushes the fork away, encouraging it back towards his mouth. Another soft smile surfaces and even a tiny giggle, a small utterance of “you must eat, Damon, if you’re becoming so delusional!” Without a second thought, she brushes his words away, not deigning them as important anymore. It might be a risky move, but for the time being, it feels the right thing to do.

Finishing up her food, she swirls the last of her wine and downs it, glass clinking against the table as she replaces it. The atmosphere now feels very odd to her, like the tables have turned entirely, like she’s in charge here. Nonetheless, it’s time for dessert, and she wastes no time in choosing her dessert (warm chocolate fudge cake with ice cream) and hands the menu over to him.

“Still have that insatiable sweet tooth I remember?”

The fork hangs there, no visible emotion showing on his face apart from the eager smile already there, the red ribbon he offered his gift with. Ever the analyser, the information manipulator, the one in control, Damon’s eyes can’t help but pinpoint, focus and consume every physical hint she’s giving him- her words mean very little. A heavy, dramatic shrug and eye roll and the steak is eaten in less than five.

His plate is soon clean, and eager hands bring the sweet menu close, a cheerful smile pulling his lips up to his ears.

“Hoh ho!” Gant laughs, eyes coming to meet hers. “Unfortunately, not so. Don’t worry, though, my dear. I brush three times a day, as per your instructions!”

Gant pushes up the glasses that rest on his nose, giving the already heavenly list of desserts a wonderful, vibrant shade of pink. It’s almost too bright, too jolly, too heavily naive compared to his next passive comment, smile fading around the edges of his words, yet his expression remains that of absolute joy, almost a hyperbolic contrast to the flat tone of his still booming voice.

“So, when are they arriving?”

fuckyeahthevoice:

People Will Say We’re in Love | Frank Sinatra (with the Bobby Tucker Singers)

redskyeatnight:

demongent:

There’s a deafening screech, a horrific record scratch that makes his skin crawl; all at once, Gant’s mind jerks to a halt, stuttering and stalling, a broken down car on an abandoned motorway. Completely alone, and yet this noise pulls tight on his head, a painful white noise, static that plays to cover up a cracked thought track. Damon’s lips part to say something, anything, but he flat-lines and the clinical beep is all that rings through his ears as the restaurant empties, leaving them, the duo, alone.

Lana Skye is happy.

Lana Skye has grown up, grown older, and stands tall on her own two feet. Emergency hooks yank up the corners of the old man’s lips, pulling them into a smile. It’s crooked, drooping on one side, not quite level at all, teeth lit so they slowly drip shadows over his gums, through the cracks on his skin. He’s so happy for her. He is so happy. He is happy.

They’re both happy. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? No, no, don’t worry, he lives with that screaming. It sits quietly at the back of his mind, don’t make a fuss. He copes just fine. Hm? She asked him something? Oh, gosh, no, he mustn’t have heard. It’s so loud in here. Horridly loud. They keep talking, all around him, everyone is living so loudly, everyone is carrying on so loudly they really must quiet down they’re making quite a racket if someone don’t stand up and stop them he’ll do it himself he’ll do it he’ll get to his feet and scream if he has too he’ll scream louder than that cracking in his chest that snapping that breaking that unbearable feeling he’ll do it he’ll stand and stop this.

Stop it and go back to how it was.

Back when it was quiet.

”..Yes.” The coward whispers.

Quiet was never a word Lana would use to describe Damon. Damon Gant, mountain of a man, loud and bold with every breath.

Damon Gant is quiet.

He is quiet and broken and so so empty—

Her smile shifts uneasily, turning into something smaller, less pronounced, yet too big to be called a smirk. In an attempt to bring him back, Damon, not this shell, she leans forward and taps his hand with the pads of her fingers, calling out if anyone was home. Her tone is light and playful but that too felt fake, forced. 

It wasn’t long until their food arrives, and they eat in a doleful silence. Lana comments once or twice on the wine and the food, humming softly with delight. The familiar tastes flood her mouth once again, adding to her melancholic nostalgia. It’d be too long.

“Is your food alright, Damon? Going to steal any of mine anytime soon, or am I safe?”

A half laugh (not even a laugh, an amused exhalation of air from her nose) is heard, and she continues eating, twirling the pasta on her fork.

The tap of her skin on his hand is enough to let him feel how warm, alive and awake she is, even through the barrier of leather. Emerald eyes close and open narrowed, his body swaying forward slightly, only slightly, the ghostly presence making his entire being freezing despite such warmth around him lets go, or, better put, is dragged out, kicking and screaming and yelling down the empty tunnels of his deaf ears some moral, some message, some truth that is soon lost to the echos. Light fills Damon’s eyes, the sharp green lit up and ready for another performance.

“Oh, ah, sorry about that! Hoh ho! Must have ‘zoned out..’” Air quotes, followed by another short laugh, complete with innocent, happy wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, and the most delightful smile, which begins to melt as he looks around the restaurant for no distinct reason- the waiter is in full view and yet he seems lost somehow.

No matter the situation, if food- especially steak -is put in front of Damon Gant, you become second priority, even if you’re up in flames. He’s a wolfer- especially with steak, oh god forbid- and he hardly given himself enough time to chew, let alone form sentences. The most out of him are the odd, “Mmm!” and “Hummho!” as he forces back those incessant laughs, now is not the time. It takes him a minute, but Damon finally pauses for breath, and answers, a glint in his eye;

“Oh, you’re safe, for now, my dear.” Gant winks, before returning his concentration to the near-done plate of meat. “It’s simply delightful! Exactly how I remember it!” A pause. He quickly cuts a small, bite-sized square of the steak with mocking precision, as if following a drummed in rule, his tongue stuck out of his lips in concentration. Finally, once his masterpiece is complete, Damon beams wide;

“Here!” He offers it to Lana. “Have a taste.”

“Call it.. a final farewell treat.”

redskyeatnight:

demongent:

Any window in his guard is shut as he watches the waiter walk away, leaning back, impressed. So, she’d not forgotten. Lana’s mind had yet to fully let them go. His gaze trails back to his Ex-partner. Interesting. “Very good!” Very interesting.

“Your memory is legendary, Lana.” He throws out, with no apparent care, as his attention is drawn to the bar situated behind the brunette. She’s not the only one waiting on that wine.

“Oh, really?” Certainly took some time recovering even the smallest amount of health after that rather violent run in with a certain someone. “Hah. I’ve been better medically-” The hospital visits had certainly increased ten-fold. And the nights wheezing and wincing in pain. And the days he’d forced himself to drag that pen onto those papers, handing down every last thing he owned.. “-but I suppose that’s expected.” His fingers creep out towards hers, before darting to her unattended water and taking a lavish sip, resting it just away from his lips as he speaks, a smirk barely hidden, distorted even, into a cruel, curled smile by the glass.

“I’d hardly the young man I used to be.” A pause. “How about the Skyes? Ema all grown up with no problems, I hope? She was horridly bright, I do wish to hear she’s fared well.” Damon laughs, setting the glass down, and finally, gradually, covering her hands with his. Warm, worn leather holding pale, slender and stern fingers. She’s not shaking at all. Not an ounce of fear in her appearance, at least. Someone had been practicing.

“And you, of course.” Unreadable eyes look into deep brown. His grip doesn’t say a word, no pressure, yet no comforting reassurance. Whether the gesture is through admiration, adoration or complete dominance, a clear sign of who’s in control- is murky to determine at all.

As the wine’s dropped off, she manages a small “Ema’s fine, I’m fine”. No thank yous, no explanations. Just fine. They’re fine, life is fine, everything is just fine.

Except her ex-partner slash fugitive is sitting in front of her, seemingly a husk of what he was. There was a spark missing, a fire. A brief moment of grieving and she pushes his hands apart, lightly resting her hands atop his. Not one to shatter illusions easy-come-easy-go, she keeps them there, eyes continually locked.

“How long has it been since we were last here? A while, at the very least. We didn’t dine all too much when you got promoted, if I’m remembering correctly.”

A whisper of sarcasm breezes across her face, as if to say ‘thanks for the compliment, jackass’. Legendary memory or not, she’d be willing to argue that anyone who’d been through what she had would remember certain things. Whilst she could remember key dates, times, experiences, she could also remember some smaller things that filled the gaps. Which hand he uses to write, how he likes his food, how he’d straighten his tie out, how he sorts out his hair. On a handful of occasions, those little things had haunted her far greater than anything else. She supposed a lot of those things had changed.

Lana quickly squeezes his hands before withdrawing, warmth dissipating just as fast as she admires the wine, swirling before sniffing then sipping. Perfect, just what was needed. 

“I almost missed this.”

And there, her smile appeared, like sunshine through clouds. She honestly had missed this; dining with her ‘partner’, enjoying such wonderful food and drink, a calm and relaxed atmosphere. Although, unlike previous occasions though, after this, she’d return home, and continue living a very different life, one which he wasn’t a part of. She was free at long last, and when this was all over, she planned on never seeing him again. That gave her reason to smile. 

A little part of her did enjoy the trip down memory lane, though. She’d have trouble denying that.

There’s a deafening screech, a horrific record scratch that makes his skin crawl; all at once, Gant’s mind jerks to a halt, stuttering and stalling, a broken down car on an abandoned motorway. Completely alone, and yet this noise pulls tight on his head, a painful white noise, static that plays to cover up a cracked thought track. Damon’s lips part to say something, anything, but he flat-lines and the clinical beep is all that rings through his ears as the restaurant empties, leaving them, the duo, alone.

Lana Skye is happy.

Lana Skye has grown up, grown older, and stands tall on her own two feet. Emergency hooks yank up the corners of the old man’s lips, pulling them into a smile. It’s crooked, drooping on one side, not quite level at all, teeth lit so they slowly drip shadows over his gums, through the cracks on his skin. He’s so happy for her. He is so happy. He is happy.

They’re both happy. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? No, no, don’t worry, he lives with that screaming. It sits quietly at the back of his mind, don’t make a fuss. He copes just fine. Hm? She asked him something? Oh, gosh, no, he mustn’t have heard. It’s so loud in here. Horridly loud. They keep talking, all around him, everyone is living so loudly, everyone is carrying on so loudly they really must quiet down they’re making quite a racket if someone don’t stand up and stop them he’ll do it himself he’ll do it he’ll get to his feet and scream if he has too he’ll scream louder than that cracking in his chest that snapping that breaking that unbearable feeling he’ll do it he’ll stand and stop this.

Stop it and go back to how it was.

Back when it was quiet.

”..Yes.” The coward whispers.

redskyeatnight:

demongent:

Her stare is locked as soon as he sits, Gant’s sharp eyes glinting with something new whilst holding all old that he keeps close, searching, analysing, never stopping his dig for the information he needs to ‘take the upper hand’. An old habit gone wrong, perhaps. Then, her eyes drop, truly looking at him, and a flicker of hesitance skirts over his emerald gaze, a microsecond of something in his throat catching, a mere blip, or error, a flash of their past melting away around him, reminding him that, no, they’re not going back to their office after this, no, they’re not returning back to solve that case, because time has wounded them. Him. Hard. The painting’s colours smear ever so slightly.

It’s shaken off, and a bright smile replaces any sign of doubt on the older man’s face. “Hoh ho! Yes, indeed!” Damon opens his mouth to order, gloved finger up- before it turns and points at the woman opposite him. “In fact! If you know it so well, my dear..” A gesture to the waiter. “Why not order it for me, hm?” Leaning his elbows on the table, fingers intertwined and chin resting innocently on them, Gant chuckles before leaning forward and whispering;

“I am so awfully shy, you know.”

Glaring at him for an eternal second, she places her attention on the waiter, smiling softly. With a brush of her hair over her shoulder, she points out the medium-rare steak, salad, and another glass of wine. Lana knows he’d go for the steak, the salad’s merely for health’s sake, and she figures if she can time it right, she can leave and stick him with the bill. Let him have as many glasses of wine as he likes.

“The rarer, the better!” she calls out after the waiter as he leaves, smiling fading as they’re left alone. There are only a handful of people in the restaurant besides themselves, and the place is quiet, music tinkling away in the background. She prays the wine gets there soon. 

“Well then, how have you been, Damon? For an escaped seventy-year-old convict, you seem to be in good health.” Hands now resting on the table, fingers interlocked and thumbs overlapping, she’s fidget-free, despite the pent-up anxious energy fuelling her at this moment. He knows better, she deducts, surely he knows better. Yet, for once, she doesn’t feel bare naked in front of him. With a stare like his, it’s often hard to feel secure, or at least it was, but it seems to be less effective now. The edge has been removed, and Lana Skye sits fully clothed before him.

Any window in his guard is shut as he watches the waiter walk away, leaning back, impressed. So, she’d not forgotten. Lana’s mind had yet to fully let them go. His gaze trails back to his Ex-partner. Interesting. “Very good!” Very interesting.

“Your memory is legendary, Lana.” He throws out, with no apparent care, as his attention is drawn to the bar situated behind the brunette. She’s not the only one waiting on that wine.

“Oh, really?” Certainly took some time recovering even the smallest amount of health after that rather violent run in with a certain someone. “Hah. I’ve been better medically-” The hospital visits had certainly increased ten-fold. And the nights wheezing and wincing in pain. And the days he’d forced himself to drag that pen onto those papers, handing down every last thing he owned.. “-but I suppose that’s expected.” His fingers creep out towards hers, before darting to her unattended water and taking a lavish sip, resting it just away from his lips as he speaks, a smirk barely hidden, distorted even, into a cruel, curled smile by the glass.

“I’d hardly the young man I used to be.” A pause. “How about the Skyes? Ema all grown up with no problems, I hope? She was horridly bright, I do wish to hear she’s fared well.” Damon laughs, setting the glass down, and finally, gradually, covering her hands with his. Warm, worn leather holding pale, slender and stern fingers. She’s not shaking at all. Not an ounce of fear in her appearance, at least. Someone had been practicing.

“And you, of course.” Unreadable eyes look into deep brown. His grip doesn’t say a word, no pressure, yet no comforting reassurance. Whether the gesture is through admiration, adoration or complete dominance, a clear sign of who’s in control- is murky to determine at all.