Flight (#3)

"Emil?" He let out a bark of incredulous laughter. "No, the older one, Emil couldn't pull this off. But I could understand him helping out, but he didn't organize it."

"The General? The one I'm," he paused, biting into his lip in embarrassment at his slip. "The one that I was, rather publicly, in a relationship?"

He seemed to shrink back against the wall when a door opened and shut somewhere outside their little cell. Footsteps echoing closer as they passed the door. It was as though the blonde was convinced that if he pressed into the wall enough he would vanish from the dark room, and somehow be safe.

Cold swept into the cell like tea in hot water, slowly, slowly and then all at once. The reminants of Varus' white buttondown clung to barely there scabs, doing nothing to help fight off the cold setting in. A green eye studied the wall in the corner of the cell as though it was a particularly interesting puzzle. Hands tapping out an absent, quiet rhythm on the stone.

The blonde stares into the dark, ignoring the itching of dirtied scabs that are probably going to scar and turns the question over in his head. Because of course the kid is wondering how long it's been. It takes him a moment to respond, though. Voice crackly and half formed because he'd been so lost in wondering why he barely remembered he wasn't tucked in his office back on the maelstrom.

"I've been here for at least a week, you? Almost two days." And he doesn't move his eyes because he's replaying his questions over in his head.

Varus Collins liked to be in control. He fucked like he fought and he had an attraction to dangerous men that used to leave Skye looking at him in a pitying way. But he gave as good as he got, climbing from soldiers to captians and intelligence officials turned generals who knew their way around a knife the way others knew the back of their hand.

Yes, he'd never been a cuddly person, sex had always been another kind of battle, leaving scratches and bruises and bite-marks. So he'd been a bit taken aback when the little redhead had given a shy little smile and some animalistic part of him had cocked it's head in consideration.

He'd seen a bit of what was past the shyness and propriety. Fire hot green eyes and curling, sharp words his head couldn't make out the meaning of. The looming forward as, for a split second anger overrode the politeness he clung to so tight, making the blonde's breath catch and his chest flutter in a way he couldn't attribute entirely to arousal.

No, for the first time he remembered, he didn't want a night of sharp nails and pain-pleasure so tightly wound he couldn't tell them appart. And it terrified him so much he couldn't keep the tight, stiffness out of his shoulders.

"Worry about yourself dollface, you got people out there worryin' about you at least, I'm good as gone." It wasn't with a tone of self deprication, but rather like he was stating that the sky was blue or that fire was hot.

And he wanted to push it, see how far he could push him before those steel eyes melted to liquid silver, boiling hot and fluid. But his mission called for him to befriend the kid, and he doubted forcing him to let his temper fly was the way to do that.

His shoulders stiffened sharply, a barely noticable shudder running through him. What the fuck was wrong with him? The flush that filled the redhead's face told him it had been unintentional. "Don't worry 'bout it knockout." He shiftedhis hips as subtly as he could manage, "it happens."