Like a Phoenix

"Kill you, probably," he said honestly.

"Can I touch your skin first?" She asked simply. "Since you're going to kill me anyway."

"I said probably," he replied, scrubbing his hands and shirt.

"...Does this mean I can't touch you?" She asked, wringing her skirt. "If you let me live, can you at least buy me a prostitute?"

He laughed.

"Does that bother you? I could just shoot you in the head, you know--never touch you at all."

She smiled again.

"That's would be tragic, but I would at least die with dignity this time."

"...I don't want to know how you died."

She smiled slightly wider.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. The details are rather gory, and they involve him, anyway. You never were interested in his past."

"His past doesn't concern me," he snarled, stepping out of the shower. "Just as mine never concerned him--and now it never will."

"Unfortunately, you're wrong." She stepped back from the doorway, where she had moved to, and back against the wall. "You still have me to deal with, and I am all that he has left from his past."

"And if I shoot you and move on?" he asked.

"Well, assuming you never come back to his house, he'll be out of your life." She said. "If you're going to shoot me, can I please, please, please touch your skin?"

"No."

She sighed.

"Then just shoot me, please. If I can't even touch you, I don't see the point of keeping me alive."

"Get me a fucking towel," he growled, shaking water out of his hair.

As much as she hesitated to get near Thaddeus, she reached into the cabinet in the hallway and handed Thaddeus one of the towels. Predictably, they smelled a lot like Faust.

He threw it on the ground as though it were poisonous.

"...Never mind. I'll air-dry."

She picked it up anyway, refolding it and placing it back where it belonged.

"Are you finished trying to cleanse your soul?" She asked, folding her hands.

"MY SOUL IS FINE!!!" he barked defensively.

She giggled to herself, smiling a bit wider.

"...Are you hungry?" She asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

"...Yeah," he admitted, sitting on the living room couch. "What's it to you?"

"He has left overs in the fridge. From an Italian restaurant." She took a few steps towards the kitchen. "Even if you don't want it, I'll heat it up for myself."

"...Get me some food and I won't kill you just yet," he grumbled, staring at the floor.

She giggled to herself more as she headed into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with the food.

"Can I touch you now?"

"Nope," he replied without feeling. "Set the food on the table, and if you touch me I'll break your fingers."