She lets him fuck her the next time sees her. He's cognizant – his favourite replacement for aware – that this is just fucking.

Shilo is waiting for him in one of his very favourite alleys, perched on the hood of someone's car. Her legs fall apart, on either side of a smashed in headlight and her spine bows, she bends in on herself so that she can press her hands against layers of silk. She holds the skirt down between her legs because deep down she is still Shilo Wallace. It looks like she's gotten at least a few hours of sleep, real sleep. Sleep that is deep and warm, the sort that leaves a cat's purr of contentment in your chest after only a few hours.

Grave robber is reminded, viscerally, of the mermaids – sea goddess stand ins – that adorned the front of ships. Back in the day. Back when 's's were 'f's and a man could hardly be blamed for confusing sex and fucking. There's enough trouble as it is without letting the letters get all muddled too. It brings him back to the Ancient Mariner and his rime. Graverobber considers the potential that he himself is the mariner, the salty dog sea stoned and tormented. More likely he's the albatross and sometime very soon he's going to bleed for flirting with disaster like he is. Danger in kitten heels.

He thinks maybe she's here for the drug he owes her. Mourns that and not just because someone else would pay cold cash for the same hit. So he switches genres . He realizes, laggingly, that he shouldn't be spending this much time with the Librarian – no matter how clever she is or how much he enjoys and intelligent conversation – she leaves bits of old wisdom floating in his brain. His hand twitches at his side like a gun slinger and a newspaper skittering over the trash strewn alley becomes stereotype tumble weed of Old West drama. He's a cowboy looking to right a wrong, dole out a little bit of vengeance. Sun baked dignity. In a way, he thinks, glowing her up is a slow acting death sentence – the sun baked dignity fades, he's wearing white face powder, after all. He's a business man, not an idiot, and he knows what his product does.

Her little hands find his jacket, make a handle out of red faux fur and she drags him to her mouth. He waits on it, expects her to pull back, go for the drug but the moment never comes. He lets his hands find her skin, fingers finding the curve of her throat, the slide of her jaw and the kiss goes messy – how he likes it, thanks much – all teeth and tongues. Hard edges and spit slick.

"Building a line of credit," she gasps, his hands finding the edges of her panties. They catch at the top of her boots as he pulls them down and he tucks them surreptitiously into a deep pocket. He's not going to let her in on that particular quirk. He tips her back, presses her down on cold, hard metal and disappears under silk and crinoline. Her body shudders when his tongue touches her and it is its own reward.

He goes back to his mermaid and slash or sea goddess abstract and articulates it on her hyper sensitized skin. The Librarian would be so proud. He goes, goes downtown and likes it. Tastes her until she is storming, whipped into a whirl pool, hurricane of touch and crashes on the shores.

He is taking his metaphor too far.

He leaves the metaphor and moves up to kiss her. The enthusiasm with which she licks herself off his teeth splinters him and there is no more preamble. She is almost too hot and slick as a testament to his elocution – that is to say, he would live with his face between a woman's legs if he could. The moment is brief, he can't quite control himself when she mewls like that, when her little hands find purchase in his hair and she keens. He turns her hurricane again only because he body is still on edge.

Her fingers comb his hair while he catches his breath against her throat. She smells like girl sweat and him. Shilo pets him in smooth strokes of her hand and he is struck one again by how alright he is – how not terrified he is – by the prospect of her sticking around. Must be a poisonous bug, he decides but resigns himself to it and stays where he is for the eons, lifetimes – heart beats, seconds – it takes for some asshole to start clapping.

No one important, a cursory glance over his shoulder is enough to assure him of that. Just a regular. A businessman still managing to balance drugs and work, still early in his death spiral. A man with time enough to save himself if he heeds the warning signs. iAbandon hope/i Graverobber sees neon in zydrate blue, little bugs crawling over buzzing, glowing letters iall ye who enter here/i. First hit's still free. He makes a show of buttoning his pants, makes a show of kissing her one last time and goes to work.

Though he does not turn to watch her – check on her – he can feel her eyes on him, feel the way she lounges on the hood of the car, just watching. Somewhere in the last few moments of his night – early morning and god damn is that the sun? – she makes herself scarce. When he is ready to go home, when he is entertaining thoughts of asking her to come with him and with the words already teasing the edges of his teeth she is no where to be found.

He resolves to go home. Goes to the library instead and has a cup of chamomile tea. The Librarian laughs when he tells his tale and suggests another book.