The Soul Collector

Ch. Thirty-Three

"I'm not scared of fighting, I'm just a little bit over this conversation."

- Colony House

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"Are you mad at me?"

The question shocked Galloway into silence, dragging her from her contemplation of the perfect stretch of blacktop in front of her. She didn't know Minnesota had roads like this. Usually the closer to the heart of the country you got, the worse the infrastructure was.

Still surprised, she hummed along with the last few bars of Bad Moon Rising, then asked, "Why would you think that?"

"You've barely said five words to me in the past two days?" he ventured, a mild sarcasm lacing his words.

Galloway bit her lip, then, trying to keep her voice steady, said, "I'm not mad at you, Sirius."

The words sounded slightly false in her own ears and she frowned, thinking. She didn't think she was really mad at him. She just wasn't happy with him. Being mad at Sirius for being awful was a little like...well, like being mad at a stray dog for biting.

"Prove it," he said, and she finally looked at him. His eyes were narrowed in frustration, his mouth in a tight line of displeasure. 

She let out a soft breath of laughter. "How?"

"Talk to me."

"What is there to talk about, Sirius?" Galloway asked, exasperation creeping into her voice.

She turned her attention back to what was beyond the windshield, the Chevelle purring contentedly as they traveled down that perfect road. A rustle of movement made her look at him again, and she watched with distant fascination as he raked his hands through his hair, his agitation physically present in the cab of the car.

He glanced over at her. "Look...," he said hesitantly. "About what I said. I didn't... I didn't mean it."

She smiled wanly. "Didn't mean what, precisely?"

He growled at her, the sound soft and persistent before he closed his eyes. "In Virginia. I didn't mean what I said in Virginia."

She scoffed, pressing the gas pedal a little harder. The purr turned into a growl. "Yes you did."

Now he snarled. He leaned toward her,  afternoon light sparking off of his teeth. "How in the holy hell would you know?" he snapped. "You don't know me half as well as you think you do." 

The words were said savagely, but uncertainly. 

Quietly, she shifted gears. "I know you about as well as you know me, Sirius."

He rested his elbow on the window ledge, then covered his eyes with his hand. "I didn't mean it," he said, sagging back into his seat.

"Then why'd you say it?" she challenged, going even faster. The speedometer was somewhere north of eighty.

"Because we have to," he said with a sigh, eyes still covered. "We have to say the things that tear each other apart. Otherwise..." He trailed off, then finished with, "If we didn't do it, Hell would. The wounds we give each other are precise, Galloway. Better than the wounds Hell would leave, gaping and jagged. Bloody and raw. We might destroy each other but at least we're neat about it. Still bloody and raw, though."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he was finally losing it. Carefully, she said, "Maybe we shouldn't play with knives then."