This is me standing in the arch of the door hating that look that's on your face
Who: Trauma mademyhell and Jinx hexyoutotuesday
When: 18th morning
Where: Trauma's apartment.
Summary: Little red riding hood. Apparently. Except the hood isn't red. And belongs to the guy who's place got crashed at.
Warnings: Language. All the language. EVER.
It had been a hell of a long night. Things were still awkward from earlier in the week which meant that it was utter hell to be in the room with any of the people in the goddamn building during his shift. And they'd broken one of the glass walls that separated him from the main office so he had to watch them all attempt to pretend they weren't being awkward even though they were.
Fuck. Life.
Fuck all of it.
And, not to mention, the storm.
Okay, so aside from the impending rush of people scared shitless, the storm wasn't ALL that bad. It meant he got to stay home. Which didn't suck.
...Unless this wasn't paranoia and everything got knocked out. Either way, he didn't have work and that suited him well enough.
Even as early as he was this morning, people were already out and trying to get to stores. It was messy, it was annoying, and people were giving him a goddamn headache. Just naturally. Some woman breezed passed him tugging along a little girl, young enough to still need to hold hands in a crowd without question, moving her through the street at a manic pace. She brushed his shoulder as she went, leaving images of that little girl bloated and pale, dripping water with sightless eyes in her wake. It made him start, yanking down the hood on his coat far enough to hide his eyes and hurrying away even as his whole body rebelled, trying to force him into shifting and making that image real. Fuck. It'd been a decent idea that morning to swap to his jacket, caring more about the idea that it was supposed to start storming and staying dry than about something useful to use to hide in a crowd.
He was never making that mistake again.
Trauma figured if he hadn't looked enough like a crazy person when he got to the door, hurrying and head down like looking up would burn him, the way his hands were shaking and awkward when he tried to open the door probably made him look like a fucking drug addict. He finally got the keys to work in the lock, and then, getting in the building done, he collapsed on the bottom stair.
There was a moment when he figured if he wanted to thank anything in his fucking life, he would because he didn't freak out on that family. But he wasn't going to. That was stupid. Just like the rest of this fucking situation. This world had been a goddamn crash course in keeping himself in check so far, and that wasn't an amazing thing to say about a place. Finally shaking off a lot of the residual energy from holding himself back by force, and letting himself give into the tired heaviness that followed, he glared up at the staircase.
That...was a lot of stairs. A lot of stairs he had to climb to a not amazing apartment, but one where he wasn't stuck with the possibility of being tripped over. Fuck. Fuck. With a groan, he dragged himself up off the floor and up the stairs, counting them somewhere in the back of his mind, counting down until he was at the top, using the decreasing numbers to encourage himself to not just fall asleep on the goddamn stairs and not give a shit who cared.
Once he got to the top, he fought with the keys again momentarily and opened the door.
It would have gone a lot better for him had there not been a boot in his way, lodging in itself in front of the door as he attempted to open it. This meant he knocked his damn knee into the door with a painful crack, but even with the sudden pain, he could register that...was odd. He had only one pair of shoes here...and he knew he was wearing them....And despite any crack anyone had ever made about his choice in fashion, he'd never worn girls shoes in his life. Cursing up a storm under his breath he started to try and piece the confusion together into something useful.
If his keys hadn't actually opened the door, he'd have guessed he stepped into the wrong place...but no, the door had 6B on it, meaning it was his door. His apartment. ...Which was colder.
Once he turned the corner he had the answer to both the shoe question, and the reason for the cold. There was a window pried open, prison bar grate gone entirely, the only trace it had ever existed being odd spikes of metal jutting out from the frame. And, there was someone already in his bed. Now. This was fucking weird. She had wrapped herself up in his coat, he noticed with annoyance, striped tights showing from one end, small hands and pink hair from the other.
He was about two seconds from waking up the girl, shouting at her or...well...something, when he noticed that her hands were wrapped in what looked like gauze, clearly showing where blood had leaked through the makeshift bandaging job. While he thought about what to do, he went and closed the window, never taking his eyes off the lump of person that had taken his bed.
As if this day could get worse.
Trauma sat down under the window, trying to figure out what to do. What the fuck were you supposed to do? He couldn't figure out if he was supposed to sympathize with someone who'd obviously been hurt in the night and tried to find a place, or be angry and kick her out. He felt like a bear in fucking little red riding hood, debating on waking up the chick who'd screwed with his day. He leaned his head back against the wall, thinking. What the hell should he do?
He never answered himself though, because in the process of trying to piece it all together in his head, Trauma nodded off, head rested back against the wall with his arms rested on his knees. The dumbest possible answer to the problem, but really, exhaustion was a bitch.
When: 18th morning
Where: Trauma's apartment.
Summary: Little red riding hood. Apparently. Except the hood isn't red. And belongs to the guy who's place got crashed at.
Warnings: Language. All the language. EVER.
It had been a hell of a long night. Things were still awkward from earlier in the week which meant that it was utter hell to be in the room with any of the people in the goddamn building during his shift. And they'd broken one of the glass walls that separated him from the main office so he had to watch them all attempt to pretend they weren't being awkward even though they were.
Fuck. Life.
Fuck all of it.
And, not to mention, the storm.
Okay, so aside from the impending rush of people scared shitless, the storm wasn't ALL that bad. It meant he got to stay home. Which didn't suck.
...Unless this wasn't paranoia and everything got knocked out. Either way, he didn't have work and that suited him well enough.
Even as early as he was this morning, people were already out and trying to get to stores. It was messy, it was annoying, and people were giving him a goddamn headache. Just naturally. Some woman breezed passed him tugging along a little girl, young enough to still need to hold hands in a crowd without question, moving her through the street at a manic pace. She brushed his shoulder as she went, leaving images of that little girl bloated and pale, dripping water with sightless eyes in her wake. It made him start, yanking down the hood on his coat far enough to hide his eyes and hurrying away even as his whole body rebelled, trying to force him into shifting and making that image real. Fuck. It'd been a decent idea that morning to swap to his jacket, caring more about the idea that it was supposed to start storming and staying dry than about something useful to use to hide in a crowd.
He was never making that mistake again.
Trauma figured if he hadn't looked enough like a crazy person when he got to the door, hurrying and head down like looking up would burn him, the way his hands were shaking and awkward when he tried to open the door probably made him look like a fucking drug addict. He finally got the keys to work in the lock, and then, getting in the building done, he collapsed on the bottom stair.
There was a moment when he figured if he wanted to thank anything in his fucking life, he would because he didn't freak out on that family. But he wasn't going to. That was stupid. Just like the rest of this fucking situation. This world had been a goddamn crash course in keeping himself in check so far, and that wasn't an amazing thing to say about a place. Finally shaking off a lot of the residual energy from holding himself back by force, and letting himself give into the tired heaviness that followed, he glared up at the staircase.
That...was a lot of stairs. A lot of stairs he had to climb to a not amazing apartment, but one where he wasn't stuck with the possibility of being tripped over. Fuck. Fuck. With a groan, he dragged himself up off the floor and up the stairs, counting them somewhere in the back of his mind, counting down until he was at the top, using the decreasing numbers to encourage himself to not just fall asleep on the goddamn stairs and not give a shit who cared.
Once he got to the top, he fought with the keys again momentarily and opened the door.
It would have gone a lot better for him had there not been a boot in his way, lodging in itself in front of the door as he attempted to open it. This meant he knocked his damn knee into the door with a painful crack, but even with the sudden pain, he could register that...was odd. He had only one pair of shoes here...and he knew he was wearing them....And despite any crack anyone had ever made about his choice in fashion, he'd never worn girls shoes in his life. Cursing up a storm under his breath he started to try and piece the confusion together into something useful.
If his keys hadn't actually opened the door, he'd have guessed he stepped into the wrong place...but no, the door had 6B on it, meaning it was his door. His apartment. ...Which was colder.
Once he turned the corner he had the answer to both the shoe question, and the reason for the cold. There was a window pried open, prison bar grate gone entirely, the only trace it had ever existed being odd spikes of metal jutting out from the frame. And, there was someone already in his bed. Now. This was fucking weird. She had wrapped herself up in his coat, he noticed with annoyance, striped tights showing from one end, small hands and pink hair from the other.
He was about two seconds from waking up the girl, shouting at her or...well...something, when he noticed that her hands were wrapped in what looked like gauze, clearly showing where blood had leaked through the makeshift bandaging job. While he thought about what to do, he went and closed the window, never taking his eyes off the lump of person that had taken his bed.
As if this day could get worse.
Trauma sat down under the window, trying to figure out what to do. What the fuck were you supposed to do? He couldn't figure out if he was supposed to sympathize with someone who'd obviously been hurt in the night and tried to find a place, or be angry and kick her out. He felt like a bear in fucking little red riding hood, debating on waking up the chick who'd screwed with his day. He leaned his head back against the wall, thinking. What the hell should he do?
He never answered himself though, because in the process of trying to piece it all together in his head, Trauma nodded off, head rested back against the wall with his arms rested on his knees. The dumbest possible answer to the problem, but really, exhaustion was a bitch.