cranberry #11: the wheel of fortune; malt
Author: Marika Kailaya
Title: wherever you go, whoever you meet, you can deny it, but i know-
'Verse: Nagekawashii; LD
Challenge: Cranberry: 11. The Wheel of Fortune
Toppings/Extras: Malt: [lavender] all I see is a shattered conscious staring back at me
Wordcount: 733
Rating: PG
A/N: pre-LD; likely a few months after lav arrives in california in the first place.
"You're guilty," she says. The fucking waitress says, sliding across from him in the coffee shop that's too pretentious and too familiar to him already. He never was one to stay in the same place for very long, but now he's somewhere he is sure he can never leave.
Or maybe he can, if he dies, or if he assumes another identity and disappears. He is already erased from the world's records; he is already imaginary.
He looks up from his book to stare at her. He is aware he looks insane, or at least poor and unkempt. His hair has not been brushed and the dye is fading; his mascara is smeared and he's still wearing last night's dress.
"Of what?" he asks her, mildly, as she settles herself in the chair in front of him.
She's younger than he is. She might be sixteen. Her hair is black and her eyes are unnerving and shiny. She's tiny and pointy.
At least she brought him his coffee before she decided to ditch her duties and bother him. It's not bad coffee either. It never is at this place, it's just overpriced.
She shrugs and leans back, spreading her hands on the wooden table. "Hell if I know."
"Do you know why you think I'm guilty?" he asks her, sipping his coffee. It does precious little for the headache. Water would've been a better idea. Water. Some more of those little green tablets Blair had. Something like that.
"You look guilty," she answers, tilting her head at him. Her hair falls across her face. It annoys him, but she doesn't make a move to push it back. "You look like a guy who needs to be in prison."
He sighs and closes his book. "Is it the dress, darling? Because if it is your scrawny ass is getting fired."
"It's the face. It's the way you hold yourself, even. Everything just says, here is a dude who is guilty of something. Here is a dude who looks in the mirror every day and only sees his own crimes. Here is a dude who does not sleep."
Lavender would be amazed at her stupidity and complete lack of social skills and the possibility that she is on drugs if she wasn't right.
Nope, he's still amazed. "You look like a twat," he responds. It is the wrong thing to say, to a waitress who is probably not even eighteen yet, and in fact she bears no resemblance to female genitalia at all, although Lavender is frankly still unclear as to what that really looks like anyway.
She smiles. "Am I right?"
"Why would you decide to make conversation with a 'dude who looks like he belongs in prison', anyway?"
"Because I am on break," she says, fingering the pendant that hangs around her neck. It is a jagged chunk of black obsidian on a silver chain.
"So you're allowed to harass customers?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she reaches into a pocket on her long skirt and withdraws a silk bag, black and gold, and takes a deck of cards from it. She begins shuffling them.
Lavender realizes they are actually tarot cards, large and glossy.
"Poker?" he asks her, coldly.
She looks up at him, still grinning, her teeth stark and white. "Certainly not."
He considers throwing his coffee at her, before she, very abruptly, withdraws a single card from the deck and places it on the table between them.
He doesn't bother to look at it. He keeps drinking his coffee.
"This," she says, pushing the card towards him. He ignores her. "In theory we say it's a sign of good to come, of changes for the better and even of material wealth."
"We?" he says, dryly, finishing his coffee and slamming the cup down. He shoves the card back at her, and she takes it, and slides it back into the deck, eyeing him.
"There are two outcomes for a guy like you," she says, replacing the cards in the bag and putting the bag back in her pocket. "You can either receive all the great things in the world and never be happy; or you can receive them, and know that you do not deserve them."
She stands and walks away, and Lavender bangs his forehead on the table and wishes his one source for good coffee hadn't started hiring schizophrenics.
Title: wherever you go, whoever you meet, you can deny it, but i know-
'Verse: Nagekawashii; LD
Challenge: Cranberry: 11. The Wheel of Fortune
Toppings/Extras: Malt: [lavender] all I see is a shattered conscious staring back at me
Wordcount: 733
Rating: PG
A/N: pre-LD; likely a few months after lav arrives in california in the first place.
"You're guilty," she says. The fucking waitress says, sliding across from him in the coffee shop that's too pretentious and too familiar to him already. He never was one to stay in the same place for very long, but now he's somewhere he is sure he can never leave.
Or maybe he can, if he dies, or if he assumes another identity and disappears. He is already erased from the world's records; he is already imaginary.
He looks up from his book to stare at her. He is aware he looks insane, or at least poor and unkempt. His hair has not been brushed and the dye is fading; his mascara is smeared and he's still wearing last night's dress.
"Of what?" he asks her, mildly, as she settles herself in the chair in front of him.
She's younger than he is. She might be sixteen. Her hair is black and her eyes are unnerving and shiny. She's tiny and pointy.
At least she brought him his coffee before she decided to ditch her duties and bother him. It's not bad coffee either. It never is at this place, it's just overpriced.
She shrugs and leans back, spreading her hands on the wooden table. "Hell if I know."
"Do you know why you think I'm guilty?" he asks her, sipping his coffee. It does precious little for the headache. Water would've been a better idea. Water. Some more of those little green tablets Blair had. Something like that.
"You look guilty," she answers, tilting her head at him. Her hair falls across her face. It annoys him, but she doesn't make a move to push it back. "You look like a guy who needs to be in prison."
He sighs and closes his book. "Is it the dress, darling? Because if it is your scrawny ass is getting fired."
"It's the face. It's the way you hold yourself, even. Everything just says, here is a dude who is guilty of something. Here is a dude who looks in the mirror every day and only sees his own crimes. Here is a dude who does not sleep."
Lavender would be amazed at her stupidity and complete lack of social skills and the possibility that she is on drugs if she wasn't right.
Nope, he's still amazed. "You look like a twat," he responds. It is the wrong thing to say, to a waitress who is probably not even eighteen yet, and in fact she bears no resemblance to female genitalia at all, although Lavender is frankly still unclear as to what that really looks like anyway.
She smiles. "Am I right?"
"Why would you decide to make conversation with a 'dude who looks like he belongs in prison', anyway?"
"Because I am on break," she says, fingering the pendant that hangs around her neck. It is a jagged chunk of black obsidian on a silver chain.
"So you're allowed to harass customers?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she reaches into a pocket on her long skirt and withdraws a silk bag, black and gold, and takes a deck of cards from it. She begins shuffling them.
Lavender realizes they are actually tarot cards, large and glossy.
"Poker?" he asks her, coldly.
She looks up at him, still grinning, her teeth stark and white. "Certainly not."
He considers throwing his coffee at her, before she, very abruptly, withdraws a single card from the deck and places it on the table between them.
He doesn't bother to look at it. He keeps drinking his coffee.
"This," she says, pushing the card towards him. He ignores her. "In theory we say it's a sign of good to come, of changes for the better and even of material wealth."
"We?" he says, dryly, finishing his coffee and slamming the cup down. He shoves the card back at her, and she takes it, and slides it back into the deck, eyeing him.
"There are two outcomes for a guy like you," she says, replacing the cards in the bag and putting the bag back in her pocket. "You can either receive all the great things in the world and never be happy; or you can receive them, and know that you do not deserve them."
She stands and walks away, and Lavender bangs his forehead on the table and wishes his one source for good coffee hadn't started hiring schizophrenics.