and whom shall i say is calling.
Oh, this is not very good at all, but it's been a week since I mentioned snippets, so.
always knew it'd come to this:
Pete works two hours at the campus bookstore, and then goes to his Thursday night criminology class. Afterwards, he's on his way to his car, books under his arm, keys in his hand, when he looks up and across the street and sees her at the bus loop. She's standing on the curb, arms crossed, staring at him with a blank face, tall and thin in black and blue. Her nearly-white hair is braided, hanging over her shoulders.
She looks both ways, leaning forward, one foot rising, obviously preparing to cross the street. Panic crawls in his stomach and up through his chest to his throat.
She meets him at his car, bracing herself against the roof on the passenger side as he's fumbling with his keys.
"Pete," she says sharply.
Reflexively, he mutters, "Ash--"
"Look at me," she says, and his eyes snap up to her face, paper-white under a black toque, lips chapped dark and bright pink, eyes red-rimmed. A scarf is wound thick around her neck, but he glances anyway, drawn to check for teethmarks. She squeezes her eyes shut and reaches into her pocket. Her hand slams onto the roof of his car, leaving behind a leather sheath.
He takes a step back, dropping his books in the frozen slush of the parking lot.
"You left this," she says, low and hateful. "In my room. I don't want it."
The mad rush of her parents opening the front door downstairs, pulling clothes on and avoiding any stray touch or glance or word--the raw regret in her eyes. "I forgot it," he says. "I wasn't trying--"
"I don't care," she spits, and walks away, boots crunching in salt and snow.
He watches her go, unwillingly tracking the sway of her hips and the line of her shoulders, and when she's stepped up into the bus that will take her back to her suburban coccoon, he reaches for his knife with a shaking hand.
Four hours later, Pete is shuffling his sneakers through frosty gravel, scuffing the creaky merry-go-round in a wobbling circle. He's got one sleeve shoved up to his elbow, skin goosebumpy in the cold, and his other hand in his hoodie pocket, fingers curled intently around the leather covering his knife.
The world past the gravel patch of the playground is grey grass fading into black trees and beyond. A single sodium light shines resentfully near the parking lot, gilding Pete's car with fake moonlight, casting Pete's shadow long and thin across the rocks when he's facing the forest, tilting and scaling it down when he's facing the lot, like a midnight sundial.
He's pressing his thumb under the snap of the leather sheath, steadying his breath in anticipation, when he hears the crunch of a single footstep--too close. He snaps around, skidding the merry-go-round to a screeching halt, grabbing the bars on either side of himself before he falls off.
A kid in a corduroy jacket and trucker cap is staring at him. "Are you some kind of creep?" the kid asks, sounding bemused.
"What?" Pete says.
"'Cause hanging out in playgrounds at midnight is pretty creepy."
The rusty, blue-spattered metal is freezing against Pete's bare forearm. He shivers and blinks and the kid smirks at him, pale mouth in a pale, fine face, eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. "I guess you'd know," Pete says, more than a beat too late. "Since you're--you know, hanging out in a playground at midnight." He shrugs and grimaces at himself.
"Yeah," the kid says, voice edging on laughter. "I guess I would." He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looks around. The sodium light picks out the line of his nose and his cheek and his chin and Pete recognizes him, suddenly, like a low bell tolling once in his belly: the boy from across the street.
The kid's steady, hidden gaze settles on Pete again, and Pete can tell now that the kid recognizes him too.
"So, creep," the kid says, "do you spy on your neighbours a lot?"
Pete shakes his head, confused, unwilling to respond, because--he doesn't, but.
"That's what I thought," the kid says, turning away. The light catches his face again and he's rolling his eyes, smirking. "See you later, creep."
The kid is gone into the night, born off like the bus bore Ashlee. Pete licks his lips and says into the listening, laughing dark, "What makes you think I care if you think I'm a creep?"
*
And now Milk and marzipan! Whoo.
This is a DW-origin crospost, oh noes. Feel free to comment on LJ or the original post here.
always knew it'd come to this:
Pete works two hours at the campus bookstore, and then goes to his Thursday night criminology class. Afterwards, he's on his way to his car, books under his arm, keys in his hand, when he looks up and across the street and sees her at the bus loop. She's standing on the curb, arms crossed, staring at him with a blank face, tall and thin in black and blue. Her nearly-white hair is braided, hanging over her shoulders.
She looks both ways, leaning forward, one foot rising, obviously preparing to cross the street. Panic crawls in his stomach and up through his chest to his throat.
She meets him at his car, bracing herself against the roof on the passenger side as he's fumbling with his keys.
"Pete," she says sharply.
Reflexively, he mutters, "Ash--"
"Look at me," she says, and his eyes snap up to her face, paper-white under a black toque, lips chapped dark and bright pink, eyes red-rimmed. A scarf is wound thick around her neck, but he glances anyway, drawn to check for teethmarks. She squeezes her eyes shut and reaches into her pocket. Her hand slams onto the roof of his car, leaving behind a leather sheath.
He takes a step back, dropping his books in the frozen slush of the parking lot.
"You left this," she says, low and hateful. "In my room. I don't want it."
The mad rush of her parents opening the front door downstairs, pulling clothes on and avoiding any stray touch or glance or word--the raw regret in her eyes. "I forgot it," he says. "I wasn't trying--"
"I don't care," she spits, and walks away, boots crunching in salt and snow.
He watches her go, unwillingly tracking the sway of her hips and the line of her shoulders, and when she's stepped up into the bus that will take her back to her suburban coccoon, he reaches for his knife with a shaking hand.
Four hours later, Pete is shuffling his sneakers through frosty gravel, scuffing the creaky merry-go-round in a wobbling circle. He's got one sleeve shoved up to his elbow, skin goosebumpy in the cold, and his other hand in his hoodie pocket, fingers curled intently around the leather covering his knife.
The world past the gravel patch of the playground is grey grass fading into black trees and beyond. A single sodium light shines resentfully near the parking lot, gilding Pete's car with fake moonlight, casting Pete's shadow long and thin across the rocks when he's facing the forest, tilting and scaling it down when he's facing the lot, like a midnight sundial.
He's pressing his thumb under the snap of the leather sheath, steadying his breath in anticipation, when he hears the crunch of a single footstep--too close. He snaps around, skidding the merry-go-round to a screeching halt, grabbing the bars on either side of himself before he falls off.
A kid in a corduroy jacket and trucker cap is staring at him. "Are you some kind of creep?" the kid asks, sounding bemused.
"What?" Pete says.
"'Cause hanging out in playgrounds at midnight is pretty creepy."
The rusty, blue-spattered metal is freezing against Pete's bare forearm. He shivers and blinks and the kid smirks at him, pale mouth in a pale, fine face, eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. "I guess you'd know," Pete says, more than a beat too late. "Since you're--you know, hanging out in a playground at midnight." He shrugs and grimaces at himself.
"Yeah," the kid says, voice edging on laughter. "I guess I would." He puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looks around. The sodium light picks out the line of his nose and his cheek and his chin and Pete recognizes him, suddenly, like a low bell tolling once in his belly: the boy from across the street.
The kid's steady, hidden gaze settles on Pete again, and Pete can tell now that the kid recognizes him too.
"So, creep," the kid says, "do you spy on your neighbours a lot?"
Pete shakes his head, confused, unwilling to respond, because--he doesn't, but.
"That's what I thought," the kid says, turning away. The light catches his face again and he's rolling his eyes, smirking. "See you later, creep."
The kid is gone into the night, born off like the bus bore Ashlee. Pete licks his lips and says into the listening, laughing dark, "What makes you think I care if you think I'm a creep?"
*
And now Milk and marzipan! Whoo.
This is a DW-origin crospost, oh noes. Feel free to comment on LJ or the original post here.