sixwordstories | (no subject)

It smells musty. Aged. Thumbing threw pages of Neverland . . . Tapping the edge of the book shelf as he walks by--oddly sharp, piercing--hard to ignore. Running silly stories threw his head as he paces down the dark shadowy aisles of books. Back and forth. Almost neurotically. Reading out loud to himself. His voice echos down the long hall like whispers to Wendy's ear.

She's trying very hard to concentrate, her fingers finding the ends of her hair in her neck as she bends further over her book. This was not working. She gulps nervously, and sits up straighter, setting the book down rather more forcefully than necessary and opening her laptop once more. Busy. She is trying to look busy. The man was clearly talking to her. Or... He was, wasn't he? She stole a glance toward him, wondering now if this was just her mind playing tricks, as it had been known to do.

He pauses from his reading. Smirking contemptuously. closes the book shut. The light peering through the bookshelf onto his cheekbones disappears as he fills in the gap on the shelf with the book.

Wendy, suddenly noticing the whispers have turned into slow steps, pauses form her computer. The steps could not be found. But with every thump came a delayed tap. The same deep tap from earlier. But as it drew closer, the sound turned into vibrations that jolted down her spine. Everything was uneasy, but more interesting.

the tap now dug in deep. scrapping against the wooded book shelves.

"Are you a writer?" the man in black asks Wendy.

The sound was almost louder than ever, and just as she considered turning to ask him to please stop, the sound changed, and she cringed. This was impossible. Worst of all, she could feel his eyes on her, and for some reason, the thought made her shiver, but not in the way she'd expected... She banishes that horribly imprudent thought, as she crosses her legs.

Each tap seems to reverberate through her skull, and she finds herself simply staring at the draft on her screen, the words merely mocking her lack of concentration. Neverland echoed through her, and the thought stirred her. It always did. But the footfalls behind her and the hair standing up on her neck, something was wrong here. Or perhaps right.

And just as that thought occurred, and before she had time to figure out what the bloody hell that meant, a low voice made her head whip around to actually face him. "I..." Her eyes locked on his before her eyelids fluttered nervously. She closed her mouth and straightened, trying not to look so frightened. He was only a man. "Yes. I am," she replies, politely as possible, her voice a little stronger than before.

"Curious," he pauses his thought, "It's like I've seen you before," he said, practically talking to himself. Almost reassuringly. Leaning down against a chair adjacent to hers,resting his weight on one arm he looks away from her eyes, slowly falling down at her lap, almost to make her uncomfortable.

"From a novel I've read before?" he says, almost asking the air around them. he looks back up to meet her eyes, "Or maybe just in a dream?" His back straightens fast, disrupting the calm, he pulls out his other hand, or lack thereof, revealing a prosthetic arm.

He tilts his head, "Or maybe I'm just crazy." Laughing as it he says it. But there was a sense of hurt. A sort of cynism. Like a scar that had been cut open one too many times.

The cadence of his speech caught her immediately, and her head turned a bit, as if trying to capture the sound. It was both familiar and completely, exotically, foreign. Normally, she would have immediately shut down. She'd seen that predatory stare before. But there was no looking away. He commanded her attention, that much was obvious.

Her mouth fell slightly agape, and it was not clear whether it was open to respond or simply a little taken aback by his tone, his hand, by... Everything. He was just there, all the sudden, staring at her with icey blue eyes and she found her head was spinning with curiosity and a strange voice in her head that said DANGER! But he was saying pretty things, enticing things, and her eyes studied his face like a brand new book, filled with mysteries she had no idea of. He was a story. She wanted to read him.

His laugh seems to trickle down her spine like warm honey and she finds she's smiling even when she probably shouldn't be. She shakes her head. "Not crazy, certainly." The corner of her mouth curls higher as she tilts her head. "But I am sure I've never seen you before, Mr...?" she says, by way of asking his name. That wasn't entirely true. When she thought on it, he did seem familiar. But it was if she'd known him, but never actually seen him. And certainly, if she had, she hadn't felt so... Uncomfortable around him...

"James," he answered her, softly, "please call me James." Her beauty is captivating. Almost dangerously so.

He looks down at his hands, one is still his (human)--covered in warm flesh--but worn and rough. The other is hollow and cold.

Perhaps if he had been a younger man. To go back in time, he thought, but this only reminded him of everything he hated about that world.

He gripped the edge of his chin with his hand, pulling at his stubble. The depth in his blue eyes goes deeper than any ocean. He drowned, however, a long time ago.

With the new grip of a mad man, he turns to Wendy, "What do you write miss?"

"I'm Wendy," she offered, before she could stop herself. She found herself curious of how her name would sound in the smooth but distant voice, how she could write the way it made her feel...

No. She set her jaw. This… Man, was not going to make her lose her composure. She was not that girl, easily swept up into naive young fantasies. Not for her and a man she knew not at all. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought maybe Peter was scolding her for thinking so.

She watched him curiously, the turn of his hand against his chin, the darkening of his expression for a moment. She did not allow her eyes to travel down to that hand, however, both out of a sense of pity and prudence. This man was weathered. This man had hurt, possibly more than anyone should, and his soul was different for it. She instantly knew: She was not going to be able stop thinking of him, of what his story could be.

She tried to brighten, to pull herself from the wave of her thoughts. "Fantasies. Children's stories, in essence..." she concedes, almost wishing now she could say something much more intellectual, more impressive.

He could sense her embarrassment. It was then that he knew he had won--he stole her sympathy and broke her composure. Would she soon be a puppet in his fairytale?

For a moment, he thought of all the ways in which he could make her please him.

"Do all your fantasies have a happy ending?" He asked inquisitively.

She studied his face a moment, trying desperately to find something she could cling to, something familiar that she could understand about him.

Every time she thought she had something, it seemed to slip away, like the sun behind a cloud.

"No, not exactly."

He sensed she was sophisticated. "You're trying to read me aren't you?" He asked confidently, yet so smoothly. If he wanted, he thought, he could break her. Tear her down. She was fighting, it seemed, to gain his respect.

Again, thoughts of making her squirm in his grip raced through his mind. Something in side him desired her.

He imagined what it would be like to graze his finger tips over her soft white skin. Would she get the goosebumps? Could he make the hair on neck stand up? He wanted to try.

Her eyes fixated on his intensely, as if trying to measure the weight of that question. She felt almost a physical connection to them as she stared, certain she could see them changing colors, darkening in something she had barely given name to skirting around her own mind: Lust.

"Don't take it personally, James," she replied coolly. He was obviously trying to make her nervous, and it was working like a charm, but she didn't like the idea of giving him that satisfaction so readily. "A good writer dissects people naturally, unfortunate as it is." She rested her chin in her hand as she stared up at him, unwavering.

He could make her dance if he wanted. But there was something threatening to him about her. Some where inside him he knew she was stronger then he was. She had willpower where he wasn't very good at controlling it. She was soft, where he was hard. To him, she represented everything he hated--or should hate, he thought--for the first time in his life, someone who could potentially challenge every aspect of his dark existence penetrated his his soul. He desired for her to disset his soul. Would she find a fragment of something worth caring for?

"I doubt you have a lot of friends." He said in a seemingly harsh, but playful manner.

His words seemed to drip from his mouth, a vinegar tone to them. But as sour as vinegar seemed to be, it was slightly addicting, even as your lips puckered around the taste. Taste. She had to stop. She could hear the words in her head, things they'd say, words she wanted to hear from him, and she found her hips leaning forward in the seat. Her cheeks flushed pale and she tried to keep her voice even.

"They appreciate me for more than my ability to nitpick. Even so, I find I can control that trait with proper incentive," she said, her tone lilting in a way it never did unless she was somewhat intoxicated. She was already getting washed up in him, she couldn't help it. His eyes seemed to want for something, and in her chest, she ached to give it to him, whatever it was.