02-Jun-2004
Title: The Worst Thing
Author: Sol 1056
Archived: sweetlysour & gwaddiction
Disclaimer: if I owned them, they'd be on strike by now. *sigh*
Rating: this chapter goes to NC-17
Pairings: all previous listed and 4xOC
Warnings: kumquat/citrus, language
Many thanks to those reading & reviewing... your comments make my day, really. I'd list here but it'd be a long paragraph so thankee to all the Q fans for tolerating me, and all the 1x2 fans for not lynching me.
Hang in there. it's going to get worse.
We ended up sprawled across his couch, watching some old movie on the vid-screen and catcalling every bad gun move, faked shot, and planned explosion. Jamie never said, but I suspected he had time in one of the military groups, back during the war. He was five or six years older than me, I gathered, which would have put him at twenty or so during the first Eve War.
Three beers later and I ended up slouched against him, one foot propped up on the end of the sofa. His arm had come down across my chest when he'd reached for another beer from the coffee table, and he hadn't moved it. I hadn't tensed, too relaxed with the beer, and something else thrumming in my blood. His chest was firm against my back and shoulder, and his gray eyes were amused. When he laughed, he'd throw back his head, and I couldn't help but laugh, too.
"You have a lot of colors," I told him.
"I... what?" Jamie paused from staring at the mouth of his bottle held upside down, making sure it was really empty. He looked around his apartment, then at me. "You mean, like, in the apartment?"
"Yeah." I waved my beer at the curtains. "Like those." They were stripes, in orange, blue, and green. Garish, but definitely colorful.
"Don't be picking on my decorating scheme," he growled, and the sound made my stomach flip. I twisted my head to look up at him, and slipped sideways down his chest. "Whoa, Cat," he said, and his arm tightened, his hand catching me around the ribs. His hand was warm, and when he moved it, I could feel the imprint of heat for several seconds longer.
"Yeah, sure," I said, not certain what I was replying to and not caring. I twisted on the sofa until I was lying with my head on his knees, and kicked my other leg up to sprawl the full length of the sofa. "I like your decorating scheme." I pointed with the beer to the posters over the sofa. "What are those?"
"What are what?" He twisted, leaning over to get a better look – or so it seemed – and chuckled at the posters. "Video game ads. My brother gets those from the store where he works."
"Which brother?" I put the bottle to my lips, and spilled a little down my chin. It was an awkward angle for drinking.
"Tim, the second oldest," he said, and his eyes crinkled. "You're a messy drinker." His hand swiped across my chin, fingertips across my lip.
I opened my mouth, and let my tongue drag across his fingers. He hissed, and my stomach clenched. Something flooded my body, and I realized... I wanted. It wasn't the lazy want I had for Lola. It was a crucial, bone-deep want, and I knew if he threw me out at this point – or I got up and walked out – I would regret it. I would still be wanting.
So I stared at him, wide-eyed, hoping, fearful. He said something else, but I only saw his lips moving. I nodded, not really caring, too focused on hanging there, splayed across his sofa as though utterly relaxed... except I wasn't. Every muscle was screaming, aching.
Jamie licked his lips, and I held up my beer. He didn't look away as he took it from me, leaning over me to set it on the table and then his face was hovering above mine. The dark of his pupils had swallowed the iris and I opened my mouth, panting, and wondering why my breathing was coming so fast—
And then his mouth was on mine, and I know I whimpered, my hands coming up to hold him by the jaw. Twisting my head, I shoved my tongue into his mouth, warring, moaning when he pulled away to bite my lower lip, tugging at it. One of his hands was in my hair, the other gliding up and down my chest, and I was tensing, arching, trying to tell him more—
It was terrifying, it was exhilarating, it was— Oh god, I wanted his hands everywhere and I wanted my hands on him—
I reached for his waist, tugging at his shirt, barely aware he was pulling me upright. I wanted skin; I wanted contact. I leaned against him, crawling forward and around, his greedy mouth never leaving mine. He guided me to straddle his lap and I bit back a cry, feeling my dick pressing against his groin, equally hard. I pushed, and tilted my hips, pushing again, rocking, and Jamie groaned. That single sound shot straight through me, and suddenly I pulled back, ripping his shirt up. I wanted more.
"Cat," he muttered, but I didn't give a damn. I curled over, bent my head to reach his skin, to taste, to devour. I ran my fingers, then my tongue, across the dark hair up his chest and around his nipples, craving the coarse sensation on my palms, my lips. I found his nipples and I tugged, pinched, then bit, suckled fiercer than I'd ever done to Lola. Jamie gave a guttural cry and arched his back. His fingers clawed at my skin, pulling up my shirt, slipping down my stomach to unbutton my jeans. I mirrored his actions, tugging at his jeans. I wanted desperately to peel them back and slip my hand inside.
I wanted.
Jamie dragged my mouth from his chest, and I pressed his shoulders against the sofa, kissing him deeply. He fought back with every stab of his tongue, and in one move, flipped me over on the sofa, grinding his crotch against mine. I tensed, pulling him down to me, and shoved us back upright, pinning his wrists to the sofa. He chuckled into my mouth and I grinned, and slammed my groin against his. His laughter became a growl, his eyes glazed, and he worked a hand free and shoved it down into my jeans.
My entire body stiffened. My back arched as I sat up, eyes wide, hands digging into his shoulders. His hand wrapped around my cock, yanking, stroking, rubbing with vicious quick movements that made my hips thrust into his palm. It was harsh, unrelenting, and I gasped, shaking.
"Come on," Jamie urged, a smile on his lips. "Come on, Cat, I want to see... "
I could barely manage a surprised look, confused by his words, and he was flipping me over again. This time I couldn't protest. All I could feel was his hand running up and down my dick, rough hands squeezing, twisting, speed building, then his head was between my legs. I shouted something incoherent when he took my dick in his mouth. I arched my back, shoving myself into that wet heat.
He rode with it, taking me deeper, his mouth ten times hotter than I'd expected. His fingers clawed at my balls, slipping into the jeans between my legs to press at the spot just behind my balls, and then a fingertip into my ass. I cried out again, fisting my hands on the sofa cushions, body jerking helplessly. With every thrust he worked my jeans down further, and shoved his finger in a bit more and every nerve in my body was firing down to my cock and I couldn't breathe, couldn't open my eyes, everything going white or dark and the only thing I could feel was the finger in my ass and the teeth scraping lightly up my cock and—
I came with a shout, arching my back until I was curled in a tight bow. His finger was deep inside me, dry and tight but an agony of pleasure and his nose was pressed against the curly blond hairs at the base of my cock. I shouted again, gasping, my body shuddering in the aftershock. He wiggled his finger and I cried out, thrusting again helplessly against it. The dryness hurt, but I wanted—
"More," I moaned, even as he released my softening dick and withdrew his finger. I began to relax, but his hand stopped me, holding me arched by the small of my back. I could just barely see his smile above my bare crotch, and the pleased look as he spit out my cum onto his hand... and then that finger was back, pressing, and pushing, and digging, and I gasped, thrusting downwards.
"More," I begged, not sure what more was, but not wanting it to end.
Jamie withdrew his hands, and pushed me down flat onto the sofa. I stared at him, and I'm sure I looked like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming Gundam. I had no idea a single orgasm could sweep through my body like that, so complete, so unbelievable. Vaguely I was aware he had pulled off my boots, and then my jeans, leaving me naked from the waist down in a room lit only by the movie playing on the vid-screen. I propped myself up on my elbows, opened my mouth, and no words came out.
"Cat," he whispered, and grinned. "You are."
"Are what," I managed, confused. Then he pulled his shirt over his head. I reached for him, but he pulled away. "Come back here," I beseeched. "I want—"
"I know what you want, but do you?" He came up on his knees, pushing his jeans off his hips to reveal a cock slightly thicker than mine, heavy and foreboding in a nest of dark curls. I caught it, stroked, marveling at the smooth weight, the foreign but perfect sensation against my palm. He thrust into my hand, grinning wickedly. Then with a gasp he pulled my hand away, and turned, fumbling for something on the side table. When he turned back around, he pushed my shirt up, and I yanked it over my head, letting it fall beside me.
"Jamie—"
"Turn over," he demanded. I hesitated, he smiled, and I took a deep breath and shifted to face away from him.
I had wanted to do the same for him, but I didn't know how to ask or what to do. Everything was spinning, the world tilting as I panted, aching... I planted my hands and knees on the sofa, balancing on the uneven cushions. I could feel him come up to his knees behind me. A slick finger ran down the crack of my ass, and pushed into me, gliding much smoother than before. Jamie leaned over me, his chest pressed against my back, his body's fire soaking into my skin. I grimaced against the sensation of his finger until the burning eased.
"Cat," he whispered, his deep voice making my stomach flip again, "just relax... let it happen... "
"God... " I choked, gasping as his finger withdrew then returned, the sensation firmer, more. It pushed, prodded, and I rocked backwards. Every nerve was still on fire, and my erection was slowly coming back. I felt full, but wanted to feel fuller. "I... "
"Just enjoy," Jamie whispered, and paused to bite down on my shoulder. The fingers were gone, then returned, with more pressure than before, stretching me wider. I cried out, but the pain faded, replaced by excruciating pleasure. He pumped his fingers into my ass. I kept rocking backwards, falling to my elbows as I writhed, words trapped in my throat in a low moan. He chuckled in my ear, and bit my neck, hard, before breaking away. His cock dug into the top of my thigh, urging me, reminding me. "You are a cat... rub you the right way, and you purr... "
My mind caught the words, but they were buried beneath the sensation of his fingers. He was shoving into me, lighting sparks up my spine until my entire body shook. "I... " I couldn't say more, my throat tightening around another cry as he stretched me again, roughly.
"That's right," he murmured. "Gonna fuck you, hard. Make you mine... "
But I don't want...
He chuckled, and his fingers were gone then back to dig into my hips, pulling me upwards. "You're amazing... the way you move... " A slick finger ran down my spine and I nearly cried out loud, rubbing backwards against him. "You want this, oh, yeah... "
I don't want...
Something much thicker rubbed against my ass, began pushing into me. Jamie groaned loudly, the sound becoming words. " ...Yeah, need this—"
No!
I reared up, twisted, and shoved him hard enough to make him slam into the arm of the sofa.
He fell back, his face contorted in shock. I remained up on my knees. My fist was raised for a strike, and I didn't give a damn that I was naked and harder than I'd ever been before in my life.
"What the fuck," Jamie breathed, raising a glistening hand to his chest. His brows came down in a hard line, and his voice was breathless. "Cat?" He sat up, reaching out a hand.
"Don't touch me," I spat, backing off the sofa. I was shaking. I'm mad, yes, something whispered in my head. Furious.
"What's—"
"No," I cried, grabbing my jeans as I backed away from him. "I don't need you!" I pulled on my jeans, shoved my feet into my boots.
Jamie slowly got up off the sofa, his hands still out in front of him, palms up. "Wait, don't—"
I spun, shirt in hand, a fist up. "Don't tell me what to do!"
He closed his mouth with an audible snap and grabbed his jeans, yanking them on with a sigh. "I didn't mean to, Cat." He stood up, giving me an inscrutable look and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced at the window, and back at me, and took a step closer. "Stay, please. I don't want you—"
"I could care less what you do or don't want for me!" Fury was running through my veins, taking the heat to ice cold. I yanked on my coat, not caring I was bare-chested underneath. I paused by the door, glaring coldly. "It's not your place to tell me who I am."
My anger was gone instantly, replaced by contempt, and I couldn't even summon the energy to slam the door. I left, shirt and socks in hand. I walked the seven blocks to my place, and the sleet pelting my chest was warmer by far than the cold in my heart.
It took nearly thirty minutes in the hottest water I could stand before I stopped shivering. I leaned against the tiled wall, my fingers digging into the grout, until my arms gave way. I pressed my forehead against the tile and wondered why I was still shaking despite the intense heat pelting my body.
Eventually I gave up, stumbling from the shower and toweling myself down furiously. Quickly I put on a shirt, and a sweatshirt, then my jeans, a pair of socks, and crawled into bed, huddling beneath the blankets. I felt chilled to the bone, a cold ache deep in my chest that I couldn't mask or free or relieve.
What I really wanted was someone to make me tea, I complained to myself. Or maybe bring me a shot of vodka. Between the two, vodka took less effort. Keeping the blanket wrapped around me, I retrieved the bottle and returned to bed. Unscrewing the cap, I took a long swig and stared up at the empty spaces on the wall, in the middle of my row of portraits.
"Here's to the fact that I am a complete and utter idiot," I announced, raising the bottle and taking a second long drag. I choked, sputtering a little, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "And can't fuckin' drink without spilling," I added.
That reminded me of spilling the beer, and the drops on my chin, and Jamie and his lips on my body and... I wanted to smash the bottle against the wall, but instead I gripped it tightly, staring up at the empty spaces.
I didn't need. I just wanted. It was different. That I could admit... my body still ached, like a tuning fork will vibrate past the point of what the eye can see. Lola had made me hard, and hungry, but Jamie made me... made me desperate. Ravenous. Something shifted in my brain or my body and the switch was thrown and...
But I was sick of people telling me who I should be, who I am, what I need. If having the sweeter, gentler sex I'd shared with Lola meant I didn't get that attitude one more time, then... fine. I was sure if I pushed, she'd respond to aggression and we could pound each other into the mattress. That wasn't it. That wasn't...
Cat is just a nickname, I told myself firmly. I don't need no fuckin' collar, and I'm surrounded by people waving them at me.
When he said those words... that I needed, that I'd be his... no, no. You couldn't handle my truth, you couldn't handle my lies. Don't say you could, don't even think it. Don't promise me anything... don't make me be something to fit what you want. Don't make me want to be that something...
I took another drink, dimly registering that I'd been drinking for nearly eight hours with no food. Before I'd left the apartment I'd had two shots, several more drinks at the club, and five more beers. It said something for my instinctive self-control, I supposed, that I could go fist-first into a fight and there were no casualties. And it said something for my utter bullheadedness that I could walk home in driving sleet. But I had no idea what it said that I'd gotten up and walked away when every fiber in my body was begging me to stay.
I waved the vodka bottle, studying the last swallow's worth swirling in the bottom. I had to wipe my mouth again, as well as my eyes. I laid back, letting the bottle tip over and roll across the mattress to hit the floor, echoing as it rolled further. An empty sound, in an empty apartment, like the emptiness in my chest. I stared up at the gaps on the portrait wall.
"Hey, Heero," I said. "Hope you like the pictures."
I woke up three hours later, dragged myself to the bathroom, and threw up until I was only dry heaving. I fell back against the wall, gasping, and wished the room would stop spinning. I had to laugh at myself, crawling to the pantry and dragging myself up the cabinet to drink three or four mugs of water from the tap. The city water had a bitter taste, but it was still better than the vile flavor on my tongue. Taking a last full mug of water with me, I crawled back into bed, pulled the blanket over my head, and went back to sleep.
Five in the afternoon, I woke up again, feeling a little better, but my chest was tight and I felt shaky. Several more cups of water by the sink, and I shoved off, aiming for the bathroom. Another long shower and I felt cleaner, but the heat made me feel like I needed to lie down again. Frustrated, I forced myself to get dressed. I had maybe twenty credits left to my name, and I needed food, but I wasn't up to cooking. Checking my watch - I had two hours to get to work - I pulled on my coat, grabbed my keys, and headed for the big market, several blocks away.
The cool air, cutting after the night's sleet, felt good on my skin. It sliced across my face, whipping my hair into my eyes, and I made a mental note to pick up hair dye as soon as I got my next monthly check, or my paycheck. I focused on a shopping list of what to buy with a real paycheck, and managed to put all worries out of my head about seeing Jamie at the club again. I didn't want to, not until I felt more human and could paste a smile on my face like we were strangers. I'd done it enough at social occasions in the past three years.
The market had cheap sandwiches, and in the children's section I found a large book of newspaper-sized paper. Rough and yellowish, it was lighter-weight than what Lola had given me, but I figured it'd work. Satisfied, I tucked the purchases under my arms. I ended up eating the sandwich on the way back to my apartment. My fingers were frozen through by the time I threw the wrapper away, but my stomach was full.
By the time I was unlocking the door, I felt nauseous again, but I didn't throw up. I left the new notepad on the table, and headed for my first night at work.
"That's John," Fred told me. "And Del, Rich, and Boo." I blinked at the last name on the list, but the guy by the door - all six-five and two-hundred-fifty pounds - didn't look like someone I'd ask for the origin of his nickname. Then again, I'd introduced myself as Cat. I wasn't in a position to throw stones. Hell, at that point, I felt like I'd be lucky to pick one up, let alone muster the energy to throw it.
"Hey, Cat... right?" Del leaned forward, shaking my hand. He was about five-eight, with a wicked grin, and a shaved head that revealed a wildly colored tattoo in abstract designs over his left ear. "You'll be working the back exit with me tonight," he said, beckoning me out of the office and down the hall towards the stairs. "All you need to do is look pissed-off and don't let anyone backstage."
"Pissed-off?" I gave him a wry look. "I'll see if I can manage."
Del rolled his eyes. "Believe me, after the fourth girl tries to make out with you as a way to weasel past, you'll start getting annoyed." He gave me a look. "Or a guy. Fans are pretty equal opportunity, if it'll get them backstage."
"Got it. No making out." I nodded solemnly, and was rewarded with a smirk worthy of Duo.
The first hour or so was busy, although I was mostly in one place, leaning against the wall. The bands had loaded and done their sound checks, and most of the traffic past me was staff and band members heading to the band area downstairs, or out the back to the loading dock. All I had to do was make sure every person past me was wearing a badge - either employee or band - and while I noticed some people my age drifting closer to me, none passed except those who were supposed to be.
"Bored yet?" Del came up, handing me a bottle of water. "Any trouble?"
"No," I said, and took a long drink of the water. It was cool, and I don't think I've tasted water that good in months. Crisp, and a bit chilled. I took another long swig, and Del raised his eyebrows. "Fuck, it's hot in here," I told him. I wiped my forehead with my arm, and took another drink of water, finishing off the bottle. "And," I told him, tossing the bottle into the trash, "my feet are fucking killing me."
"Get better boots," he suggested. "And inserts." He pointed down at his boots, a pair of bright green boots laced up tightly. "Your feet will love you for it."
"Or a weekly massage," I said.
"You need to trade in on a better lover, then, cause they're cheaper than massages," he said, watching several girls near us pose provocatively. He snorted, dismissing them.
"Depends on how expensive you like your lovers," I told him.
"Yeah, I hear that." He wandered off with a wave over his shoulder, heading to backstage to check the bands' rooms.
I did end up getting approached around the time the first band came onstage. Four girls surrounded me, not quite intruding into my personal space but doing their best to sidle past while showing a fair bit of cleavage. I gave them props for trying, but I wasn't in the mood. My hangover had never really seemed to disappear, the place was as hot as Venus' atmosphere, and I felt sticky and foul-tempered. I crossed my arms, leaned against the wall, and glared at any girl who meandered over an invisible line I'd drawn. Within seconds, they'd back up, edging over to their side, and I'd relax. Five minutes later, someone would try it again, I'd glare, and they'd back up.
It was rather a little bit fun, after awhile. But then, having a task that consists mostly of being a human gateway isn't the most entertaining way to spend an evening. I was rather proud of myself, in a strangely perverse way, for coming up with something to keep me amused.
I had a break after an hour or two, and was sent to empty the drink tubs in the bands' rooms. A half-hour of moving back and forth from the bar, down the stairs, into the band rooms, up the stairs with a tub of melting water, and back to the bar... my body was glad of the chance to move, but my feet weren't any happier than they'd been from standing around. The end of the break, and I ended up by the back door again. Del came by to check on me, and I gave him a sour look.
"So much for all the pretty girls trying to make nice with me," I complained. He took one look around, realized the crowd was keeping clear a good twenty feet, and started laughing hard enough to make the soundman lean over from his box above us.
"Nothing, we're cool," Del yelled up to Rich, who rolled his eyes, shook his head of bushy hair, and put the headphones back on. I leaned against the wall, smirking at Del, who stood next to me, hands in his pockets. "See, this is one of the more boring jobs," he said. "Well, they're all boring, but if you can handle this, you'll do okay with the rest. Although... " He grinned at the girls giving me frightened looks. "Maybe we should just set up a little stool for you, and keep you here on every busy night."
I glared at him, and Del backed up a half step, his hands raised. "Come on, man, just kidding. Tomorrow night, you'll work a different spot, until you've done all of them, and then we'll have you on rotation."
"Good," I said, my gaze drifting back to the crowd pushing around the edge of the dance floor nearest the exit. First Lola, then Jamie... maybe they were right. Maybe there was something in the way I could look that frightened people. It wasn't like I meant to, but if I could figure out when I was doing it, having a scary look - as Lola put it - might come in handy every now and then.
I got home at two in the morning. Fred had sent me home when they closed the doors, promising me I could wear myself out loading the trucks once I was used to being on my feet in a noisy club all night long. I think I almost fell asleep leaning against the door as I shoved my key in the lock, and when the door opened, I fell into my apartment. It was only through a great deal of self-discipline that I managed to hang my coat, put my boots by the door, shove my dirty clothes into one of the plastic crates and not mess the hell out of my clean apartment. Then I showered, brushed my teeth, contemplated shaving and said to hell with it, and fell into bed.
Classes started again in five days, but I'd found a temporary routine to fill the time. I slept until ten, then got up and drew, or went to the school library and read up on art theory. Much of it went over my head, but I challenged myself trying to draw some of the portraits. There was something missing in most of my pictures - outside of the ones of people I knew, really - but I couldn't put my finger on it.
By seven each day I was at work, having dinner in the club's kitchen with Del and Boo, who turned out to be a phenomenal cook. I tried to learn by watching, and on my first night off, attempted to duplicate his spaghetti sauce. I ended up with an apartment full of smoke, a scorched pan, and a bad cough.
Well, the cough had been building, but with the days of walking back and forth through the cold, that was no surprise. I wrote it off as something Doctor O's shots would only be able to prevent for so long. It wasn't like I'd been planning on living through Operation Meteor, after all, so why would he have bothered with anything but the most powerful, short-term rounds? So I bundled up as best I could, and when my check was rerouted from my main trust fund to my local bank account, I got myself a bathmat, a heating blanket, and wool socks.
And despite keeping my eyes on the crowd every night, I didn't see Jamie even once. I still wasn't sure whether this pleased me, or disappointed me.
Four days of work and I had another night off. Fred gave me the break, since classes started the next day. I spent the day filling another newspaper booklet with random sketches of hands, feet, noses, eyes, ears... in all different colors. I was wearing the chalks down to nothing, but found the shorter the stick, the easier it was to control. Sometimes it seemed like only by making mistakes did I ever figure out better ways to do things.
I was just taping the most recent sketch up on the wall, backing up to eye it from a distance. One of the books had said that was a good idea, and I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but it had become a nice ritual. Someone knocked on the door, a tentative tapping sound, and I wiped the chalk off my hands onto the bottom of my shirt. Pulling my gun out from under my pillow, I took a deep breath before opening the door, gun-hand relaxed and ready at my side.
"Whoa, Cat," Felicia said, seeing the gun and her eyes going wide. "I come in peace!" She held up a bright red bag, and I gave her a rueful grin before stepping back to let her in. "Man, you look like shit. And you obviously know how to make a girl... hey... wow."
"Hunh?" I turned from where I'd slipped the gun back under the blankets, to see her standing in the middle of my tiny apartment, looking at the walls with a stunned expression. "Oh. Yeah. Lola gave me a sketchbook, and... " I shrugged, embarrassed. "I wasn't planning on—"
"Moron." Felicia walked over and poked my in the stomach. I choked, but it turned into a coughing fit, and she pounded me on the back a few times, looking worried. "Cat, that doesn't---"
"It's a cold, but it's fading," I told her, trying to stifle another cough and failing. "Got caught in the rain last week."
"Because you were doing something stupid?"
I stepped away with a shake of my head. "No. Tea? Back in town just today?"
"Yeah, this morning. I'll wait for coffee on campus." She smirked, and then pointed to the red bag on my table. "That's for you."
"Fel," I groaned, turning the flame on under my post-spaghetti pot. If I made the tea strong enough, hopefully I wouldn't taste the lingering taint of garlic. "I didn't---"
"Come on, Cat," she coaxed. "I didn't warn you because I wasn't planning on it. But Canh and I found it and it just seemed perfect."
"Perfect," I repeated, suspicious.
"Yeah." She opened her eyes wide, and I frowned at her before dutifully lifting a small box out of the bag. I opened the box, to find what looked like a bundle of red-brown fake fur and plastic.
"Felicia, you got me a... " I turned it over in my hands. "I have no idea what you got me."
Felica took the item from me. Twisting it easily in her hands, it popped open. It was a pair of earmuffs.
With cat ears.
"You're kidding," I said, flatly.
"Nope!" She held them out to me. "You need ear muffs in this city."
"Those are cat ears," I pointed out.
"Right!" Felicia waved them under my nose, then raised the ear muffs, trying to slap them over my head. I ducked backwards, swatting at her. She pouted, an unusual look on her features. "Come on, Cat, put them on, just once?"
"Those are fuzzy cat ears!" I dodged again, backing up around the table.
"Cute!" She cackled and waved the earmuffs at me again. "Just once!"
"No! I don't do cute!" Once I did, I amended. I don't do cute now. "Cute expires at five-three, and after that it's criminal," I told her, almost falling backwards over the cracked chair. "And I'm nine inches past that!"
"Regress! For me!" She paused, then frowned and set the earmuffs down on the table. "Fine," she sniffed. "Never mind. I just thought they were perfect for you. I saw someone wearing them in New York, and Canh and I spent two days tracking down the store where the person had gotten them."
"The guilt trip doesn't fit you," I growled through my teeth, annoyed that she was pulling out the trump card. Felicia sighed deeply, and shrugged. I growled again and reluctantly snagged the earmuffs, regarding them with a scowl before lowering them onto my head. Settling the earmuffs in place, I crossed my arms and glared. "Happy?"
"Yeah," she said. "Think your water's boiling."
"It is?" I looked towards the sink, and suddenly a bright flash of light blinded me.
I blinked, and ripped the earmuffs off my ears just as my apartment door slammed. I shouted at the top of my lungs and tore out after her. "Felicia!" Footsteps pounded down the stairs ahead of me, and I kept up as best I could, hollering at the top of my lungs. "I'm going to kick your ass, Felicia! Give me that camera!"
"No!" she yelled back, amazingly fast for someone five inches shorter than me. She leapt down the last set of stairs, and I missed the tail of her jacket by a half-foot. "Incoming," she screamed.
The front door was blown open and Felicia went flying through. I was a half-second behind her. I pushed through the swinging doors to see Felicia bent over on the icy sidewalk, her hands on her knees. She was breathing fast, and laughing.
"Where is it?" I looked to the left, to see Lola flying off in one direction, Vin at her side. I was about to take off, when Felicia's hoarse laugh caught me up.
"You sure?" She pointed in the opposite direction, and I turned to see Chip and Lisa crossing the street, laughing at me over their shoulders.
"Fuckin' cat ears," I said, glowering.
"They were cute," Felicia said.
"Cute," I snarled, and stalked back into my apartment building. Felicia's laughter chased me all the way into the stairwell.
Classes started that following Monday, and I was leaving Wilson building when I ran into Felicia and Lisa. They took one look at me and burst into hysterical laughter.
"Fine. Laugh it up," I said, grimacing.
"Oh, come on," Felicia chided, then sobered with an obvious amount of effort. "Got your schedule?"
"Yeah." Distracted, I obediently dug in my pockets. I pulled it out, and she snatched it, making a tsk'ing sound under her breath. I peered over her shoulder, confused. "What's wrong? I've got a bunch of general requirements—"
"Come on, Cat," Lisa said, snagging my arm and pulling me backwards into Wilson.
"Hell, what is it with you people always fuckin' dragging me places?" I surged forward, only to be blocked by Felicia. "I wanted to stop by Frazier—"
"Nope," Felicia announced. "You're going to add-drop with us."
"What for?" I braced myself, crossing my arms, and did my best to ignore Lisa tugging at my sleeve, trying to pull me off-balance. I gave her a dark look, sideways. "Lisa, I out-weight you and out-height you. Don't even—"
Felicia shoved me and I tilted. The two girls shrieked, spun me, and dragged me back into Wilson. Giving up, I let them pull me along, and made a note to take the long way to Frazier next time.
"Advanced Anthropology," Lisa read out. We were sitting in line, plunked down on the floor in the corridor, waiting for our turns in the administration offices. I had stretched out my legs but after the fourth person tripped over me, I ended up with my knees under my chin, feeling highly put-upon.
"Naw," Felicia replied. "I haven't taken the pre-reqs."
"Oh, Introduction to Intercultural Conflicts." Lisa peered at the miniscule print. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, one to three. In Center Two."
"I could do that. Code?"
"Five-oh-oh-three-seven-two," Lisa read out. Felicia wrote it down on her slip, counted up her credits, and nodded in satisfaction. Lisa flipped through the booklet. "Life drawing, Mondays, nine to twelve."
"That'll conflict with your Civil Engineering class," I pointed out.
Felicia studied the paper in her hand. "So drop History of Europe... "
"Yeah," Lisa agreed. "Boring."
"You're taking that, too?" I yawned and watched another group of freshman go past, tittering about something.
"And... Two-dimensional Art," Lisa said, nearly bouncing in place. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, two to four."
"Clear," Felicia said, scribbling something on a piece of paper.
"Wait a minute," I said, and grabbed the paper. Scanning it quickly, I held it over my head before Felicia could snatch it back. "This sheet has my name on it!"
"That's right, cat-boy," Lisa said, pulling on a lock of my hair. "We're signing you up for all sorts of great art classes."
"I am not taking art—"
"Cat Winner," the woman at the head of the line called, in a bored voice.
"I'm not in—" The rest of my words were muffled. Felicia grinned at the woman and kept her hand firmly fixed over my mouth.
"Coming," she told the woman, and poked me. "Get up, Cat, this is all for your own good."
I muttered something rude that would've been coherent if she hadn't still had her hand on my mouth. I got to my feet, grabbing my bag. Felicia had to come up on her toes to keep her hand plastered across my lips. She pushed me forward, towards the waiting administrator. Lisa trailed along behind us, still reading the school's list of classes.
"Oh," Lisa cried. "And Introduction to the Abstract. That sounds cool. Monday and Wednesday, one to three. Add that, too, Felicia – who needs Psychology 101 anyway?"
Two days later I had been to all my new classes, and had wasted an afternoon in a ridiculously long line to return the books for classes Lisa and Felicia had deemed unimportant. Lola kept me company, and we chatted mostly about her new classes. I told her where I was working, and she expressed surprise, then promised to come visit me on a slow night.
Part of me didn't want her to. Part of me was still hoping I'd see Jamie.
I didn't say anything, just nodded and changed the subject by kissing her.
Wednesday night, before I left for work, I sat down and compared the costs of all the supplies I'd need for my three art classes. I lined that up against the income I'd designated as a reasonable scholarship amount that a real college student would have, and added my expected income from work. It would be tight – damn tight, unfortunately.
Did I want to study art? I looked around my apartment, seeing my little box of chalk sitting on my most recent notepad, the sketches piling up on every horizontal surface and taped to every wall. I didn't know if I wanted to study it, but I knew I liked doing it. It was hard. I couldn't get it, half the time, whatever it was. But it was that feeling of something, for once, being just out of my reach, possible not through batting my eyelashes or writing a check but by sheer obstinacy.
I got down my shoebox from the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet. Buried at the bottom was a checkbook, direct access to my trust fund. I stared at it for a long minute, and smiled. It was my inheritance, and if I wanted to do this – truly do this – then I had every right to that money. I wouldn't cut myself short, not if it really mattered to me.
Still smiling, but a little nervous, I opened the book and wrote out a check to myself. Tucking it into my pocket, I grabbed my coat and left early for work.
I caught the bank just before it closed, and nearly laughed when the bank teller's eyes went wide. It was hardly a neighborhood where a transfer of ten thousand credits was a regular occurrence, but I wasn't planning on doing it again for another six or seven months. And if the teacher's warnings had been any sign, I expected to spend at least half that amount on supplies alone.
I was rather looking forward to it.
I spent most of the evening checking ID and stamping hands. A good part of my mind was busy reveling in the memory of running my hands across stiff paper, feeling the coarse threads of fiber against my fingertips. Pens and charcoal, tubes of oil and fat brushes with fine sable hairs. I couldn't wait to try all of it, see what I could do, see what would happen. It was a good chance I would fail, and I'd grow terrified considering that, but then I'd remember the life drawing teacher's polite criticism of the few sketches I'd shown her. And I didn't think, then, that her critique meant I couldn't do it. I only thought: how can I get better? Show me.
It was like learning Sandrock, all over again.
"Man, you get laid before work or something?" John handed back ID to someone, stamped their hand, and glanced at me, amused.
"No... hunh?" I blinked, my mind catching up with his words. "Uh... just thinking about stuff."
"Do it on your own time, then," John said, but grinned. "Fred's on the warpath. College students are back, and there's sure to be fights."
"Always are," a familiar voice agreed. I looked up to see Jamie looking at me, but then his gaze slid right past me to grin at John. They shook hands, and Jamie headed on through the doors into the club, joking with some of his friends.
"Cat?" John frowned at me, and I blinked again, focusing on his face. "You okay? You look kinda... weird."
"Weird," I said, and shook my head. Another coughing fit hit me, and it was several seconds before I could get my voice back. "No... " I was saved from any excuses when another group came through the doors, presenting their tickets.
When I got a break from the front doors, I was sent around on clean up duty, and made my way through the crowd, collecting bottles from tables and throwing plastic cups in the trash. The voices advanced and receded, but I was attuned to a single voice, a man a few inches taller than me, with jet-black hair and piercing gray eyes. I didn't see him. I did my best to not really look.
I wasn't sure what I'd do if he were there. Ignore him, I told myself. But at the same time, I wanted to run into him, so he'd know I was ignoring him. That logic made no sense. Frustrated, I ended up glaring at everyone in my immediate vicinity. It made cleaning tables a great deal easier when people hedge away as you approach.
I took a quick break for the bathroom, locking myself into one of the stalls. I leaned against the door and tried to get my heart to calm down to a reasonable level. There was no need to talk to him. I had nothing to say to him. I didn't want to be near him. I didn't want to be touching him. I'd had sex with Lola the day before. It was good. She talked too much afterwards, but I was learning to tune that out. It was fine. It was enough. I did not run my tongue down her sternum and think about the softness of her skin compared to hard muscles. I did not ache for a fierce touch on my cock when her gentle fingertips were pleasure enough. I did not...
My hand in my mouth to stifle a groan, I closed my eyes. Unbidden, I could see Trowa sleeping in my bed, his hand flung out towards me, and I had to swallow hard to keep my eyes from watering. I dropped my hand, feeling my chest tighten and convulse, and pushed myself out of the stall. It'd been long enough, and I needed to get back to work.
A coughing spasm hit me and I leaned against the stall door, doubling over as the wracking shook my body. I straightened up, coughs shaking my chest, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The coughing always seemed worse after an hour or two at the club, but I figured the smoky atmosphere was just making the cold linger. I sighed, coughed again, and opened my eyes to see a plastic cup full of water in front of my face.
I stared at the hand holding the cup. My gaze moved from there to the black leather sleeve, up to the shoulder, to Jamie's face.
"Drink," he said, and gave me a smile. "That cough sounds really bad."
"It's nothing," I said, a bit hoarsely.
"Tea would be better, but water might help soothe your throat."
I stared at the cup, warily. I wasn't sure whether to knock it out of his hand, or take it. After a moment's hesitation I took it, sipping slowly. When I'd half-finished the cup, I handed it back to him.
"You're welcome," he said, and I frowned at him, not sure what he meant, and not sure what to say. Jamie shrugged. He emptied the cup in one of the sinks, and tossed it in the trash. "You don't have to say thank you," he told me, slanting a look sideways as he passed me. "But I'll still say you're welcome."
End Part 6
ow.
(:./sol/worst6)
