Defs Not My Favorite
One more mixed PPG/RRB drabble after this one and my romp will be done for a while; I think I need to tackle Blossom and Boomer again, though. This one is really not one I'm terribly fond of, but for some reason I can't seem to get rid of it. Like crusted-on mold, or a strangely endearing ugly doll.
1. Dreams
Boomer clutches his bottle, fingers cracking the glass, staring at her. She obviously doesn’t know what she’s doing here; her bow seems wilted under the flashing neon lights, and the drink in her glass hasn’t been touched. If it’s hers at all. The group she came with is all on the dance floor.
She picks a loose thread from her hem, and he sizes her up, thinking in the back of his mind that even though he’s a little tipsy he still might could take her on. He chews on his lip, watching her, wondering if she’ll notice him first and if he’s going to be the one with a mouthful of drywall before this night is through. He didn’t come here to fight. He doesn’t really want to right now.
Those pink eyes are fixed on her tapping fingers, and he has to appreciate that even in the matronly skirt and sweater combo she looks good. Her hair is perfectly in place, kept neat by that bow. He studies the bow. It could be made of steel for all he knew; her hair was a little too rigidly in-place for his taste. He wonders for a moment what it would look like down and messy.
He really shouldn’t have thought that, because then he starts thinking about asking her to dance. Not that he thinks she would, but maybe the asking would frazzle her up a little. Give him the opportunity to pull her hair, so to speak. It’s nice hair. Sort of an autumnal color that reminds him of pumpkin pie.
He has a vision of getting up and asking her to dance, only to realize a few seconds later that it isn’t a vision, he’s actually walking towards her, and she noticed, and oh, crud, turn back, abort, abort-too late, she’s looking at him and if he chickens out now she’ll know. He doesn’t know exactly what she’ll know, but if she does, everything will go south and he’ll never be able to face her again and it might have something to do with how much she intimidates him…
“Dyouwannadancewithme?”
“Excuse me?” she asks, and Boomer figures that it’s a sort of victory. At least she didn’t sock him.
“Do you want to dance?” he asks, unsticking the words as best he can. Her eyes are wide and he flexes his fingers and curls his toes, hoping she can’t see the sweat dripping down his neck.
She laughs a little, too mirthless to be a giggle. “I must be out of my mind,” she says, turning to her glass and throwing back whatever is inside (to be honest, he isn’t trying too hard to figure it out-nerves at his own stupidity is churning his beer into bile). But she takes his hand, and he takes her to the dance floor.
Here, instinct kicks in. He forgets that she’s an enemy and that he’s not supposed to be here, forgets the danger in what he’s doing, and lets go. He can bust a good move when he doesn’t think about it. To his surprise, she’s not bad herself-and once she tosses off the sweater and reveals the lace-topped cami beneath she gets a little more attractive. The crowd is active tonight, and they can hardly avoid being pressed together sometimes, but after a few minutes she’s the one coming onto him. It’s a little graceless, like she hasn’t done it before, but the sentiment of the action is noted. He also notes that her skin is absolutely flawless.
He miscalculated his timing; the music goes from beat-heavy to sappy, and he almost runs in the opposite direction, but she winds her arms around his neck and he has to stay. The scent coming off of her is almost overpowering. Some kind of flower, he guesses. Her cheek is pressed against his neck, and he’s hyperaware of both every movement of her body and the knowledge that if she wanted to she could seriously hurt him right now.
“What are you doing?” he asks despite himself. The question was meant for him, but she answers anyway.
“Once in a while,” she murmurs in his ear, “I like to pretend I’m in a dream and do what I normally wouldn’t do. Can you be my dream right now?”
Her voice is sleepy. He feels a little tired himself. And, hey, she’s really pretty, and he’s the one who asked her to dance in the first place, so he might as well see it to the end.
“Sure thing,” he murmurs, and the little sigh she breaths against his neck just about kills him. He relaxes a little.
For one night, he can pretend that she isn’t capable of killing him and be whatever she wants. Boomer has dreams too, after all.
1. Dreams
Boomer clutches his bottle, fingers cracking the glass, staring at her. She obviously doesn’t know what she’s doing here; her bow seems wilted under the flashing neon lights, and the drink in her glass hasn’t been touched. If it’s hers at all. The group she came with is all on the dance floor.
She picks a loose thread from her hem, and he sizes her up, thinking in the back of his mind that even though he’s a little tipsy he still might could take her on. He chews on his lip, watching her, wondering if she’ll notice him first and if he’s going to be the one with a mouthful of drywall before this night is through. He didn’t come here to fight. He doesn’t really want to right now.
Those pink eyes are fixed on her tapping fingers, and he has to appreciate that even in the matronly skirt and sweater combo she looks good. Her hair is perfectly in place, kept neat by that bow. He studies the bow. It could be made of steel for all he knew; her hair was a little too rigidly in-place for his taste. He wonders for a moment what it would look like down and messy.
He really shouldn’t have thought that, because then he starts thinking about asking her to dance. Not that he thinks she would, but maybe the asking would frazzle her up a little. Give him the opportunity to pull her hair, so to speak. It’s nice hair. Sort of an autumnal color that reminds him of pumpkin pie.
He has a vision of getting up and asking her to dance, only to realize a few seconds later that it isn’t a vision, he’s actually walking towards her, and she noticed, and oh, crud, turn back, abort, abort-too late, she’s looking at him and if he chickens out now she’ll know. He doesn’t know exactly what she’ll know, but if she does, everything will go south and he’ll never be able to face her again and it might have something to do with how much she intimidates him…
“Dyouwannadancewithme?”
“Excuse me?” she asks, and Boomer figures that it’s a sort of victory. At least she didn’t sock him.
“Do you want to dance?” he asks, unsticking the words as best he can. Her eyes are wide and he flexes his fingers and curls his toes, hoping she can’t see the sweat dripping down his neck.
She laughs a little, too mirthless to be a giggle. “I must be out of my mind,” she says, turning to her glass and throwing back whatever is inside (to be honest, he isn’t trying too hard to figure it out-nerves at his own stupidity is churning his beer into bile). But she takes his hand, and he takes her to the dance floor.
Here, instinct kicks in. He forgets that she’s an enemy and that he’s not supposed to be here, forgets the danger in what he’s doing, and lets go. He can bust a good move when he doesn’t think about it. To his surprise, she’s not bad herself-and once she tosses off the sweater and reveals the lace-topped cami beneath she gets a little more attractive. The crowd is active tonight, and they can hardly avoid being pressed together sometimes, but after a few minutes she’s the one coming onto him. It’s a little graceless, like she hasn’t done it before, but the sentiment of the action is noted. He also notes that her skin is absolutely flawless.
He miscalculated his timing; the music goes from beat-heavy to sappy, and he almost runs in the opposite direction, but she winds her arms around his neck and he has to stay. The scent coming off of her is almost overpowering. Some kind of flower, he guesses. Her cheek is pressed against his neck, and he’s hyperaware of both every movement of her body and the knowledge that if she wanted to she could seriously hurt him right now.
“What are you doing?” he asks despite himself. The question was meant for him, but she answers anyway.
“Once in a while,” she murmurs in his ear, “I like to pretend I’m in a dream and do what I normally wouldn’t do. Can you be my dream right now?”
Her voice is sleepy. He feels a little tired himself. And, hey, she’s really pretty, and he’s the one who asked her to dance in the first place, so he might as well see it to the end.
“Sure thing,” he murmurs, and the little sigh she breaths against his neck just about kills him. He relaxes a little.
For one night, he can pretend that she isn’t capable of killing him and be whatever she wants. Boomer has dreams too, after all.