Onecount - Sour Apple, Cookies N Cream, Chocolate Chip Mint +Cookie Crumbs, Milkshake
ohay RaTs. It's, er, been a while, hasn't it? :x
Author: Thai
Challenge: Sour Apple #24 - can I buy you a drink?, Cookies N Cream #21 - offer, Chocolate Chip Mint #22 - upside down
Toppings/Extras: Cookie Crumbs ( Thanks for the Memories), Milkshake (Phase)
Rating: PG-13
Title: We're Pretty, We're Sick
Story: Phase (Nikki)
Word Count: 918
--
It was by complete coincidence that Rayne was thinking of her mother when the blonde woman came out of the building.
It was stupid, really. She'd seen someone who didn't even look like her mom at all. A woman with long, dyed-brown hair, lank where it should be curly, dull where it should be bright. It summed up all of her. She moved cautiously, looking down at the sidewalk. Rayne hadn't even seen her face.
The way she had walked - it was like fucking memory lane had just decided to track her down and shoot her in the spine. For once the subtle ways of memory lane didn't make her want to punch something - well, that was a lie. She did want to punch something.
But at least it wasn't the rip-holes-in-with-nails, follow-up-with-rending-of-the-eyes kind of punching.
Fuck, but she needed a smoke.
The pack of Virginia Slims shook slightly when she lifted it out of her coat pocket, but at this point Rayne couldn't care less. The cigarette trembled between her lips, too, but that was something she could pretend was the cold. The lighter almost fell out of her fingers, and Rayne swore, fumbling the faulty piece of shit until it decided to quit playing keep-away with her hands.
The nicotine was sweet in her lungs, and even though Rayne just knew she was throwing the door wide open to lung cancer, the fuck she gave could have been a lot larger. The redhead leaned against the side of the office building, just next to the automatic doors - it was a bit of a shelter against the wind, at least, even if they wouldn't let her smoke indoors. A couple floors up, the therapist would be waiting for her, probably tapping his nails against the desk Rayne had gotten sick of over the past few weeks - but like the lung cancer, Rayne, at this point, just couldn't give a damn.
The familiarity of a cigarette between her lips, however, calmed her, and she was almost ready to just stub the thing out and go the hell home when the automatic doors slid open.
For a moment, Rayne thought she was a man - but then, when the doors hissed shut behind her and the woman was at the curb, digging in her pockets and swearing under her breath, she noticed the subtle differences in the plane of her jaw, the slightly altered pitch of the voice. It was probably a mistake that had been made before; her hair was cropped closely, body more androgynous than one usually expected on women her age.
Having assumed the woman was searching for some sort of car keys, it was a surprise - one that struck Rayne with an odd kind of pleasure - to see her pull out a pack of cigs and shake one into her hand. She watched the stranger for a moment more, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth nearly toppling from its perch, but the fuck she was giving was still stunted and not quite there.
The blonde woman mumbled something Rayne seriously doubted was very chaste, patting at her pockets, and Rayne decided to take a small chance. "Hey."
Her voice came out louder than she meant it to, speaking over the wind, but the blonde stranger heard her, turning to scowl at her. The cigarette hung from her lips like it was meant to be there, even with the irritated sneer her mouth was contorted into, and Rayne found it oddly appealing. Fuck you, that casual twist was saying, and it was an emotion Rayne had so often felt herself, recently (and wasn't it awfully coincidental that it was mostly at her anger-management therapist?), she couldn't help but like this stranger's gall.
Then she looked up and met her eyes.
They were angry, too. The bad kind of angry, the unhealthy kind of angry that Rayne recognized from mornings in front of the mirror and late nights at home alone. The color wasn't anything remarkable - she was a blue-eyed blonde, not entirely surprising anymore - but they were so furious and strangely desperate that Rayne couldn't help but think her eyes weren't saying fuck you so much as fuck off, I don't want you here, I don't need you, so why don't you just go away?
Memory lane tapped her right between the shoulderblades with an invisible knife.
"Looking for a light?" Rayne said, instead of whatever garbled exclamation had been right at the tip of her tongue.
The woman opened her mouth slightly, as if to say something, but Rayne saw her eyes flick back up and down. Her mouth shut again, and she gave Rayne a considering look. The redhead was used to it. This look, from eyes that scared her with the memories attached, sent a familiar tingle scraping warmly along her spine.
"... Sure."
Rayne pushed herself off the wall of the building, sauntering close enough to the blonde woman that the mist of their breath was winding together in the chilly air. A flicker of unease moved across the stranger's face when Rayne leaned in, touching the orange tip of her cigarette to the Marlboro hovering on the verge of falling. The blonde inhaled after a moment, breath trembling in Rayne's proximity, and privately she smiled.
"Thanks," the stranger mumbled, after taking a long and healthy drag. "M' Angie."
Rayne smiled, and she didn't bother moving back away from Angie. "Rayne."
"Pleasure."
Author: Thai
Challenge: Sour Apple #24 - can I buy you a drink?, Cookies N Cream #21 - offer, Chocolate Chip Mint #22 - upside down
Toppings/Extras: Cookie Crumbs ( Thanks for the Memories), Milkshake (Phase)
Rating: PG-13
Title: We're Pretty, We're Sick
Story: Phase (Nikki)
Word Count: 918
--
It was by complete coincidence that Rayne was thinking of her mother when the blonde woman came out of the building.
It was stupid, really. She'd seen someone who didn't even look like her mom at all. A woman with long, dyed-brown hair, lank where it should be curly, dull where it should be bright. It summed up all of her. She moved cautiously, looking down at the sidewalk. Rayne hadn't even seen her face.
The way she had walked - it was like fucking memory lane had just decided to track her down and shoot her in the spine. For once the subtle ways of memory lane didn't make her want to punch something - well, that was a lie. She did want to punch something.
But at least it wasn't the rip-holes-in-with-nails, follow-up-with-rending-of-the-eyes kind of punching.
Fuck, but she needed a smoke.
The pack of Virginia Slims shook slightly when she lifted it out of her coat pocket, but at this point Rayne couldn't care less. The cigarette trembled between her lips, too, but that was something she could pretend was the cold. The lighter almost fell out of her fingers, and Rayne swore, fumbling the faulty piece of shit until it decided to quit playing keep-away with her hands.
The nicotine was sweet in her lungs, and even though Rayne just knew she was throwing the door wide open to lung cancer, the fuck she gave could have been a lot larger. The redhead leaned against the side of the office building, just next to the automatic doors - it was a bit of a shelter against the wind, at least, even if they wouldn't let her smoke indoors. A couple floors up, the therapist would be waiting for her, probably tapping his nails against the desk Rayne had gotten sick of over the past few weeks - but like the lung cancer, Rayne, at this point, just couldn't give a damn.
The familiarity of a cigarette between her lips, however, calmed her, and she was almost ready to just stub the thing out and go the hell home when the automatic doors slid open.
For a moment, Rayne thought she was a man - but then, when the doors hissed shut behind her and the woman was at the curb, digging in her pockets and swearing under her breath, she noticed the subtle differences in the plane of her jaw, the slightly altered pitch of the voice. It was probably a mistake that had been made before; her hair was cropped closely, body more androgynous than one usually expected on women her age.
Having assumed the woman was searching for some sort of car keys, it was a surprise - one that struck Rayne with an odd kind of pleasure - to see her pull out a pack of cigs and shake one into her hand. She watched the stranger for a moment more, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth nearly toppling from its perch, but the fuck she was giving was still stunted and not quite there.
The blonde woman mumbled something Rayne seriously doubted was very chaste, patting at her pockets, and Rayne decided to take a small chance. "Hey."
Her voice came out louder than she meant it to, speaking over the wind, but the blonde stranger heard her, turning to scowl at her. The cigarette hung from her lips like it was meant to be there, even with the irritated sneer her mouth was contorted into, and Rayne found it oddly appealing. Fuck you, that casual twist was saying, and it was an emotion Rayne had so often felt herself, recently (and wasn't it awfully coincidental that it was mostly at her anger-management therapist?), she couldn't help but like this stranger's gall.
Then she looked up and met her eyes.
They were angry, too. The bad kind of angry, the unhealthy kind of angry that Rayne recognized from mornings in front of the mirror and late nights at home alone. The color wasn't anything remarkable - she was a blue-eyed blonde, not entirely surprising anymore - but they were so furious and strangely desperate that Rayne couldn't help but think her eyes weren't saying fuck you so much as fuck off, I don't want you here, I don't need you, so why don't you just go away?
Memory lane tapped her right between the shoulderblades with an invisible knife.
"Looking for a light?" Rayne said, instead of whatever garbled exclamation had been right at the tip of her tongue.
The woman opened her mouth slightly, as if to say something, but Rayne saw her eyes flick back up and down. Her mouth shut again, and she gave Rayne a considering look. The redhead was used to it. This look, from eyes that scared her with the memories attached, sent a familiar tingle scraping warmly along her spine.
"... Sure."
Rayne pushed herself off the wall of the building, sauntering close enough to the blonde woman that the mist of their breath was winding together in the chilly air. A flicker of unease moved across the stranger's face when Rayne leaned in, touching the orange tip of her cigarette to the Marlboro hovering on the verge of falling. The blonde inhaled after a moment, breath trembling in Rayne's proximity, and privately she smiled.
"Thanks," the stranger mumbled, after taking a long and healthy drag. "M' Angie."
Rayne smiled, and she didn't bother moving back away from Angie. "Rayne."
"Pleasure."