✓ Wrong Moves and Knife Wounds /h.s./

[14] clear glass and bad luck

bedroom

Rory's fingers are heavy and sharp against Harry's chest. She's whimpering against him with her eyes shut and Harry wants to shake her awake but decides against it because it's easier to carry her to his apartment when she's too scared to move.

He wonders what monster she's seeing right now. Whether she'll remember it when she wakes up and if she'll want to tell him about it.

He slept for only two hours and his head is still hurting. There's this thing in the pit of his stomach that turns everytime he glances down at the sleeping woman in his arms. He feels like puking.

His conscience is too heavy for his own good but Harry doesn't know that. He keeps thinking about her crying and crying and her lips against his. He thinks about her hands on his chest because her nails are hurting him but he doesn't mind, really. He kissed her back and what's worse is that he knows it meant something to him. It meant letting Penelope go. Or maybe it meant holding her closer. It scares him how much he wants to let her go.

"Harry," Rory says softly, voice muffled by his shirt. He stops walking. Lets the nude spiders on the sand scramble past his toes so he can look down and only focus on her. "Har-"

"What is it?"

Her eyes are shut tight, fingers still embedded in his skin. He knows he's bleeding. Hopes when she pulls away that her nails will come away with her nightmare and him. Because her nightmare is about him and he pauses longer at that fact.

"I'm sorry," Harry says finally, continuing his walk. He's faster now, trying to touch her less. Acid is climbing up his esophagus but he swallows to keep it down despite how disgusted he is that he's made her so miserable even when she's asleep.

•                     •                    •

Harry's standing in front of his bathroom's mirror. There's a long crack that cuts across the middle of the surface and his eyes dart to both sides of it. He points out the dark shadows under his eyes and that smear of blood on the side of his face from when he rubbed it with his wounded hand. It's drying but still fresh and the bathroom door is locked securely because the pressure of knowing Rory is directly outside of the room and on his bed scares him.

He runs his hands under the water and turns away from the blood that washes down the drain. His hand hurts him more than it did two days ago. It looks nasty and raw. The blood keeps making a glove around his fingers.

Shakily, he looks up at the mirror and cringes. He's so tired that his head is playing tricks on him again, lifting the corners of his lips like there's no pain at all. Just a sick, sadistic man with blood on his hands and on his face. That can't be his reflection.

A knock comes at the door. Gentle but loud. "Harry?"

He opens the bottom cabinet under the sink and pulls out the first aid kit. Reaches for bandages, alcohol pads, and painkillers. He wants to tell her to go home. That he never wants to see her again because she kissed him after she swore she wouldn't. It's childish, but Harry doesn't know who he's supposed to be right now. "Leave me alone," he spits out in a rush, using his teeth to open the packet between the fingers of his uninjured hand.

His cast is on his bed where she should be. "Are you okay in there?"

He closes his eyes at the question. It strikes a memory in his head that involves him on his knees in front of his dying girlfriend. Harry opens his eyes and catches his reflection again. It's still smiling, still mocking him. "Leave me alone."

"Harry-"

The mirror in front of him breaks. It happens so quickly, the way his hands ball up into fists just to get rid of his smug reflection. (Stay awake Harry. Hallucinations are better than nightmares.) Slivers of clear glass glisten in the new cuts on his hands. More blood pulses out of his knuckles and splatters of it fall like spray into the sink.

He snaps his head to the side and opens the door.

Rory sees the blood first. Then him, standing there shirtless and wild. His thoughts are getting the best of him and he doesn't trust himself like this. Not like this, if ever.

Her hand comes up toward him and he doesn't know what's happening until his own pair come up to push her back. He walks around her staggering figure and darts down the hallway until he reaches the living room. He stands behind the table in the middle until he sees Rory standing in the shadow of the corridor.

"Please don't touch me," he whispers. Begging is so unfamiliar to him and it tastes so weird in his mouth. Change tastes weird.

She walks forward slowly and parts her lips.

The thought of her talking right now scares him so much. He's afraid of what she'll tell him. Afraid of what new threat will come his way. Will it be his doctors this time? Will she threaten to call them? Call the police? Will it be someone from the 14th precinct? Will they remember him? Is he easy to forget? "Please don't talk."

"Harry-"

"No, no, no, no, no. No, please don't talk. Please don't call anyone. I just- Let me think. Please, I'll get over it."

He looks away from her when he sees tears in her eyes. He's scaring her and he's scaring himself. Harry doesn't know where it all went wrong. Maybe he's just bad luck. If he never met Pen maybe she'd still be alive. "Get over what?"

She's slowly walking closer to him like he won't notice, but he does. And it only sets him off more. His bleeding hands tug at his hair before he holds them out to her. This has to look wrong. It just has to. This'll be the last time before Rory realizes that he can't be saved, and in a week or two he'll come to that conclusion too. But right now he's too hot and the air is too cold and she's walking toward him cautiously. Like he'll jump at her and attack. "Stop moving."

She does as she's told and he looks up to meet her eyes. They're red and swollen. Her cheeks are puffy and wet with tears.

"Stop crying," he tells her quietly. He wants to wipe them away but touching her is a privilege he can't handle. Not with thoughts as pathetic as his. "Please don't cry for me."

"Talk to me."

He laughs and drops his eyes to the floor. This morning has gone to shit and he's as good as dead. Rory is as good as dead, too, but he's messed up so much more than she has. It was a mistake to bring a stranger so close to him. It was a mistake to have her sleep in his bed. She doesn't belong on his sheets or on his floor or under his roof. She doesn't belong on his mind. "You need to leave."

"You're bleeding."

"I know!" He's screaming now. This is what Penelope used to love. She used to love pushing him; seeing how loud and heated he could get during an argument. She used to want him to push back but Harry couldn't do it. Harry can't do it. "I know I'm bleeding!" I know I'm fucked up! My mind gets blurred and I bleed and I know! Stop pointing it out, please stop pointing it out!

"What does that mean? What do you mean when you say your mind gets blurred?"

Did he say that out loud? Shit. "Fuck."

"What does it mean?" She takes a step back.

A small weight has lifted off his chest at the small change of distance. "Get out please." He's talking with such urgency and desperation now that he sees something come over her expression. Something that makes him feel relieved.

For a moment he thinks she'll actually leave him alone. She walks toward the front door only to take a sharp turn toward him, not giving him enough time to ward her off.

Her small fingers lock around his wrists gently and he looks down at her with wide eyes. "I'm so tired," he admits quietly. "I'm so tired."

(This story has so many mistakes and I apologize for not yet starting any real editing. I know everything seems to be moving quite fast but the next chapter will be a little more mellow and less hostile.)