Wires and Gears

[Draco Malfoy]

Syren struggled to find something else to make more noise. Her fingers groped at the handle of her wrench, pulling hard enough for the metal tool to glint darkly through the air and clip her shoulder before clanging on the wall behind her. She gasped in pain, biting her hand to keep from crying out in pain. The wrench clattered to the floor and she squinted in the pitch that had bathed her for what felt like hours as well as seconds. She gripped the metal handle tightly this time as she turned and faced the way, swinging the wrench toward it and shocking her system by the vibrations that ran up her arm. She repeated the process until her palm was raw and bloody, the liquid glinting in black against her pale skin in the red light that filtered down from above. She gasped as the wrench dropped into her lap. Her memory stirred. Shouldnt there have been a ladder leading to the top...? Surely there was some sort of way out. There had to be some form of escape besides the death that loomed over her.

Syren leaned heavily against the wall as she made an attempt to stand. Her ankle cracked painfully beneath her and her torso ached from hitting the fan, making her breath come short and with difficulty as she searched the rough metal wall for a gap or a rung, anything. The pain was almost unbearable as she walked along the inside circcumfrence of the reactor, groping along the walls and slipping here and there. She had to break several times to catch her breath and regain her composure until finally... finally.. her hand came across what very well could mean life.

Her hand gripped the metal rung tightly as she began to haul herself up. A problem occured almost immediatly as the pain in her ankle became too much, causing her to come to a gasping hault. Think... think... Syren had to pull herself up mainly by her arms, the appendages shaking with effort as she hopped up with one foot working properly from rung to rung. Her body ached with exhaustion as she slowly worked her way upward into the dissapating radiation. Pain traced into every fiber of her being as the realization dawned on her that if she hadnt of hit the fan, the fall would have killed her: Syren would be no more. She gave a light sniff as her hand came into contact with something large, smashing her fingers into the metal jarringly. The fan loomed above her, blocking her path from the other half of the reactor.

Syren's fingers pursued the edge of the fan and she could grimly see it just out of her reach. She glanced down at what would have been a dizzying height if she had enough light to see. Thankfully, she didnt. Looping one of her arm's through the rung, she leaned off the ladder, hooking her good foot around the side as her fingertips skimmed the edge of the fan barely too far away. She'd have to jump if her wanted to get out of the reactor. She took several deep breaths, gathering her strength into one leg as she tensed her muscles and jumped into the merciless unknown backwards to catch the edge.

Her hands caught the edge of the fan and grappled for support as she hung, suspended above the black abyss. Her feet kicked beneath her, looking for a foothold that wasn't there as she swung herself side to side. After several agonizing moments of monotonious swinging, her foot hooked around the edge of the fan and she groaned in agony. She found herself on her back, staring up at the window full of space men cascading down onto the massive blade of the fan.

The hazmats searched for her, trying to find a way down further to the bottom of the reactor. The hadnt yet seen her. Syren clutched her bloody wrench and flung it across the fan blade to the farthest edge. It clamored along the metallic surface before dropping to space. There was a shocked, long lasting silence before it clattered to the bottom but by then she was already surrounded by hazmats. Relief soared through her as they grabbed hold of her and hauled her the other half of the way out of the reactor.

Syren must have lost consciousness because she opened her eyes to be surrounded by several faces that belong to her coworkers. She could see James among those faces, her blue eyes entrapped by his as the hazmats tried to shoo everyone away. She sat up achingly, battered and bloody but alive with a gash across her forehead and an affliction to her ribs and ankle. The hazmats hauled her to her feet and raced off, her voice echoed behind them as the alarms shut off and the lights blindingly glared to life. She could hear the buzz of the electricity. "James!"

The hazmats transported Syren roughly into a room seperate from the rest of the factory but could be viewed through by the floor to cieling glass wall. The other factory workers had already crowded onto the other side of the glass, trying to catch a glimpse at what was happening to the sister of the factory owner.

Two of the hazmats entered the room with her, one held her by the arms with a tight grip that would leave bruises as the other gripped her workers overalls and undershirt tightly. The one infront of her quite literally ripped the clothing free from her body, piece by painfilled piece until she stood naked and exposed to every man in Distirct 5. She kept her eyes fixed on a corner, her face heating with humiliation as the feeling of the multiple stares hit her. The only thing that broke her consentration was the fire hose that shot a stream of water straight into her face.

Syren coughed, sputtered, and staggered to the side as the sheer force of the water hit her like a cement wall. The hazmat behind her had to hold her upright as the other hosed the radiation off of her body, spinning her around with duress so spray the back half of her body. The hazmat that held her still was at such a proximity as a lover, but his grip on her was cold and jolting. The water stung her skin, turning its pale pallor splotchy and red with irittation until at last the onslaught ended.

Syren merely watched as the hazmats removed their suits to reveal factory workers underneath and dumbfoundedly stood in shock as they left the room with the door open as if they expected her to follow. Her eyes fell to the floor, taking in the sight of her shredded clothing, useles and soaked by the blood tinged water. Bruises had alread started to form along her forehead and side, tracing her ribs down to her ankle as well, mingling with the blood that still flowed freely. Her wounds had torn open more from the water and the red cascaded darkly against her pink flesh, raw from the ice like spray. Her legs shuddered beneath her as her legs gave out, falling onto her knees. She sat on her ankles with her fists clenched and shaking violently in rage, humilliation, and exposer as she bit back tears.Her head hung low with her hair limp and dripping infront of her like a curtain as if hr locks could shield her naked skin from the stares of the men.

[Raeoki]

“James!”

He didn’t respond – not verbally. When she had made her ascent from the reactors (with the aid of the rescuers, of course), an enthrallment of disbelief had overcome him. Too much had happened to him for him to truly process and believe: the disease that made his parents’ bodies wither and gradually evaporate; the yoke of poverty, and the burden of mending a family broken by tragedy; to almost lose Kayla – sweet, dearest little Kayla – to a cultural scourge that would have left her bloody and torn and so very, very dead. He had accepted those during their transpiring moments; but this was far too much. And when he first saw her, he refused to accept the sight with the steadfastness of a bull. The grimmer components of his life had been reasonable – horrid, to be sure, but reasonable: many parents had left their progeny for a better position in the afterlife in the slums of District Five, and most by the same disease that had taken Mister and Missus Dirk; there were many other oxen that labored beneath the social immobility of Panem; and Kayla had certainly not been the first twelve-year-old – the first sweet little sister – to be murdered by the Capitol. But this – this was too much. Too unreasonable. Too coincidental. And how James wished that Syren hadn’t woken up; how he wished she hadn’t seen him – called out to him. For now the ears confirmed what the eyes had known all along; and it is far more difficult to argue with one’s ears than with one’s eyes.

It came upon him with the subtleness of a large truck, and surged into him with the same suddenness as one, also. First a whirl of emotions that caused the heart to palpitate and its beat to stutter occasionally; for James to suck in one last sharp breath, before the a feeling washed over him, as if his lungs had grown cold, and the iciness was gradually spreading all throughout his body. Then, a quiet numbness that stilled the heart and the mind, making only the muscles able to respond – to move – to follow her and the men in the protective garb, as if they were pulling him on by a string that was attached to his sternum.

As they moved through the factory, questions would drift into his empty mind, faint and whispering, like ghosts. Her. She. Syren. Sy? What the Hell happened? Thank him later. Tomorrow? Not tomorrow. Later? The Hell? And the thoughts and Syren were all James was aware of; however, the thoughts soon faded and became forgotten, but Syren remained the only thing memorable and palpable as they trekked across catwalks and through iron doors.

The men dragged her through the entranceway of the factory; into the courtyard that Syren and James had made their rendezvous the previous evening. It had been empty and lonely then; now, it looked as if it had been invaded. An entire army of displaced workers filled every corner and space in the courtyard; and a murmur rose up from them, a buzz of words from separate mouths that had mingled and mixed in the air above their heads, and became a single droning voice. The drone suddenly upped in volume, becoming a roar of mumbled exclamations and observations, as a thousand pairs of eyes swung around and saw the factory’s owner sister being dragged into their midst. It was not hard to realize who it was that had caused all the hubbub; or, at the very least, had been at the center of it – and Syren’s position as heiress and her close relations to the workers’ boss peaked the mob’s curiosity. The mass of bodies surged after and about them; James struggled through them with the dogged perseverance of a sloth as it attempts to slowly, slowly wrap its furry arms about a leopard and draw the speedier beast into its warm and mighty embrace. (IT SHALL OVERCOME EVENTUALLY.)

They threw her into a small hut of glass; two of the rescuers followed her, and shut the door behind them, barricading her from James. He and the mob pressed their bodies against the glass; individual pushed and peered past another individual to understand and see what was happening. What they saw was this: Syren Jones being clamped onto by the arms and held against one fellow, with such a firm grasp and being held onto at such a close proximity that James, instantaneously, disapproved of what he was seeing with an angry and violent vehemence. What came next appalled him further; the other rescuer entangled his fingers into her shirt, and with one harsh yank tore it free from her body, with such a sudden violence that empathy, surprise, and adoration caused James’s body to jerk back. Without pause or hesitation, without quarter, did the supposed “rescuer” free her pants in the same brutish manner; James’s agitation promptly peaked. That’s enough, bitch, that’s enough!

One would have thought they would have stopped there; that was a negative: the brute had forgotten that Syren’s undershirt had to be removed also. It was removed in a flurry of shredded cloth, in a dissonant cacophony of rendering noises. James’s entire body stiffened at that point, as if to brace himself against the now spiraling emotions that swirled and writhed against each other: agony; pity; helplessness; sorrow – and, much to James’s chagrin, another sensation that gurgled and flittered about within him, and with all of the other feelings that he was undergoing, it left him a very flustered and awkward man; for before him lay two virgin boobs*, and he found it very difficult to ignore them.

Now that the fellow had decided that Syren was naked enough, he procured for himself a hose. He twisted its nozzle, and immediately, it gurgled to life, assaulting the hapless aristocrat with a geyser of water, the hose’s initial gurgle now a roar of indignation. James could tell it hurt; the way her body tried to lurch back, and then tensed when it realized that escape was impossible, so long as the other hazmat fellow fettered her. They flipped her about like a vertical pancake; then, gradually, the geyser slowly became but a thin trickle of water that dribbled languidly from the hose, and then to not but a few drops of water dripping from its spout. The fellow with the hose dropped the hose; permitted it to unceremoniously clatter to the ground. The other released Syren, in the same unapologetic manner; fortunately, Syren was strong and dignified enough to not let her legs go limp beneath her.

They took off their protective vizards (James did not recognize them), and left her there, the door opened. Immediately, James made a bolt for the opened entrance, shoving people over and knocking them back with his shoulder as he made his way. He paused once, merely to consider whether or not he should go to the locker room instead, to see if any spare clothing could be found; he glanced at Syren through the wall (which he was considering calling a window, as it made a very crappy wall): he flinched, as if someone had attempted to swat at him, and the muscles in his face slacked, as if a stroke had paralyzed it. She had fallen; blood was oozing from her profusely, her wounds having been agitated by the torrent of water; tears were rolling down her face, the droplet’s salt making her cheeks red and angry-looking; her little frame quivered as if an earthquake was rumbling beneath her.

He’d simply have to improvise on whatever he had when he got there, he decided.

When James entered, he did not look at Syren, in an attempt to be respectful of her current position. Instead, his eyes flitted about the little glass hut, trying to find anything – a towel, a robe; something that was wearable. He soon found that the only thing cloth-like were the rags and tatters that now lay scattered about Syren, wet and stained with her blood; but those were beyond repair. Crimminy. All that’s freakin’ left are the clothes on my-

James stopped suddenly, both in thought and in movement. His eyes flickered down to his shirt, a dirty gray that was speckled and marred by grease and sweat, accumulated over several years. His hands proceeded to pounce on his buttons; however, a small voice that lingered from the darkest corners of his skull made him wonder if it would be appropriate, to remove his shirt in her presence and in her current state. He soon ruled the voice out, and unbuttoned it as rapidly as he could, and slid over his shoulders, his arms. James then held it before his face, and proceeded to approach Syren, in a slow manner, as not to further alarm her. “Ah – ah, Sy?” he asked. “Ah – you – yah wanna put this on? Till we get to da locker room? Or…something?”
_________________________________________________
*You can blame Kates for that one.

(ooc: Welp…he’s shirtless…she’s more than pantless…Gee, I wonder what’s going to happen next.)

[Draco Malfoy]

Syren sniffed and furiously wiped the tears off with the back of her wrist as James stormed in through the door, her cheeks flushing into an even darker red but she didnt bother moving; what was the point of covering up when the entire male side of the district was oggling at her greedily. She kept her eyes focused on the floor until she noticed that James was holding out his shirt for her to wear. She sat up a littly straighter and shook her heair out of her face, drips of water spraying slightly as a steely resolve stlled into her stomach. She took the shirt and slipped it over her shoulders, engulfed by the large piece of clothing. She focused on pulling up the sleeves around her wrists, the stained fabric bunched up around her slender arms. She then worked her fingers through the buttons, calmly moving in a neat line down her front until she got to the very bottom, and despite her emotions rampaging inside her; her outter being a cool facade. Until she tried to stand that is. 

Her legs were too shakey beneath her, the shock of everything that had happened settling into her, making her bones weak as jelly. She slipped farther onto the cold, wet tile as her legs buckled from underneath her once again, the surprise at the lack of function of her own body registered clearly showed on her face. How... unbecoming... She swallowed the lump in her throat and tilted her face up to look at James, her eyes a crystal like blue. "Help me..?" Her pride crashed around her like a tidal wave; first the hosing and now asking for help fromm another. She shook her head roughly and looked down at her clasped hands resting in her lap, the too-big shirt covering her down to the middle of her thighs. "The locker room wont be any good... I wore only my work clothes today." 

Syren glanced at the remains of her denim over-alls and the white shirt she'd been wearing. Both were threadbare and covered in stains but they had been the clothing she had been most confortable with. Her eyes traveled back to his face, lined with concern. "Will you.. take me home?"

[Raeoki]

James felt a small tug on his fingers as Syren grabbed at his shirt; he promptly shut his eyes, and relinquished the clothing article to her. He wasn’t exactly certain if shutting one’s eyes was to be the respectful way about it; after all, would it just be another handful of salt to be rubbed into the wounds – a reminder of her nudity? What would be better: to look upon her, in all her shame, in some sort of respectful and gentle manner, or to avoid all eye contact and keep his eyelids drawn together? James couldn’t rightly decide; he assumed that Syren would prefer it if he kept his eyes closed and his face turned partially away from her, and hoped that would be the correct decision.

He kept his eyes closed till there was a skidding noise, whose suddenness caused him to jerk his body in surprise, and his eyelids flung themselves open. Immediately, he turned his face completely towards Syren (who had now successfully donned the shirt), and the heaving and depressing motions of his lungs were stilled. She reminded him of a baby bird, recently hatched from the egg: wet and tiny, with her limbs splayed about the ground, made feeble and awkward by – what? Shock? Trauma? A mixture of both? Or were they the same entities, but with separate names? They seemed to go about plaguing and terrorizing people with their hands entwined about the other’s shoulders; why shouldn’t they be considered the same?

Syren tilted her head back to look up at him. Her eyes were a lovely color; clear and brilliant, and evoking upon James an even deeper pity than the previous, crevasse-like sympathy he had felt for her. For now, she no longer looked like a woman of high breeding and royal blood; now, she seemed to James more like a child, and her pleading eyes and his shirt (which she practically swam in) added to that notion greatly. A hoarse, faint command rose from her, the words soft and delicate: "Help me..?"

James flinched, as if an electric bolt had suddenly coursed through him. Why hadn’t he noticed before that she required further assistance?! Why else would she not have gotten to her feet already?! Goddamn idiot!

She then proceeded to heave her body into a sitting position, and looked at her hands resting upon her lap. Syren added promptly, her voice of the same volume that she had initially spoken in: "The locker room wont be any good... I wore only my work clothes today."

Crimminy. James would have preferred that Syren get herself properly clothed as soon as possible; and, obviously, to do something “as soon as possible” was to go to the nearest place possible – otherwise known (at present; in this situation) as the locker room. Jimmy glanced away from her, and let his gaze dart across the faces of the mob, which still pressed its mass against the glass. A sharp, fire-like pang seemed to stab him in the chest; one that heated his blood with a growing resentment and bitterness; an urge riled itself within him, the moment he noticed this change and its effects: a desire to screech at every single member of the damned planet to run, and flee as fast as they could – to get away; from Syren; from his sisters; from James; and to never return – to leave them all alone.

Alas, James did not permit himself to do so; he forced himself to look away, to turn his attention back to Syren. Perhaps it was better that they went to her house; that way, she wouldn’t have to walk through the mob once she was through dressing. That would only make the emotional experience even more horrid for her than it already was, he figured.

Whilst James was thinking this, Syren looked around herself, at her shredded clothing, and turned her face towards James again. "Will you.. take me home?"

Promptly, James leaned down, and extended his arms towards her. “‘Course I will,” he assured her; as he spoke, the corner of his lips gradually lifted themselves, making the mouth soft, the eyes gentle, like a mother looking down on her progeny. Gently, he took hold of her by the waist, and lifted her up; he set her against him, so they stood flank to flank, and he ducked beneath her arm, one hand clutching the wrist while the other held her side – hopefully, she would find simply leaning upon him a far more dignified deed then being carried by him. “If yer uncomftahble, just tell me, ahright?”

He dragged her out of the glass hut, and took her to an entrance at the back of the courtyard, where – from what he had observed – the mob had not been as congested. Fortunately, not much pushing and shoving had to be done as they moved across the yard; instinctively, the various members that were in their way soon side-stepped away from them, giving them plenty of space. James was rather surprised by this courtesy, especially after the supercilious emotion that had passed through him in the glass hut, whilst he had been looking at them. Had they noticed that a change had crossed his features, perhaps? James doubted this; not all of the men were close enough to see it; and the workers of the factory cared little for each other, and thus did not hold enough fear and respect of their peers to particularly care or acknowledge when the other was in an angered or forlorn state.

As James and Syren were moving along, he noticed the forever-stunned looking coworker that had led the hazmat-wearing rescuers to Syren. The fellow’s eyes were as wide and open as ever, but his mouth was set into a hard, grim line, as if he had witnessed a bloody and disturbing battle and was currently looking upon the bodies, instead of the aftermath of a rescue.

I gotta remember to thank him, next time I see him, James decided, and turned his eyes away.

They passed through a small, iron gate - the back entrance and exit of the courtyard – and proceeded down a small, winding path of dirt that would eventually come to the main road, which would (if one continued in a northerly direction) lead to a cut-off section of District Five, where the district’s “aristocracy” (if there could be one in Panem) lived. There, Syren’s abode would be found.

James glanced at Syren out of the corner of his eye; his mouth became a small, soft frown. It occurred to him then that the uselessness of her limbs could be a product of a physical condition, not just an emotional one; what if her legs had struck something hard, and the impact had twisted them around, twisting and halving the bones inside? One would have thought that the agony would be clearer; but James remembered the girl from District Four when the Games were still going on, who had had her leg snapped during the Bloodbath. The girl had managed to survive that day, fortunately enough, and had endured the rest of her short and unfortunate period in the arena with a stiff upper-lip, not complaining often about her broken bone (if James remembered correctly, of course). Perhaps that girl and Syren shared an equal grit, and both refused to vocalize or make their pain obvious? James’s frown grew. She’s gotta see a doc, he decided; his heart lurched and twisted within him as he did.

It was not his choice to press her closer to him; it was some other will that forced him to do it. It drove him to caress his fingers up and down her flank, in a sign of polite affection and comfort; it made him speak – no; to speak was his choice. It was the other will that made him feel the dire urge to speak; to tell her something – anything – to relieve her of whatever brooding thoughts that could possibly be racking her now. “I-” What to say? What to say? “I’m sorry. About – about…this ‘ole crummy day. Yah really don’t deserve it – yah know? Yer a swell person. Real swell. Last night was the swellest date I ever went on, ‘cause of you – well, obviously, cause of you.” James laughed a faint, hollow chuckle. “Thank God that-” He stopped himself immediately. Thank God yah didn’t die. It felt as if an icy hand had been laid upon his bare back, and was currently sliding down his spine.

His foot suddenly found itself being laid upon hard, sun-baked cement, not of soft, cool earth – they had made it onto the main road. “An’ – Sy?” James continued. “Would yah mind – when we get tah yer house – that I go in wit’ yah? I’ll be careful, in case yah got anything expensive in there – promise. Just…yah know…wanna make sure everythin’s good, yah see.” James knew that he would probably have to go in with her, seeing as how her appendages were currently in an useless and addled state, but he thought that he ought to get her permission first – just for the sake of respect. He was going to enter the house of a lady, of course; and Syren was a lady, no matter how many men now knew what her body looked like. “Or, ah, wouldja rather go to a doc foist? Whatever yah think yah need; I just thought I should ask.”

(ooc: New Yorkers say "foist".)

[Draco Malfoy]

The trek back to Syren's house was extremly slow going. With her ankle barely functioning, she was forced to hop on one foot most of the way and lean heavily on James for strength. She sagged against him with her head tucked down, concentrating on the broken concrete beneath her as she struggled to breathe correctly. Tears had started trailing down her pale face, pink with the blood flowing side by side from the laceration above her eye. She stumbled often before her legs gave out completly and she was on the ground again. Rigid with stubborness, she clambered to her feet-ish and continued hobbling with James to her home. "It's not too far now..."

Syren's head snapped up so fast that her neck cracked when she heard James ask a question. She winced and hung her head down again before nodding slightly. "Of course you can come inside." Together, they trudged up the steps of her porch and with her free hand, she knocked then sagged against the man supporting her weight. The door swung open with a sassy "What now?" and revealed a young girl with white hair, white skin, and pale eyes.

"Dawn.. get the first aid kit." If it were possible, the 'ghost girl' hurried off to retrieve the red box and a few choice words for James. "Go upstairs and to the first door on the left." Syren sighed against her quick sarcasm, but the girl was smart and she was an outcast. It was the least the mistress of the house could do; giving her aa job as one of the maids. Her eyes skewered the living room, the aftermath of ehr tinkering littered about. wires and half made contraptions sprayed half hazardly about. One of her small ones had been activated but had fallen over so its legs merely wagged in the air. Gears and pulleys were everywhere. She'd claimed the living room as her workstation and now she was unbelieveably blushing at such a mess. "Welcome... to my gilded prison...And my room is where Dawn said it was.."

[Raeoki]

It was stunning, how much of a fortress Syren’s abode was, in comparison to the Dirk’s home. The walls were thick here, less likely to crack and topple in a swelling cloud of dust and debris; the structure and design of the mansion actually bore signs of intelligent design, not just a bunch of sagging rooms thrown together into one mass of stone and wood; and the size of it – the grandeur – the luxury! It had always been easy for James to imagine what palaces could be erected for the few aristocrats alive in Panem; but to actually see one! It was an entirely different experience – like when a common mortal looks into the eyes of an all-powerful deity: humbling, quieting, mastering. It felt impossible, to truly believe that a fellow could own so much in Panem; but, once the nigh improbability of the matter was overlooked and its truth of existence accepted, there came with the acknowledgement a sudden and very liberating sensation. For, before James’s eyes, there was proof of success; that there was far more than the rotting and crumbling slums of District Five – and this was such a difficult thing to know, in a country like Panem; yet, there it was, the evidence flying from the earth gracefully, beautifully, its architecture of such delicateness, of such laxity, of such immortal perfection.

They stood upon the porch of Syren’s little palace, before a finely-crafted door of an evidently strong, thick wood that could easily defy the test of ages. Syren reached forward a small, airy arm; gave the door a slight rap, before she fell limp against him. Instinct seized his muscles, forcing James to hold her tighter against her, and dip his head as attempted to gently pull her upward into an upright position. As he was doing so, the door flew open, and a saucy, defiant, young voice grunted in a very hearty greeting: "What now?"

James’s head jerked up; and then a sudden, stiff stillness seized him. The voice’s proprietor looked as if she had been floundering about in flour for most of her life; almost everything about her was bleached: her flesh, her hair. The only thing that held any color were the eyes; but they appeared to be merely a pair of tiny pools of ice – just as bizarre and inhuman as her solely ivory complexion. James could not help but stare at her, his eyes dilated as they flickered up and down in their sockets, trying to take her in – to understand what they were seeing. Is…she… supposed to look like that? Never, in all his life, had James encountered such a creature; and it was hard to think that – though she certainly bore the shape and size of a human – she was anything beyond that: a creature.

Syren’s wearied command shoved James from his rather dehumanizing pondering: "Dawn.. get the first aid kit." The girl – Dawn – turned around, and hurried forth to perform her madam’s bidding.

Now that there was nothing blockading their path, James helped Syren hobble into her home. He considered twisting around and attempting to close the door with his foot, but decided against it; that ghost-maid could do it for him later. He paused for a moment, to survey the room he had entered. Admittedly, it was a disheveled mess – one that Isabella would have immediately flung herself into, scooping up the small mechanical objects with swift, practiced hands and twittering condescendingly at Syren as she gathered them to her breast. (Bella had always been very precise with neatness, and passionately scorned any sort of dust or debris.) But, still, even Bella would have to admit that the fact that the mess was permitted to take up such great space in a single room was very impressive – or she would have found it a more pertinent reason to rant and scold and fuss like a mother hen. “Goodness!” James could hear her grumble. “You’ve such a pretty carpet, Miss Jones. A shame we can barely see it. Don’t you think? Oh my! Is that…lacquer on that coffee table? Dearie me! A shame this weird little thingamabob-thing is oozing oil onto it. Honestly, Miss Jones! As fellow members of the female species, I, for one, am embarrassed for you! Look at this sofa! If this was sold, I could feed the family for three straight weeks! But look at all these weird things littered on it! Don’t you think that sofas ought to be sat in, Miss Jones? Honestly! You’re about my brother’s age, aren’t you? You’re twenty-six, not just plain six! You’ve ought to have learned how to pick up by yourself now, don’t you rather believe?”

Dawn the Ghost-Maid returned, a scarlet box held between her pale fingers. She presented it to James; he removed the hand that was clamped around Syren’s wrist and reached for it, taking the box by its handle. Dawn promptly relinquished it to him; and then, with a voice as caustic as acid, remarked: "Go upstairs and to the first door on the left."

James stiffened at this little grunt of satire; Syren merely sighed, but otherwise relented to her servant’s rather petty, foolish comment. This compounded James’s surprise; for, surely, if he had had such power and money to pay for people to clean and help around the home, he would have a far heavier hand and far sterner rebukes then a mere, simple sigh. Well – Sy is a sweet lady, he thought; but, still, he could not help but feel indignant for her, and made sure to gift the ghost-maid a pointed, patronizing frown.

"Welcome... to my gilded prison...” said Syren. “And my room is where Dawn said it was.."

James glanced at Syren out the corner of his eyes, once again finding her comments and demeanor strange. ‘Gilded prison’? Good Lord! If she could see where me ‘n’ the girls live…Now that’s a real cell if yah don’t know one…I mean - she thinks this place is a damn ‘prison’?! James felt like sputtering; however, the happenings of the day and this new realization of what Syren thought of her luxurious abode had brought into his heart a cold, deadness, and he was in no mood for laughter. However, as he proceeded to a very large staircase with ornate, serpentine designs winding down its balusters, he decided to use Syren’s comment as a mode for light conversation, just to help her take her mind off things: “Don’t like it here?” Here, he let out a small, faint laugh that was barely audible. “I’d be willin’ tah trade wit’ yah anytime.”

They climbed to the top of the staircase at a slow, careful, slothhug-like pace (oh so slow, but oh so worth it), but eventually they were on the second floor of the mansion. Golly…a second floor, James thought as they began for the first door on the left; he could not help but let his eyes – now large and bright as a pair of moons – survey the vicinity. Hot damn, I barely got a first one!

Moving at the same pace as when they had been climbing the staircase, they eventually made it before the door. “This it?” James asked, as he reached out for the glossy doorknob, twisted it, and pushed the door open. He poked his head inside, and looked around, noting the bed, chifferobe, and various other bedroomish necessities. “Looks like it’s it,” James remarked, as he gently eased her inside, and settled her gingerly upon the bed.

(ooc: LET THE BABY-MAKING COMMENCE!)

[Draco Malfoy]

Syren felt a small smile tilt her lips upward as James helped her up the stairs. She could feel the restrained excitement within his tensed body as his eyes drifted every which way. Her tinkering was littered even more across her bedroom. A pile of pillows strewn into one corner, a messy king sized bed in the middle deep red gauzy material for a canopy, and her work table strewn with tools, gears, wires, and half made contraptions of the like made up her room. Her closet and bathroom were different stories. The room itself was decorated black and white with splashes of red here and there while grey smudges splotched everything from time to time.

As James laid her down on the bed, Syren shifted and grimaced in pain. Dawn walked in with a silver tray carrying a pitcher of water and wash rags along with a bowl and the first aid kit. "Thank you Dawn, I can take care of the rest from here."

Dawns pale blue eye flicked between Syren and James. "Yeah sure Miss. Just" she backed towards the door quickly. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Syren felt her face flush rapidly as the ghostlike girl slipped out the door. "That's not much Dawn!" She could hear the laughter coming from the other side of the door before she slumped back onto the pillows. "Sorry.. About that. She's free to act how she pleases here, mainly because, well... she gets hit enough at home." She straightened up slightly and looked up at him. "Do you.. Do you know how and of this works..? Because to be honest, I don't."

[Raeoki]

Syren's house was turning more and more paradoxical by the moment, and with each advancement of contradictory there came the perpetual advancement of the grandeur and regality that Syren's wealth and work had earned her. It was what caused the paradox, and it was also the prevalent feature of Syren's home in James's mind. To look up and see the rich sleekness, the rich outlandishness of the gauzy canopy that roofed Syren's bed was like seeing a part of her blossom forth from his original perspective on her. Not in a horrid way, of course; this wasn't some series of revelations that orbited around a darker side of Syren: rather, this was, in some aspects, good for their relationship, for, with each oil-stained piece of decadent design, James's respect for her increased. Yes, it was already quite high, after they had met on rather embarrassing circumstances on her part and she had merely gotten herself out of it without many scrapes, and especially now, after what had just happened to her. But those were all symbols of Syren's strength and grace of personality; this, this house, this place - this was the medal Syren had been awarded for her capabilities, for her skill, for the fact that she was descended from men of intelligence, of ability, and of courage. And the fact that he should stand before her, this queen of District Five, in her palace of luxury and achievement, was slightly humbling for James, who had lived a life of grit and stagnant poverty all his life.

As he considered this new aspect of Syren, James found his eyes rather locked on the canopy above Syren as he withdrew from her. As he erected his long, wiry frame, his eyes passed over Syren, grimacing as she grimaced, and checking her condition with his eyes as she shifted, her movement stiff and tense with pain. He opened his mouth to question her on her comfort, but the sound of a brief reentrance distracted him for a moment, dragging his eyes to the door in a brief glance that had neither been intentional nor wanted by the he who glanced. He saw the rude and absurdly abnormal ghost-maid in the doorway; she approached with a silver tray that bore a pitcher of water, rags, and a red plastic box that James promptly assumed to be Syren's medical kit. The ghostly, ghastly girl handed it to him; James took it with a small, mumbled word of thanks. As Syren offered the girl her own better vocalized version, James looked away from the girl, and his gaze hit the floor for a moment, just long enough to note an unfinished-looking product of Syren's tinkering beside his foot. He looked away from it, no longer impressed by the shapes of tiny metal carcasses that littered Syren's abode. Though they were the other half of the paradox that consumed Syren's home, James did not find them very interesting anymore, for now, it seemed perfectly normal and perfectly Syren for such objects to be found in her home. Indeed, what had made the carcasses so interesting initially was the sole fact that they were all in one disheveled mess that seemed to stretch all across the floors of Syren's home; now, however, the mess seemed perfectly rational and perfectly acceptable, as if it was something he had seen a hundred times before.

The voice of the shifty-eyed ghost-maid dragged James's attention, as it and kicked and screamed, back to her. "Yeah, sure, miss. Just," the ghost-maid said as she proceeded to swiftly back out of the room, "don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

Though James was the closest thing to a playboy that a kind-hearted family man could ever come to without souring himself into a full-on son of a bitch, James still found the very implication of a future scandal rather insulting, both for himself and Syren. Because, like any good man who has been in intimate relations with a woman, his life now revolved around one specific, sacred creed: "My girl ain't no bitch, bitch!" Also, the fact that this girl was a servant - a lowly, nameless servant without any achievements to her name - also furthered James's rather patronizing irritation towards her, and his disapproval of her behavior was pointed on his scowling features as the door closed behind the ghost-maid.

"That's not much, Dawn!"

Syren's reply drew his attention back to her, and managed to ease his disapproval and cause a smirk to stretch on his face. He chuckled slightly, and he turned his eyes downward, on to the platter he held in his hands. "Nice one." His voice was between a murmur and a snicker as he set the platter down beside Syren.

"Sorry...about that," Syren began rather hesitatingly, as James took the rag and pitcher of water off the platter and began to gently pour the water onto the cloth. "She's free to act how she pleases here, mainly because, well, she gets hit enough back home."

The movement of James's hand as he tilted the pitcher erect and set it back on the platter was robotic, as if James's mind and emotions had suddenly shut off, leaving only a cold, mechanical shell. He paused for a moment, both in mind and body, his hand still enveloped around the handle of the pitcher, the rag dripping slow tears that fell off it's edge on at a time. Then, slowly, as if he was awakening from a daze, he looked down at the soggy rag in his hand, a grimace of pain seemingly drawing the parts of his face together, while a shadow of remorse darkened his eyes. "Oh," he mumbled, his voice surprised but not in the sense that would make his remark exclamatory, but rather this surprise was the sort that made one's voice rough and curt, almost matter-of-factly if it was not for one grim tilt of the speaker's words. "I - I hadn't realized," he added, his voice now a little dampened with apology.

It didn't occur to him to mention that respect was something that transcended privilege and condition; he was too much of a man of heart to think or speak about such things.

He looked at Syren, and forced Dawn the ghost-maid out of his mind with a rueful buck of his brain. James leaned forward, implanting his mind into the task at hand, shoving himself into a hardened, grim, dutiful demeanor that both roughened and gentled his face as his eyes swept upward and downward, noting seeable lacerations and other wounds.

"Do you...," Syren's voice dragged his eyes upward so that he stared into hers, "Do you know how any of this works? Because, to be honest, I don't."

Syren's hesitation and honest modesty snatched James's mouth by the corners and forced into a small smile that had not wanted to be born, but had come into existence anyway. There was just something sweetly amusing about Syren and the way she said that, something that gave James's heart a small tickle and forced the unwanted smile to come into being. James didn't bother fighting either the smile or the tickle, for he knew - somehow, by some strange prediction that he had made without even thinking - that it would be impossible for him to overcome either. But, still, smiles and tickles aside, Syren's question was a serious one that desired answering, and he replied promptly: "Yeah, some. Kinda picked some stuff up, over the years. Learned 'em when the girls'd get scratched up and stuff." He paused for a moment, his hand applying the rag to the areas that desired it, and then added: "If yah wanna go to a clinic er somethin' I'm more than 'appy to help yah ovah there."

[Draco Malfoy]

Syren felt her cheeks flush pink as James dabbed the gash on her forehead with the wet cloth, her hand absentmindedly reaching up and curling around is forearm. She shifted into a more upright position and smoothed the shirt that covered her with her other hand. With a timid shake of her head, "no. Staying here will work just fine." A shiver ran down her spine suddenly. She had never liked doctors, they tended to have needles with them and needles were something she never liked to be around. Through her into a radioactive energy supply sure, but stick her with a needle and you're likely to get punched in the face.

Her eyes wandered around the room, anywhere other than James and his lack of a shirt. Well she was wearing his shirt; how could she have let that slip her mind? Her face turned a brighter pink and with a clear of the throat, she looked out towards the window. He was so close to her, so close. Close enough that if she were to lean forward and tilt her head up, well that wasn't something she'd ever done before. She'd always been too shy for something so drastic. Been kissed, yes, but she'd always been on the receiving end. Certainly never took things further. Sad in the stark reality now that she looked back at her choices. If she'd ever given herself to someone that wasn't her brother's choice, well the consequences would be drastic for sure. The reality of the entire situation was that there would never be someone of "high birth" that the only bit of family she had would approve of. She might at well be shipped to one of the career districts if he'd had his way.

Syren pushed her brother out of her mind and leaned forward, tilting her chin up towards the man infront of her. It was a start to something she'd never had the courage to try before. Besides she'd rather be with someone she enjoyed being around than a complete stranger with a spoiled attitude, as most men of "high birth" are. She did rather enjoy his company, he'd even managed to get her out of her cage.

When Syren pulled away from James, she licked her bottom lip and looked down, suddenly unsure of himself.

[Raeoki]

She declined his offer to go to a clinic; that was more-or-less acceptable: James lacked the time to complain, but a soft murmur at the back of his mind ordered him to remind her of it once he was through. Alright, alright, that's fine, he shooed it away, his mind too preoccupied with his current occupation to let back-of-the-head whispers nag at him.

The wet cloth continued a-padding; bandages and disinfectants were removed from their place in the medical kit, and various memories of wrapping adhesive medical strips about a little sister's fingertip, as well as various memories of a seminar in health and safety in the factory (he had just gotten the job when he had taken it, and the seminar was a requirement for new workers) were hastily perused in detail. That was all that went into his mind, then: what to do, how to do it, with a quick self-damnation perched atop a cliff, tense and ready to spring on James, should he fail in his task. The disinfectant began to air the room with its harsh, medical scent; bandages were unwrapped. On occasion, he'd feel Syren move beneath his hands: a shift here, a shudder there. Curt but very sincere condolences were murmured very often; and whenever they were, a harsh and bitter scream would snap the exactness and efficiency of his thoughts, a scream that went: Why da fuck her?! The scream wanted to say more - James could tell that by the pressure that would suddenly curl around his chest, but he refused to indulge it. He didn't have time to be angry at today's events - anger was for a later time. Now, all that mattered was the healing process and it's patient. But most especially, it's patient.

He began to bend over, to initiate the movement of kneeling, a stance he would have to take if he wished to look at the wounds on Syren's legs. However, before he could bend all the way, a pale little face drew closer to him, and a pair of eyes perked upward at him. James suddenly paused, his eyebrows lifting a little, his mind tensed by wonder of what this was, what she was going to do, say. His currently clinical thought process shattered for a moment beneath the weight of a vague feeling of expectation - expectation of what, James knew not, but he knew it was there, perched tensely beside swift self-damnation, and far more eager to spring.

She must have realized that James was looking down on her, for she pulled away from him, suddenly, as if she was trying to cover up a particularly ugly secret. All that he did in response was blink. James saw the little nip she gave her own lip; he saw her eyes flee to the ground, chased there by her own uncertainty. James saw everything in that moment, every shift that her body underwent, every differentiation of emotions in her body: and expectation shattered, and its place was usurped by a sudden, illogical tenderness that seemed so displaced in this room of wires and gears, in this room of disinfectant's cold stench, in this room of uncertainty. The tenderness swelled all around his heart, making it not a muscle, but a plushy scrap of cotton in his chest; it reshaped his mouth into a gentle grin that hardly curved, but radiated with the serenity of hope, of romanticism, of everything good that pulsed within James's veins. The tenderness gently took his hand, and it dragged up to Syren's face; it ran his knuckles across the corner of her mouth, and it made him mutter: "'Ay, yoo're ahrite, ahrite?"

Then, he knelt down at her feet, and examined the wounds on her limbs. If she had any, cause I really can't remember.

(Ooc: Okay, so, I looked up this reference for New York accents, and it's really good, and I've a feeling that Jimmy's accent is going to be MUCH better now! ...As well as harder to read, but screw that! It's an actual Yankee accent now (sorta)! Woooooooo!)

[Draco Malfoy]

Syren winced as James looked at her injured ankle. She'd hurt it when she landed at the bottom of the reactor, and probably broke something. There were so many little bones in the foot that one of them could easily break and the owner not even realize it. She suggested the ace bandage in the kit. It would be enough to hold still her foot and she'd be able to work at the same time. 

The thought of work the next day sent shudders through her. Shame filled her suddenly, she'd been stripped down in front of every single worker and hosed down. Her brother would call her a whore. She knew his retaliation would be harsh. With everyone's eyes watching her, he'd say she was shamed for letting so many people see her like that. Because it was obviously her fault for the protocols he'd set up. 

Syren shook off thoughts of her brother and his ridiculously high standards he'd held for her. There was another problem at hand. She twisted and reached for the ace bandage on the nightstand, the shirt she wore shifting upward slightly in the process. Well it was his shirt, but the clothes she'd been wearing had been ripped to shreds. James' shirt was just long enough to cover the necessities, but that could be easily compromised. The sleeves, much too long, had been pushed up to her elbows, and the size of the shirt meant that the first button available for buttoning rested just beneath her breasts. She then propped herself on her elbows and scooted herself into a sitting position, careful of the shirts limits. She leaned towards him, the ace bandage in hand, her uninjured leg sliding down the sheet and straightening. James had her other foot. The shirt slid off her shoulder slightly as she held out the ace wrap to him. 

"Here... I think this'll help."

[Raeoki]

He glanced up once, and he saw a hint of brooding in her sweet, delicate face; the softness that cottoned his heart shuddered a little, but he knew he could not distribute condolences that were effective enough to truly be considered condolences - not any of those simple, brief, monosyllabic, paraphrased "Sorry that you're fucking traumatized but I really can't do a thing about that right now" gab. He recalled how she had looked when they had finally finished hosing her down - a small, crumpled, sodden, defeated girl. Who couldn't have done anything - who couldn't have had the strength to grab the world that had pinned her down and lift its cumbersome weight off her back. And, then, he realized that he hadn't had the strength either.

James swatted his eyes away; tried to plant his mind in a womb of the clinical, the objective. He simply couldn't work the soil - his heart was virgin to such conceptions; at least, those conceptions when they weren't inclined to eros. But Eros had flapped his wings and left. All that remained was fear, but fear was a most miserable replacement for Eros. Fear only made the trembling gentleness in James's heart tremble further, until the trembling became so violent that one could see it in his eyes. He could never shield his eyes very well. Never.

Just stop thinking. He told himself. Just stop thinking and play doctor. For doctors never felt anything. They mustn’t feel anything. They would all go insane, if they saw all the Syrens of the world march to their door.

Syrens of the world… He wondered just how many existed.

There was a shifting; a stirring in the Syren. Surprise yanked his eyes to her; the stirring became a movement. She saw her body lower, stretch, twist; and, somehow, his mind simply found itself stuck in that movement. It slapped him across the face, and for a brief instant, his fear was compounded, but it found itself swimming with awe. Fear had been compounded, for he wondered if Syren’s wounds permitted her sound movement; awe was there, because his eyes followed the length of her slender arm, the length of her slender fingers, and he saw the bandages that they reached for – and he saw that she was helping.

Rarely had James known the benefit of help. No one had dared to help the Dirk family when James’s parents, who had been the rock, the foundation of all that lived in the young Dirk siblings, had perished to an unstoppable disease. Rarely had there ever been help for James afterwards; not from his coworkers, who cared little for him, and how could his sisters help him? They were small (especially sweet Kayla), and certainly too intelligent to find themselves sweating their life away in a place like the factory. Indeed, ever since James had stepped into the shoes of Father and Mother Dirk, James had never been the helped, but the helper – helping with Kayla’s and Bella’s school doings, when he had the time, helping the factory machinery run, helping whomever asked and whomever he liked, helping, fixing. Now, as he watched this wounded girl – no; woman: definitely, she was a woman – try to help him play doctor (a task that was now suddenly grievous) was…awkward. It threw him off balance, more so than he already was.

For, despite all these other emotions, James suddenly found himself most distracted with the picture before him. Simply – the turn of a shirt there; a movement of the body here. It was most shameful; yet, he found it quite impossible to stop.

She had taken hold of the bandages, and now erected herself; her hand held it out for him, and a classic shoulder peeked out from a sunken shirt sleeve. He took it from her with one hand; the other hand lifted to gently drag the shirt sleeve back into its proper place – like any respectable gentleman would. “Thanks,” he said, as he lowered his hands. “But, ah, yah prob’bly shouldn’t be movin’ around yet – ‘less yah feel yer ready, ‘course.”

The bandages were used to complete the last of the wounds – at least, those that were currently viewable; those that Syren had let him know existed. As he worked, he felt a sudden, compulsory efficiency, which sped his hands, yet still made them qualified for such a delicate task as playing doctor. And as he finished, his mind stepped backward briefly to reflect on the sudden moment in which he had bending over, and she had been leaning forward, and an expectation had laid tense within him, perhaps in both of them. He was still reflecting once the last bandage had been secured – and in a brief expanse, as he held Syren’s leg for the last moment, he saw her limb as what it was, as more than simply an object that was broken and desired attention: as something feminine. As something slender.

Then he shook himself free, and he gave it back to her.

He looked to her. “Well, dat’s about all of ‘em…anyding else I should…” His eyes briefly flitted to his shirt, which currently covered Syren’s body as well as a shaggy towel. His eyes flinched away. And he knew then, that in that moment when he had been held by expectation, what exactly he had been expecting – hoping, more like.

He stared at the ground, suddenly aware of the flesh on his naked chest. His mouth was open; drawing in breath, or trying to summon words – either one. He chose to draw in breath; then form words, sighed, weary words: “How yah feelin’?”

[Draco Malfoy]

Syren glanced down at her shoulder as James took the bandages from her and placed the shirt back in its proper place. It had thrown her off slightly, not realizing that the article of clothing had slipped, but she thought it was sweet that he didnt take advantage of the situation- if not slightly aggravating. He looked suddenly awkward then, closed off and focused on his work. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to run her fingers through the soft curls of his brown hair and the swell of work hardened muscles beneath his skin. She wanted to feel his skin rocking against hers. 

She felt her face heat up as she ducked down behind her hair. The distinct signs of blushed cheeks evident as the steam practically rose from her pink skin. Embarrassment raced through her then. She'd never once had such a powerful emotion course through her, certainly not one that settled hotly just below her abdomen where her legs sloped together. Never in her life had she wanted to feel someone intimately clinging to her either. She'd always thought that she was broken in that way. Of course there had always been men that caught her eye but she'd never been lustful towards them. It had never been possible for her. She'd never bothered trying either, seeing as she figured her brother would marry her off to someone he deemed fit.

Now, there on that bed with James, Syren felt alive. He made all the colours burst into existence like a fire works display when the tribute of the district wins the games. Her heart fluttered inside her chest as her breathing fluctuated and her skin tingled like little bouts of electricity arching across her body. The tension between the two began to build, then double, then double again and again as his rough hands wound the bandage around her ankle. 

He spoke then, knocking her out of her revere. He had asked her if there was anything else, well sort of. She watched as his eyes flitted down to her torso where his shirt hung on her body like a blanket, nearly swallowing her, then look away quickly. There was one more wound that had been inflicted. It was one that she knew she wouldnt be able to handle on her own.

Syren had actually forgotten about the ache on the left side of her ribcage until she had reached for the bandages on the table. Now instead of a dull pain, it throbbed through her side, leaving her breathless and next to gasping. One of her small hands absentmindedly reached for the collar of the shirt. "How ya feelin'" 

For obvious reasons, she was hesitant on telling him, but there was no way she would be able to fix herself in this situation. She was also hesitant because she'd never let any man see her this way. Not willingly anyway. Of course she could always ask for Dawn to help, but the girl probably didnt know how to help in such a situation as this. 

Syren shifted into an upright position and began to slowly undo the buttons of the shirt. Her head slowly raised to meet James' eyes. "Actually there's one more." The words slipped from her mouth as the shirt fell away from her shoulders.

[Raeoki]

(ooc: Yeah, this post took awhile to get through...I'm so sorry...I have my reasons, I swear. Hopefully the post itself will compensate for its delivery time...)

He saw her hands. He saw his shirt. The bed felt closer to him than it had ever felt before. He saw her eyes. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t now.

For a moment, it was almost impossible to blink. It was a moment that did not desire much notice by witnesses, but a moment nonetheless – a moment of immersion, of self-persuasion and self-seduction. His eyes were open, yet he was blind, but it wasn’t so much that he couldn’t see, it was that his eyes were immersed. Soon, almost immediately, his eyes burst through the blindness – but his heart could not. His mind could not. And he felt his veins and his arteries sputter, and then pump faster, faster, through his body, into the tingling tips of his fingertips as he reached for her, as he did all that he could for her – as her flesh mingled with bits of his.

It was as if time had slowed at an agonizing pace, and as if all that was forced under the weight of time had been chained to that pace. It was a very physical pain, though James knew that, in truth, what was clawing at his flesh came from within his emotions. He tightened his face. Tried not to show that with every scrape of his fingers against her wounded ribcage, harder the pain teased. You are a doctor, he told himself. You are a doctor.

It was then he realized how sensual he was. He couldn’t help but twitch a smile as that little factoid about himself gave him a little tap on the metaphorical shoulder. He decided not to rebuke himself for it – not now. Later, perhaps. But not now.

He was done. All that was left for Syren now was to hope that he had played doctor correctly. Still, his hands were on her – perched precariously on her sides. They held as if they feared she’d break. The fear was the only thing that held them back. His eyes were on hers. They seemed so nervous, almost – torn. Torn? Was that the right word…Yes. Yes, maybe that was the right word. Because – because she looked at him with such anxiety, and yet she seemed so accepting of him. So trusting. As if how she was now and how he was now didn’t matter, but at the same time was as important and as big as the world and whatever gods ruled it. He saw her cheeks. They looked as if a volcano had kissed them – funny little thing…But why did her cheek have to flush like that…After the day she had…

After the day she had…

His eyes looked at her body. He saw her bandages, and the words “the day she had” crashed into his mind, making a noise like fingernails clawing a chalkboard, and he winced. Before either knew it, his hand was on her cheek. Before he knew it, his mouth consumed hers. The kiss was long. It was rude. It was soft. Maybe it shouldn’t have happened – maybe he should have waited…but he wanted her to know of his pain. The agony of why they were here, the tease of touching her battered flesh, and now, the torture of memory. Such violence could not have been expressed in words. Not now. Not without a touch or – or a kiss.

The kiss set his blood on fire. It made his heart throb; it made his skin want to reach out from his body and touch, merely touch. He knew that the flames were in his eyes, in his face, and that his fingers twitched with a strange yearning. He knew that what he kissed was the body of a beautiful woman – a rich woman – a strong woman. A woman that had helped him, who had cried, but had smiled, but now blushed, but had removed the shirt herself…Suddenly, the doctor was dead – so lived the James.

He would have brought his mouth to body but he remembered…the day she had had…And he knew, by the memory of her eyes torn eyes and red cheeks that whatever that was to come next wasn’t his decision. It had to be hers. The only way it had any meaning if it was on her order. Otherwise simply wasn’t right. Not today. Not after today. So he pulled away, a little sharply and with a touch of pain in his eyes, but his hand remained for her. And he held her eyes with his, and he told her: “You’re amazing. Yah simply are.” He prodded the tip of her nose with a finger for gentle emphasis.

His hand withdrew from her face, came close to her knee but didn’t land, and swayed limply at his side. Thus came another moment where he didn’t know what to say, but felt that he had to add something. He gnawed his lip for a moment, then finally scraped from the uncertain sides of his mind: “Is there…anything else you might need…?”

[Draco Malfoy]

(Sorry, going through emotional stuff, two jobs, and full time college. I got a little wrapped up in finals but it's all good now... anyway here's wonderwall.)

Syren felt her stomach drop when she saw him freeze. She shouldn't have unbuttoned the shirt. She should have thanked him and had her maid lead him back out. Surely he had somewhere to be, she shouldn't keep him like that. She swallowed, but it got caught in a lump at the base of her throat as her eyes found the arched ceilings above her. She bit the inside of her lip, waiting but gasped in surprise as she felt him gently touch her bruised ribs. The bone gave slightly under his fingers, causing her to flinch away but was held fast by James. His hands were hot against her skin as he gently bandaged her.

His touch seared across her hips and ribs, sending heat all the way out to her toes causing them to curl. Heat rose to her cheeks at the sudden yearning for his hands to explore other parts of her body took hold of her. She was helpless to the feeling. She wanted to reach out to him and run her hands through his thick curly hair and for his green eyes to watch her with the same passion she had as he leaned over her, moving his body along with hers. Her body tensed and she pressed her legs tightly together to keep herself from wrapping them around his well muscled waist. She wanted to touch him...

...Yet she dare not. She was the daughter of a noble and the sister of the owner of the power plant. She was expected to spend time with... those of higher breeding. She hated that term but it was the best way to tell herself that if her brother ever found about James spending time in her bedroom then she was sure to get a heavy punishment. She already worried about what he would do when he found out his precious virgin sister had been stripped naked in front of every man in District 5 and hosed down like an animal. She dreaded the thought of going to work tomorrow.

Suddenly the soft, warm, calloused hands of the man leaning over her were cupping her face as gently as if he were holding the most precious, most delicate china in the world. It seemed as if he were afraid of breaking her, but she never feared that that would happen. Suddenly his lips were on hers, tasting her carefully as she felt his tongue graze the inside of her upper lip. Syren sighed against the kiss and reached out for him, knotting her slim fingers into his thick hair. The kiss was slow, he took his time finding out what she tasted like and his hands never moved from her face. She had the strange wanting for his hands to slide low across her skin and find all the assets she had to offer him. Her back arched off the mattress beneath her, pressed said assets to his bare chest and sent a finale of fireworks scorching through her. His body felt like fire against hers.

She was about to start kissing his neck when she felt him pull away from her. She gazed up at him in stunned amazement as he spoke to her and tapped the tip of her nose. Her face was even redder than before as reality hit, flushed with yearning. She blinked a few times before holding her shirt closed at the front and shifting into a more upright position. She felt silly for trying to cover herself, she knew he'd seen her naked before so there wasn't really a logical reason to do so. She looked down at her lap and lowered her hands slowly resting them close to his hands. She looked up as he cleared his throat and spoke again. "Is there... anything else you might need..?"

Syen's lips parted in surprise at herself as she physically stopped herself from reaching out and pulling him back down on top of her. She wanted him to claim her that night, even to give her brother the finger as she told him she could be with who ever she wanted. She wanted to be with James, not just out of spite towards her brother, but because she genuinely wanted to spend time with him. She wanted to "play doctor" as long as he wanted.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and leaned forward, propping herself on her hands and knees. Her face was only about an inch from his, her eyes filled with anxiety and need. She bit her lip and hesitated. But then... then she was kissing him. It was like something inside of her had been unleashed, taking control of her body and giving her the sense of bravery she'd been lacking. Syren pushed James back onto the bed and straddled his torso. Her lips never left his, her body pressed firmly into his from underneath her open shirt. She could feel the strange sensation of his pants on her thighs, giving goosebumps to her skin. Her hands splayed across his chest as she wiggled down a little bit lower, and pressed her lips onto his skin, following the line of his strong jaw before trailing to the sensative bit of skin behind the ear and down lower to the middle of his neck on the right side. Her tongue grazed the skin over that wonderful- wonderful nerve there. Syren then slid her hands to his jaw, her thumb tracing the chiseled edge of his cheekbone and kissed the middle of his forehead.

She took a shakey breath. "Would... you stay with me for a little while?"

(i am very much unde the influence but i managed to post after the roleler coaster of emotions it took to write this :3 sory its so late)