fic: used to be a poor girl

[subterrain]

New record for small fandoms: I fucking guarantee you guys this is the only story of its ilk. Until the movie comes out and they cast KStew as Marie, and then I will be Queen of France.

I'd love to give you guys a primer - unemployed liberal arts degrees take up high-volume low-profile kidnapping as a career path & get their asses handed to them - but basically you should read the book. Not least because my friend onthatgonzotip wrote it and it's really good and legit broke my heart in places and left me wanting more. More sex, more feelings. More sad cuddling. Isn't that always the way?

fandom: The Professionals
pairing: Tiffany Prentice/Marie McAllister
Words: 3527
Warnings: None, light R. Spoilers throughout.
Summary: Tiffany Prentice pays what she owes.
A/N: Title from Die Antwoord's Rich Bitch which is what I'm trying to listen to instead of Laura Jane Grace or Herman Düne on endless repeat like the sulking monster I am.



It's not exactly the kind of place where you can believably ignore someone standing right in front of you, but that doesn't stop the girl from trying. Tiffany has to knock the table with a hip before she can get Marie McAllister to look up from autopsying her bagel.

"Marie! I thought that was you," Tiffany says, in a tone she's cribbed from her mother. It's probably a genetic predisposition to take particular delight in recognizing people in places they don't want to be recognized. The sale rack, the Planned Parenthood parking lot. In this case, the muddy Dunkin Donuts on the highway between the federal pen and the airport.

Even now they're looking at each other, Marie's face is blank. Tiffany removes her sunglasses, pushes a wave of hair out of her eyes. She is kind of in disguise. Visiting Sawyer is one of the things the lawyers forbade her doing. "You think they don't keep records of who visits?" Ferris said, all stern father figure and jabby finger. "They do. And they will note your name."

She can't do much about her name. But she carries an off-brand purse when she's in Detroit. Maybe that's what's throwing Marie off.

Tiffany cocks her head, swishes her coffee in the paper cup. "I'll join you, if you don't mind. I'm just heading back to my hotel."

Marie pulls her head back as Tiffany swings into the booth with her. "Actually," she says.

"I guess we've never met, right?" Tiffany says. "Isn't that weird? I feel like I know you."

"We've met," Marie mutters.

"We sat on the same side of the courtroom but it's not like we really got to know each other," Tiffany says. She sips her coffee. It needs more sugar.

Marie's hands have fallen off the table. Her bagel sits splayed and gory in its paper wrapper, chunks of tomato escaping. She does not look like she was mourning the missed opportunity for bonding. She looks like she's mourning something, though. Her skin is dry, her curls limp. It's not hard to guess who.

Tiffany manipulates an emptied packet of sugar up into a twist of nappy fibre, opens her mouth because Marie won't. "So you're visiting Sawyer, too? Weird. Wouldn't it have been funny to run into each other in the waiting room?"

Marie says, "I have to go."

Tiffany stands up with her. Marie gives her a look, but doesn't protest when Tiffany follows her out into the parking lot. It's April, it's raining. Marie heads right out into it, pulling the hood of her sweater up. Tiffany hesitates under the awning in her suede boots: the parking lot is equal parts gravel and puddle. Then she dashes after her, collar up, shoulders hunched.

Marie's Toyota is a shade of burgundy so dated it will never be cool again and there is a long moment while the girl fusses with the driver's side lock and Tiffany can feel her hair going from damp to drenched.

Tiffany takes a breath. "Sawyer says you could use some help."

A pause. No response. Marie opens the door, throws in her bag.

"I'm at the Hyatt downtown," Tiffany says. "Prentice."

Marie looks up at her from the driver's seat, squinting in the rain, one hand on the door.

"Look. I owe you," Tiffany says.

"Yeah, you sure fucking do." Marie swings the door shut, and Tiffany has to step back to avoid the splash of mud off the tires.

She waits two days. Sitting in the lounge downstairs with explicit instructions impressed upon the front desk staff regarding calls or visitors. She still can't relax. She sips an inadequate whiskey and watches the doors. Men approach her. She dismisses them. They keep coming, so she makes an example of one. Then they stop.

On the third day, she calls Sawyer.

"She's not biting," she complains.

"I told you she wouldn't. She doesn't like you."

"That's not my fault."

"It's not?"

"Why's she so judgmental?"

"You sold us out."

She huffs. This again. "It was worth it though, right?"

A pause on his end. Eventually: "Yeah."

"How's Tess?"

"Good."

"I told you she would be."

"She is."

"You can't tell Marie that?"

"What?" he says.

"That Tess is doing good."

"She knows."

"So why the fuck isn't she showing up, then?" Tiffany pushes away from the desk she's perched on. She crosses the suite to peek out the blinds. The city's not that bright, as cities go. Her reflection in the glass is an uglier version of herself.

"I told you," Sawyer says.

Tiffany sighs. Next he'll say it's because there's a war on. Blondes versus brunettes. Marie can't be that stupid. Or even that proud.

"So where is she, then?" she asks. "If she's not coming."

"Dunno. Home? She's probably gone home."

"Where, Seattle? Do you have an address?"

"Not Seattle," Sawyer says. "Here. She stayed here."

It's not stalking if you know the person, Tiffany reasons. She sits in her Avis-tagged Fiesta half a block down from the tiny house Marie rents. Half a house, really. She seems to live on the top floor, with some blustery frat boys living below and keeping a moldering couch in the overgrown yard out front. They share the front door. For a second on the first day, Tiffany mistook one of the guys for a new boyfriend, and enjoyed a spike of vengeful triumph. How's your high horse, Marie? And who's the martyr now? But no, the downstairs guys are young and smoke constantly on the front step and Marie makes a special point of upbraiding them every time she catches them at it. They jostle and flip her off as she walks away.

By day two Tiffany decides she's actually a pretty good recon scout. She's figured out that Marie's working at the Gap in a mall ten minutes down the freeway, and according to her phone bill, she's living under her own name. Starting over. She's rebuilding.

On day three, Tiffany is successfully eating a softshell taco without spilling any salsa juice on herself when Marie taps on the windshield.

"What the fuck?" she sees Marie say.

Diluted salsa hits Tiffany's collarbone, slides down her neckline. She scoops at it and rolls down the window simultaneously. "Marie!" she says, using her mom's country club voice again. "What a surprise!"

"So at what point were you planning on knocking on my door?" Marie says. She's wearing a bomber jacket and a pair of raybans that make her officially way better disguised than Tiffany will ever be.

"I didn't think you'd be into that," Tiffany says. She pulls scads of napkins, crumples her giant mess into a ball that she stuffs in the paper bag. She probably smells like she's been manning a deep fryer. She straightens the neckline of her wrap dress and crosses her legs because she's put-together. She smiles up at Marie like the girl's a cop or a professor.

"You wanna wash your hands?" Marie asks, and the question itself is kind of resentful, obligatory.

"Um, definitely," says Tiffany.

Marie's house: a bedroom in the front painted the colour of seaglass. Pencil drawings on the walls. A cramped kitchen full of dirty pans with a window overlooking the neighbour's pantry. Shelves full of paperbacks. Tiffany tries to not act surprised that it's not all Goodwill and IKEA.

"You're really settling in to the place," she says. She puts an elbow against one wall to unbuckle her heels.

Marie kicks off her sneakers. "I've been here for six months. So."

"Oh god, it's been that long?"

Marie pulls a pair of glasses out of the cupboard, runs the tap over her wrist. "Why, how long have you been stalking me?"

"Just a week," Tiffany answers. The scuffed hardwood is clean and warm under her bare feet. It makes her feel at home. She steps up to the sink to wash her hands, dribbles a pearl of dish soap. "Since you rejected me."

Marie folds her arms and sips from her glass, staring over the rim.

Tiffany takes the other glass, beading on the counter between a baking sheet burnt dark and a cauldron of cool oily water. "You cook a lot?" she says.

"Usually," Marie says. "I like preparing my own food."

"I bet," Tiffany says. "After that you probably have a thing for fresh veggies."

Marie stares at her, still and silent. Her glass hangs in midair.

"Sorry," Tiffany says. "That was stupid. I didn't mean to bring it up."

"You didn't?" Marie says, and her voice is stiff. "Because I will. I went to jail for two years, and I'm still on probation. What the fuck did you do? Read to poor kids on Sundays?"

Tiffany takes a step back, finds the edge of the counter with her hip. She searches for something to say. "I meant to come talk to you sooner," is what she comes up with.

Marie gestures with her glass, an impatient so-fucking-what? and her water sloshes onto the floor. Without thinking, Tiffany pulls a dishrag and pads over to sop it up. Crouching, she looks up at Marie.

"Cross-contamination," Marie mutters. "You just got floor dirt on my dish cloth."

"Sorry," Tiffany says, standing.

Marie shakes her head and takes the cloth, tosses it in the sink. "Whatever," she says.

Tiffany notices that standing like this, barefoot beside each other, Marie's a bit shorter than her. She's at maybe nose height. Less when she stands with one hip cocked angrily. Her hair smells familiar, one of those drugstore shampoos the girls in the dorms used to use, the one she could never name to buy for herself. Clean laundry, sharp flowers.

Tiffany drops her hand. "I was only trying to help."

Marie pulls out of range, steps over to the counter. Puts her glass down, shuffles through cupboards. "I'm having a drink," she says to her dry goods and spices.

Tiffany doesn't respond. She's kind of holding her breath.

"You still staying at the Hyatt?" Marie asks.

Tiffany can recognize polite conversation when she hears it. "Yes," she says. "I came to see Sawyer."

"He says you come a lot."

Tiffany snorts. "I bet he says that,"

Marie glances at her, and a little smile gets bitten off. "No, like, every month. You visit him every month. You fly here. From-"

Tiffany watches Marie pour vodka into pretty little glasses. They look like beach glass, tortured old shapes made new again. "New York. But you're the one who visits him every week," she says. "I didn't realize you were out, and then I didn't realize you were living here."

Marie hands her one of the little glasses. They clink rims softly. Tiffany watches to see if they'll drop or sip. She sips, demure.

"I have orange juice," Marie offers. "If you like."

"No," Tiffany says. "This is nice."

Marie glances at the table piled with books and jackets and paper, and says, "Do you want to sit?" and they go into the living room, where they look at a small collection of houseplants sitting on the windowsill. It's nearing four o'clock, but the sun is bogged in gray cloud. Marie doesn't have curtains. Her couch is a loveseat. They sit beside each other, thighs parallel. Tiffany crosses her legs and then uncrosses them but keeps her knees touching.

"I didn't really know where else to go," Marie says. She's doing it again: one arm buckled under her breasts like a safety harness, levering the drinking hand up and down to her mouth. "Sawyer's all-" she says, stops.

Tiffany waits until it becomes obvious that her waiting is making Marie uncomfortable. She reminds herself to take a breath. She reaches across the couch and takes Marie's hand. She says, "Breathe," like a therapist or a yoga teacher.

Marie glances at her, sharp-edged, and then laughs. She tosses her head and downs the rest of her vodka and laughs.

"I can't believe they replaced me with you. Brunette gets made so they pick up a blonde? Fuck that."

Tiffany smiles, uncertain. "I wasn't. It wasn't on purpose. I kind of made them take me."

Marie shakes her head. She smiles even wider. "You couldn't make Arthur do anything. Don't kid yourself." Her eyes are glassy, her voice is on the edge of splintering. She blinks and Tiffany sees tears spill, but she holds her face in profile as she palms them away.

Tiffany is still holding her other hand. She pulls it closer, edges over herself. "Yeah, but, I got them to take me along. They would've dropped me, otherwise. Lied and left me somewhere safe."

"They were good guys," Marie says.

"Yeah."

There are not enough words in the language, Tiffany thinks. Marie's hand in her lap is warm, and she runs a thumb along the dull bones of her wrist. Marie's pale skin and gentle fingers make Tiffany's hands look a little dangerous. Sparrowhawk vs. sparrow. She knows that's misleading, though. It would be stupid to think of Marie as a songbird.

Marie waggles her empty glass and pulls like she might get up. "Another?" she says, and it's not really a suggestion.

Tiffany doesn't want to let go, though. She tightens her grip, and Marie drops back into the couch like a kite tugged on a string. Marie looks over, gives an eyebrow. "You don't look like a teetotaler."

Tiffany kisses her. She stretches along the cushion and presses into Marie. She's had her share of broken toys. She knows the signs. Loneliness puts off a scent like a septic wound, but she's always been drawn by it. And she owes Marie. They both know that.

Marie is unprepared. Marie, maybe, hasn't been kissed in a while. Marie is soft and dry and tastes like vodka.

Tiffany pulls closer. Hooks a knee between knees, skirts a hand around the lowest rib, under the white cotton shirt, and her palm finds the spot there - fingertips brushing vertebrae - that makes Marie arch up involuntary, a sound in her throat.

Now Marie remembers how to use her tongue.

Tiffany is good with buttons, zippers, slipping. Marie's white button-down is a pleasure. A lacy splash of bra in eggplant. A freckle on her collarbone. Tiffany kisses it. Tiffany kisses the point of her pale shoulder, the one in reach. The glances she sends Marie are shy. She could be told to stop. Pushed off, kicked out. Marie's still making that decision, she knows. There's time.

Tiffany's black dress folds off in pieces, her bangles stay on. They clatter against each other in Marie's ear as she pushes Marie's hair back so she can kiss her throat, her jawline, the skin under her ear. That smell, clean laundry: she smells like all the pretty girls Tiffany's ever known.

"I'm sorry," she says into Marie's ear. She's practically climbing up the girl, now, and she gets impatient enough to throw a leg across and straddle her. She crooks her arms around Marie's neck and kisses her. "I am so, so sorry," she says.

Marie pushes her back for a second. Parted lips. Her fair skin flushed. Those wide dark eyes. She is shaking her head, and Tiffany glances at her once, twice. "Let's just not," Marie says.

"Okay," Tiffany murmurs. She kisses her again. Then she stands, folds to pull off her leggings. Bare skin. She wants all of Marie's bare skin against her own. Marie, on the couch, glances past her to the curtainless window.

"Bedroom," Marie says. She picks up Tiffany's dress as she stands. And the empty glasses.

Tiffany, panties and demi-bra, follows her to the kitchen. Marie is pouring another round. Tiffany sidles up against her. Pulls at the weak points in Marie's white shirt until it falls down her shoulders. Marie shrugs her away, and Tiffany recognizes that she's self-conscious. She nuzzles in, insistent. She loves Marie's breasts, pretty and cupped in purple lace. She likes the softness of her waist and hips, girlish, and she works at her belt and jeans from behind with quick hands.

She dips fingers down the line from Marie's bellybutton, and Marie lets the vodka bottle thump on the counter. She says, "Oh." She leans back into Tiffany, who presses warm and welcoming.

White cotton panties make Tiffany so wet, just the thought of them puts her back in boarding school, and her fingers find Marie maybe readier than she knows. She hums her teeth into the bowline of Marie's shoulder as her fingers slide. She anchors Marie's hipbone with her other hand, pins her against the table. She does what she likes done, a light touch, and Marie is doubling over, bracing against the disaster of a table, papers slipping, breathing. Tiffany follows Marie's angle, holds her down and rubs her there with her tits pushed up against Marie's shoulder blades, one thigh pressed between Marie's.

Marie's breath changes when Tiffany shifts stance and pushes the panties aside with her other hand. "Oh, sweetie," she says. "Oh, you're so wet."

Marie whimpers an admission of possible guilt.

Tiffany's right hand is a pianist, her left the cello's downbow. Her right on the sextant, her left on the oar. Marie sways and tightens like a sail. She's on the heels of her hands and the heels of her feet, the long lines of her calves taut where they descend into the heap of her jeans. Tiffany's mouth in her ear, all sweetness, "You need me to take care of this. Let me just help, okay?"

Tiffany tilts her elbow, her locked fingers, and Marie's spine arches and she says something incoherent in a tiny voice. Tiffany follows her body's arch, skintight, the pads of her fingers in whirlpool.

When Marie comes she cries, but it's not a sob. She turns her face away and twists in what she obviously wishes was silence. Her ass bucks into Tiffany's hips. She holds the stretch like a cat. Her shoulders are tensed, closed. Tiffany knew it was a little too much to hope she'd get to look at the girl's face while she came. For a moment she feels lonely.

Tiffany only ceases her small motions, gentler and gentler, when Marie's breath goes sharp and she pulls up. She shakes her head. She says, hoarse: "Holy shit."

When she turns to look at Tiffany, over her pale shoulder, it's a wary glance. Tiffany looks back. She might be smiling. She tastes her fingertips. Marie looks away.

"So," Marie says, scanning the table. She hands Tiffany her glass. She picks up her own and drops her shot down her throat.

Tiffany cocks her head, swirls the liquor. "So?"

Marie meets her eyes again. She adjusts the strap of her bra, it's fallen down her bicep. "Like I was saying. Bedroom."

Tiffany finishes her drink, and follows.

Marie's seaglass-coloured bedroom: white linen, clothing filed neatly. Tiffany lies in a swamp of rucked sheets and wonders how someone can live with their clothing folded away. Her clean clothes and her dirty clothes consume a dinner party's worth of furniture in her bedroom at home. In her apartment in Dumbo, discarded items and half-planned outfits occupy the entire floorspace.

"I own too many clothes," she says to the room.

Marie is half-asleep. "I hate clothes."

"No you don't. No one hates clothes."

"I work at the Gap," Marie says.

"Why?" Tiffany legitimately wants to know.

Marie shifts under Tiffany's limbs. She doesn't open her eyes. "Fuck you for asking."

"Is it the criminal record?"

"Is it the kidnapping and the murder?" Marie is mocking her tone.

"What if I can get you something better?" Tiffany says. "What's your degree in again? I could get you a PR job or communications or something. Would it have to be here? I could do Chicago, or Seattle. I don't know about Detroit."

"Fuck you," Marie says again. Her eyes are still closed.

Tiffany settles. She takes Marie's arm and drapes it more closely around herself, wriggles her hip in under Marie's hip. She breathes.

"I'm never going back to Seattle," Marie says after a while.

"Why not?"

"At the funeral Arthur's parents," Marie says, like it's a complete sentence. Like that's as fully as it can be explained.

Tiffany lets her thumb rub in circles over the vertebra at the base of Marie's neck.

"Anyway, my parents," Marie adds, later.

"Yeah," Tiffany says. She keeps waiting for Marie to start crying. But instead, Marie falls asleep. She breathes quiet and even. Tiffany stays tucked close. She'll be here when Marie wakes up. Maybe bring her out for dinner. She imagines everything else she could do for her: a job, a new city, a fresh start. Move her to New York, move her in, keep her close. Buy her groceries to cook dinner with. She imagines a year together, years, careers, a couple of cats. But Marie stirs, and sighs, and Tiffany knows that all her efforts to pay what she owes won't even make a dent in this girl's loneliness.

So. She'll be here when she wakes up. That's what she'll do.