There it was again. Monty hadn't been thinking, that much was obvious even without his quick clarification, but Ishmael had interpreted it exactly as he was not supposed to - and he despised himself for it.
It was difficult to pay any attention to the talk of work, even as Monty fought to keep them on track. The truth was, Ishmael suddenly realised, that he didn't give a fuck about this job, or the next job, or any other. The thrill of thievery had worn down, over the years - there were still glimmers of satisfaction to be found in it, of course, but Ishmael was far too familiar with it. He had done far too much.
The incessant tightness in his chest was not so familiar to him. He knew that light, fluttering feeling, the kind that had been fleeting enough on its own; it had always eased eventually. Sometimes, perhaps, he had felt a stab of something like this beginning, but he had always stamped those out early. But this - this feeling - was proving harder to dislodge, which was perhaps the reason he felt so out of sorts.
"Let's be very clear," Ishmael said coldly, proving that he had heard the instruction by striding over and grasping Monty by the arm - as roughly as he could, in fear that Monty would find some tenderness in it. "I don't want anything from you." Not his blood, not his warmth, not his worry and care and concern, and least of all his affection. Couldn't he see that? Couldn't he stop?
Monty had to tire of this sometime. Tire of him. He would get sick of Ishmael eventually, and then Ishmael would finally be free of him.
It was difficult to pay any attention to the talk of work, even as Monty fought to keep them on track. The truth was, Ishmael suddenly realised, that he didn't give a fuck about this job, or the next job, or any other. The thrill of thievery had worn down, over the years - there were still glimmers of satisfaction to be found in it, of course, but Ishmael was far too familiar with it. He had done far too much.
The incessant tightness in his chest was not so familiar to him. He knew that light, fluttering feeling, the kind that had been fleeting enough on its own; it had always eased eventually. Sometimes, perhaps, he had felt a stab of something like this beginning, but he had always stamped those out early. But this - this feeling - was proving harder to dislodge, which was perhaps the reason he felt so out of sorts.
"Let's be very clear," Ishmael said coldly, proving that he had heard the instruction by striding over and grasping Monty by the arm - as roughly as he could, in fear that Monty would find some tenderness in it. "I don't want anything from you." Not his blood, not his warmth, not his worry and care and concern, and least of all his affection. Couldn't he see that? Couldn't he stop?
Monty had to tire of this sometime. Tire of him. He would get sick of Ishmael eventually, and then Ishmael would finally be free of him.
