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nancefics...but as I have my suspicions that the very-pretty-but-sadly-ignored VCTF Command Center will go "poof" and just vanish one of these days, I figured I'd transfer my fic-in-progress over to LJ-land. I like this one, for some reason; if the characters are nice enough to actually talk to me a little more (as opposed to their present standard glare-and-mumble), I might even finish it.
A Little Like Insane: Profiler, FrancesFic, R (language, sexual situations)
Summary: It's been too long since I took a little foray into the darker side of things with my favorite Angst Princess from "Profiler" (I'd call her my favorite Angst Princess of all fandoms, but I don't want her ego to get too big). I've always figured that Frances Malone's life on the run entailed a bit more than French fries and quickie phone calls home; so this is my version. Continuity, as such, is basically through season two and "It Cuts Both Ways." The title and the verse snippets are borrowed from the song "Blood From a Stone" by Jonatha Brooke -- a very respectable Angst Princess songstress herself.
Disclaimer: "Profiler" belongs to some big bunch of frequently-changing Powers That Be who aren't me, else certain characters would've had a lot more fun than they did and Steve Kronish would be doing an after-hours Reno lounge act even as we speak. I promise to play nice and put them back, happy and tired, when I'm finally finished -- I don't have to be specific on when that'll be, right?
Feedback: wanted, needed and much appreciated at digital_doc_01@yahoo.com
**1/4**
It's as if we're chasing some familiar fault line
Running down the coast from you to me
Dark potential just beneath the surface
All the worlds colliding in a tragedy
Blood from a stone, wine from water
I'd die here alone, only daughter
His name was Trent. Von-something-or-other, she hadn't caught the rest and she didn't really care. It was some fine old-money moniker, reeking of trust funds and country clubs and the Right Thing that her mother had always been after her to do. It made it all the more ironic that Trent was on the run just like she was, escaping his expensive demons in a late-model Trans Am and more than willing to take on a passenger. He thought Frances was an edgy kind of name. He hadn't bothered himself with the rest of her name; she didn't care about that either.
He'd driven her to what he called Club Central, just south of the Stacks. It was a neighborhood to give middle-class parents nightmares, just skirting the tired tenuous rim of the inner city, where broken-down row houses with their plywood-covered windows and hollow-eyed crack addict residents had begun to make grudging room for renovated store fronts. Trent called it "dangerous chic." He'd furnished Big Macs and vodka for the trip, because he thought that combination was chic too. And so she'd filled her belly with grease and Stoly, then ground her knees into the custom floor mats as she paid her dues and sucked him off. He'd pulled a glassine bag and a needle out of the glove box while she washed the taste of him out of her mouth with the rest of the vodka, and he'd expressed surprise that she wasn't into the hard stuff when she declined.
And she'd decided then and there that Trent had exhausted his usefulness.
The Trans Am had been warmer than the shit hotel room she was in now, but she had privacy and a working shower for a couple of hours, and that was worth the price of four or five Trents at least. The nightmares only woke her up once that evening, and they weren't as bad lately, she didn't feel the gun grow hot in her grip anymore, didn't wake up screaming and trying to wipe the blood off her hands. In some ways, getting used to the horrors scared her more than the nightmares themselves.
She checked out at 2 AM. She could only afford the rent-by-the-hour rates every few days, and then only for four or five hours at a time. She was down to about fifty dollars in cash, and she didn't dare use the credit cards for fear there'd be a tracer on her in no time flat. But the after-hours rave clubs had opened at midnight, and she could hang there for a while and stay warm, until daybreak or until she found another Trent to get her through another twenty-four hours, whichever came first.
A booth with a payphone sat just to the right of the lobby exit. She hesitated, staring, some marginal image from her dream hell still hovering in a corner of her mind. It wasn't forgivable, this fucked-up tangent she'd gone off on. Not really her fault, but God, so not forgivable and surely not understandable, except...he used those big important words all the time, right? Love, protection, unconditional, acceptance. Daughter. His. So just maybe, maybe, he wanted to help and could still make it...fixable. Was that a word? Nice word if it was, nice concept.
Fixable, fixable, five or six steps across the lobby to make it to the phone, okay, that part was easy enough. Simple, non-threatening phone with a greasy plastic handle, worn smooth from years of desperate grasping fingers, cool against her face as she pressed the buttons. Fixable, fixable, seven digits and she could be safe, she could be fixed, only shit, she had to dial a "1" for local calls here and the fucking phone ate the quarter, and she had to remember to breathe as she dug around for more change, had to stay positive and picture him smiling and opening his arms, not still and pale and prone and oh so very red where she....
Two rings, then a grunt and a thumping sound, like the phone had been knocked off its cradle by someone still half-asleep and grappling with his own nightmares.
"H'lo?" He sounded...healthier than the last time. She opened her mouth.
"Hello?" Irritation in the voice, then something else.
Hope.
Fear?
"Frannie? Baby, is that you?"
As if on cue, high-pitched mechanical screams shattered the air just outside the hotel, and she almost dropped the phone as the police car sped by, lights flashing blue and red and distorted in the dirty glass doors. Not unusual in this neighborhood and nothing personal, but she was bathed in it for a split second, she was red like blood, like his, and the timing of the whole thing was sheer horrific fucking brilliance because right then, right there she knew, oh God, she knew.
"Frannie? Don't hang up, baby, please -- we can work this out --"
Bad idea, bad bad bad fucking idea. And it wasn't fixable, she wouldn't be fixable again except by penance paid in locks and bars and flashing lights the color of blood, and was it even fixable then, was she? Heart pounding, she slammed down the phone and ran on shaky legs, out of the lobby and south for two blocks, not stopping until she reached the warehouse with its blacked-out windows and the rave party in full swing.
**2/4**
Silence has become our only currency
You pay me and I'll be sure to pay you back
But step lightly till you cross the jagged border
For the earth may shift beneath you, pull the rug out,
All your history keeping track
The bass beat hit her like a wave as she pressed against the wall for dear life, the smoke and the techno thump and the purple sheen of the blacklights bringing her to a place that was somewhere between nausea and elation. Once her head stopped spinning she straightened up, unzipping her jacket and smoothing the front of her vinyl pants. She'd worked a little bit on the makeup tonight before she checked out, made herself look closer to twenty-one than seventeen. No one really gave a shit about age of consent at these places, but she wasn't in a position to push her luck, and anyway she figured that looking better might make her feel better. She'd pass muster here tonight, no problem.
They were all around her, a sea of strung-out kids out for their own escape, intent on getting laid or getting wasted. Sweaty black-clad bodies stretched out before her as far as she could see, writhing on the dance floor, crawling, lying down even, whether fucking or withdrawing or dying impossible to tell because it was all just a continuum, a haze.
Just another night in hell, welcome to the rest of your life, Frances Malone.
She shivered and pressed closer to the wall. In a few more minutes she'd start prowling for a dark corner to curl up in, crawl under her coat and get warm and anonymous. Maybe she'd even be able to sleep -- she'd slept in worse places than this.
Someone nearby had decided that scented foam would add a nice touch to the dance floor; her head began to ache from the candy-sweet scent and she fished in her backpack for her last couple of Kools. She ducked her head and was in mid-light up when someone barreled into her from the side. Bottled water exploded across the front of her shirt and trickled into a puddle of dust and damp ruined tobacco at her feet.
"Jesus Christ, will you fucking watch it?!" She was soaked right through to her skin and she shivered violently under the industrial ceiling fans.
"Dude, sorry. Hey, peace offering, 'kay?" It was Trent Part Two, this one a wannabe goth boy with red-rimmed watery eyes that leered out at her from smeared sweaty makeup. He dangled a candy bracelet and a couple of E's in front of her, staring fixedly at the peaks of her nipples where the water had hit the hardest.
"No thanks," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her back. She'd rather freeze to death than have to put out to Vamp Boy. She kicked at the soggy cigarette with the toe of one boot. Shit, the only drug she was into these days was nicotine and she couldn't even catch a fucking smoke break.
"Have one of mine, they're dry."
She jumped at the voice at her ear, then took a step back from the blonde man who'd materialized at her side out of nowhere. He leaned against the wall, extending a thin silver case toward her. She eyed the cigarettes suspiciously.
"If they look a little funny it's because they're a custom blend. Don't worry, it's just boring old tobacco."
His grin was amused, as if he'd read her predictable, naïve little thoughts. Great, Malone, get a wet tee-shirt from one pervert and another one slithers on up to enjoy the show. She began to clutch the jacket that had fallen open again, then stopped when she realized he was focusing his attention on her face, not her breasts. Curious, she pulled a cigarette from the case.
"Thanks." He struck a match for her and she flicked a quick glance at his face as she leaned in toward him. Late thirties, she'd guess, early forties tops. Nice brown eyes.
"Forty-one."
Startled, she choked on the cigarette smoke. His thin lips parted, perfect white teeth flashing in a lazy smile. "Well, that is what you were wondering, isn't it?"
"No! Well, yeah. Sort of." She was glad he couldn't see her blushing under the blacklight. "It's...I was just wondering because you're kind of old to be in one of these places." Oh, that came out just great. She cringed, he laughed.
"Yes, I am, I realized that as soon as I walked in. Believe it or not, I only stopped to buy matches, but all of the bars were already closed."
"Oh." She frowned at the sudden pervasive flavor on her tongue. "What did you blend into this thing?"
"A floral combination. It sweetens my bad habit." He lit one of his own creations and inhaled deeply. It gave her the opportunity to study him a little harder. Aside from his age, he'd fit in pretty well among the dangerous-chic set. Like most of the patrons of this strung-out little corner of the world, he had the all-black thing going. No need for this one to pretend that cheap synthetics were fashionable, though; his coat alone probably cost more than the car she'd gotten for her 16th birthday. She caught the flash of metal between skin and leather as he blew out the match, and impulsively she reached out and turned his wrist to get a better look. He raised his eyebrows at the contact but held still, smiling as she mouthed the name scrawled on the watch face.
"The watchmaker's name is Silberstein. Not that I mind this as an alternative, but you could have just asked."
"Yeah, but I like to experience things for myself." She broke contact, unsure if she'd just crossed some line of propriety -- and then more unsure why she even gave a shit about crossing that particular line when she'd barreled beyond so many others. "You know, don't take this wrong, but you stick out in here. This probably isn't the best neighborhood to be running around flashing expensive watches, you never know what kind of psycho you could run into."
His lips lifted around the cigarette. "No, you never do. Thanks for the tip. Although you realize you don't look much like a local yourself."
She looked beyond him, past the sweaty oblivious waves of flesh. "I'm not a local. This is just...temporary." Dear God, let this be temporary.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "Well then, it's not very wise for you to be alone in a place like this either, is it?"
"Trust me, I can take care of myself just fine."
The cigarette smoke muted his skeptical stare. "Mm. Mind if I ask how old you are?"
"Mind if I say old enough to have already figured out that the world generally sucks?"
"I'll take that as a 'none of your damned business, old man.'" He smiled, then shrugged lightly. "The world doesn't always suck, you know. Sometimes it's just lonely. It helps to have a friend or two out there."
A friend. John Grant had called himself a friend, until she really needed his help. Then he was her father's friend, and she was merely a minor annoyance on the other end of a telephone line, some pain-in-the-ass teen who was a just little too smart to trust him and all his fake caring and concern on the same side of a chain-link fence. Any way you sliced it that was her destiny, to be in the way and shit out of luck. "Friends are over-rated."
Tilt of the head, flash of white teeth around the cigarette -- and just how did he do that, talking and smoking simultaneously? "Spoken like someone who's a veteran of getting screwed over. Maybe you've just been hanging out with the wrong friends."
And with that, something finally clicked, something about the smile and the words began to raise the small fine hairs on the back of her neck. She took a step back.
"Look, if this is going where I think it is, you can just sling it to some other girl -- I don't need that kind of 'friendship' and I sure as hell don't need any help from a pimp or a pervert."
For a second he looked like he'd almost swallowed his cigarette; the brown eyes widened in surprise, an expression that looked oddly out of place on his features. Then he started to laugh, albeit self-consciously. "Ouch, Jesus, you think I'm a pimp? What, is it the coat? I realize I don't exactly look like a Republican or an altar-boy here, but a pimp? I think I'm both wounded and suddenly very fashion-conscious. Shit, a pimp!"
She should walk away, flip him off and leave. Because her warning bells had gotten fine-tuned over the last months, and all at once he was setting off the big ones.
But he was actually...blushing.
She watched the rising color fan out from his neck all the way up to the roots of his hair, plain as day even in the blacklight. She'd really shocked him. And your basic neighborhood psycho probably wouldn't turn all awkward-adolescent geeky and blush crimson over being mistaken for a pimp, right? Wouldn't just be...standing there. Harmless. Pretty, in a rich middle-aged kind of way. And the thought that she'd put him off-balance, flustered Mr. Button-Down who was part of a world that was normal and old and accepted, well, it had to make her.... A little proud at her power over him. A little warm. A little curious about what friction between leather and vinyl would sound like, feel like. Which made her a lot warm, except....
Except, fuck, suddenly he was laughing harder and it was at her.
"What, so now I'm funny because I don't buy into your bullshit? Because I'm suspicious when a total stranger plies me with cigarettes and comes off all concerned about my welfare?"
"Plies? First I was pimping, now I'm plying?"
"All I'm saying is it was weird. Come on, walk a mile in my shoes, how the hell would you interpret that comment about needing friends?"
For the first time he let his eyes travel from her face down the length of her body, quickly and impersonally until he fixed on the black platform boots. "Love that expression. However, I don't think I could fit into those shoes for walking, stepping, or anything else."
"You know what, I don't need to be laughed at, I'm out of here --"
"Parents or police?"
The words stopped her as quickly as any hands around her throat would have, left her rooted to the spot swallowing back panic. She had to turn around slowly, just to be sure that he wasn't strangling her for real, but he was still just there, just leaning against the wall, looking.
"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?"
A kindly smile, only the quirk of one pale eyebrow letting on that he wasn't buying the bullshit. "You're obviously running from someone important. I figured those were the top two choices."
"You don't know what you're talking about. I'm here because I want to be." Oh yes, and if she spoke with a bit more conviction and practiced until she was thirty, those words would still fall about a mile short of sounding convincing.
"An attractive young woman who has an eye for fine watches chooses to hang out in a combat zone and take a bottled-water bath courtesy of some sweaty boy on an E high? I like my theory better."
Every word out of her mouth put her more in danger of giving herself away, and damn if she didn't know that; but the sarcastic tone was just a little too much like his for her to let it slide. Arms folded, she mimicked his slouch against the wall and did her best to look down her nose at him, difficult given his height advantage. "Hey, pick whatever theory you like. Maybe you just don't get the scene. It's not my fault you're too old for dangerous chic." And, oh holy shit, had she really just quoted Trent?
Something flickered across his face at the phrase, a mix of anger, amusement, and something else, something dark and unreadable and able to quite irrationally scare the shit out of her for the split second it was there. Then his features relaxed into the same old well-bred blandness. "In that case I'd better let you get back to all this ambience. One for the road?" He held the silver case out to her, and as she leaned in to take a cigarette he leaned with her, close enough so his words and his breath traced a pattern on her cheek. "A word of advice, though? If you want people to believe that dangerous-chic line you have to look a lot less terrified than you did when you walked in here."
A tangled panicked image of sirens and gunshots and blood rushed through her mind as she jumped back from him. "You were watching me?"
He quickly brought both hands in front of him in a placating gesture, the burning cigarette still trapped between two tapered fingers. "Relax, relax -- I wasn't following you, if that's what you're getting at. Look, I'm not a pimp or a cop or anything, OK? I'm not even a dirty old man hitting on a pretty girl. The bathrooms are near the entrance, I was coming out and I noticed you when you walked in, that's all. And I noticed that you didn't fit this scene any more that I do."
"Yeah, right --"
"What, do you want examples? For starters, you looked like you couldn't stand the fact that you had to blend in with all the sweat and the drugs and the grime, but it was better than whatever you were running away from out there. When that idiot made you drop your cigarette you looked like it was the perfect end to a perfectly bad day. You're aware that this is exactly the type of place that brings out the perverts and the pimps, so your radar is on high. You'd be happy if the walls just swallowed you up, but since that's probably not going to happen you're hoping your jacket will be a warm enough blanket for the rest of the night, just as soon as you find an empty corner or a bathroom stall someone hasn't puked in yet."
She could deal with the reality, just not the descriptions, so fucking close to the mark. Shifting on one hip, she swallowed back the ridiculous urge to cry, focusing on his shoes until her mascara wasn't quite so damp. "That's pretty colorful. Not that it's right or anything."
Another secret grin around the cigarette, white teeth flashing in her peripheral vision. "Yeah, well, people are sort of my hobby. Sorry if I sounded harsh or like I was making fun of you, I wasn't. But I've gotten to be pretty good at reading body language."
"And you picked me to analyze? You have a whole room full of people to stare at."
Her eyes were dry enough for her to look up, in time to see him run a hand through his hair self-consciously. "Ah, shit, you've got me. I was watching you because you're the prettiest girl in the room, OK? Hey, I said I wasn't a pimp, I never said I wasn't human." He looked relieved when she smiled, then stuck out a tentative hand. "God, I am sounding like a dirty old man. So, am I forgiven, young lady?"
She considered the hand, then gripped it just as tentatively with her own. "I guess so. If you don't call me 'young lady,' that's just too weird." He laughed, then looked at her expectantly for a second before she realized she'd trailed off. "Oh, um, Frances -- I'm Frances." Shit, she'd meant to say "Naomi" or "Ann" or some name that wasn't hers, and then she realized she was still gripping his hand, and it was smooth and surprisingly cool and she felt like a bigger idiot than before because he was just so normal and so not like anything else crawling around this place, and she had to step back and hope he didn't see her blushing so hard because she kept getting these thoughts about a guy who'd actually just said "young lady," oh fuck. "Look, um, I'm sorry about being such a bitch before, it's just, you know, you can never be too sure in a place like this."
"No offense taken, I'm a firm believer in self-preservation. Well, Frances, it was nice meeting you, but I'd better get out of here while I'm still functioning. I haven't eaten anything all day and I'm starving, and I don't think the Jell-O shooters are going to cut it as dinner." He ground his cigarette out with the heel of his shoe, then paused before he looked up back at her. "You know, there's a decent diner a block away from the Stacks, I go there after work sometimes. Nothing fancy, but it's good comfort food and they're open all night. Want to join me? They have a matzoh ball soup to die for." Before she could respond, he held up his hands in the same placating gesture. "Before you worry, I'm not offering to buy you dinner or obligate you in any way, you can pay out of your own pocket."
She hesitated, pride and caution vying with the gaping hold that had opened up in her stomach when he'd mentioned a hot meal. "I'm sorry, I can't."
He shrugged good-naturedly. "I understand. Like you said, you never can be too careful."
"No, it's not that, god, you're the most normal guy I've hung out with for, like, ages. It's just. I -- I really can't afford it right now." She trailed off, too embarrassed to do more than stare at his shoes.
"And you weren't going to mention that little fact?" He sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Now I'm going to sound even older and duller, but hell Frances, you have to eat. I'll buy you dinner."
She shook her head firmly. "No. No, I'm not a charity case." Dammit, it would be a lot easier say it forcefully if he hadn't been nice enough to not rub her nose in the fact that he'd read her pathetic-broke-runaway body language so well. And if she weren't so hungry.
"I'm aware of that, thank you, I wasn't implying any such thing. You can pay me back as soon as you're flush again."
"I don't know...."
"Frances." There was something in his tone, not quite threatening, but brooking no argument; he'd stepped closer to emphasize his words, and she could smell the odd sweet tobacco on his breath, warm and disturbing on her cheek. "Whether or not the world sucks, it's all about choices. Right now you have two of them. You can have a warm meal on me, no obligation, no expectations. Or you can hang out here until you're hungry enough to accept when Goth Boy or one of his little clones invites you over for a cut of candy and Ecstasy, and you know how you'll be paying for that meal. It's your move."
Amazing, how he could speak the cruelest words wearing the most pleasant normal smile. She felt a shudder ripple up her spine, not from the cold or the dampness of her clothes. And how much colder would it be when he gave up and walked out and all that was left was her and this place and all its inhabitants who were not him? Too cold to think of.... His smile widened a little, as if he were reading her again.
"I guess you have a point. Hey -- you didn't tell me your name." Funny that she hadn't noticed that before.
"Didn't I?" He gave her the same apologetic, self-conscious look. "My bad. My friends call me Jack. Shall we?"
Amazing. Fuck up, hole up, hide away, and suddenly a girl could find a knight in shining armor in the strangest places. She nodded at her soon-to-be dinner companion.
"Lead on." Clutching the backpack to her chest, she followed him out of the blacklight.
*pokes at characters* Talk to me, dammit! I actually have ideas for this one!
...and no, my Harry/Sirius fics never did get beyond the planning stage, but in this new post-OotP world I figure I have more of a chance to actually rev 'em up. Because it's all about the Angst, baby. *G*
A Little Like Insane: Profiler, FrancesFic, R (language, sexual situations)
Summary: It's been too long since I took a little foray into the darker side of things with my favorite Angst Princess from "Profiler" (I'd call her my favorite Angst Princess of all fandoms, but I don't want her ego to get too big). I've always figured that Frances Malone's life on the run entailed a bit more than French fries and quickie phone calls home; so this is my version. Continuity, as such, is basically through season two and "It Cuts Both Ways." The title and the verse snippets are borrowed from the song "Blood From a Stone" by Jonatha Brooke -- a very respectable Angst Princess songstress herself.
Disclaimer: "Profiler" belongs to some big bunch of frequently-changing Powers That Be who aren't me, else certain characters would've had a lot more fun than they did and Steve Kronish would be doing an after-hours Reno lounge act even as we speak. I promise to play nice and put them back, happy and tired, when I'm finally finished -- I don't have to be specific on when that'll be, right?
Feedback: wanted, needed and much appreciated at digital_doc_01@yahoo.com
**1/4**
It's as if we're chasing some familiar fault line
Running down the coast from you to me
Dark potential just beneath the surface
All the worlds colliding in a tragedy
Blood from a stone, wine from water
I'd die here alone, only daughter
His name was Trent. Von-something-or-other, she hadn't caught the rest and she didn't really care. It was some fine old-money moniker, reeking of trust funds and country clubs and the Right Thing that her mother had always been after her to do. It made it all the more ironic that Trent was on the run just like she was, escaping his expensive demons in a late-model Trans Am and more than willing to take on a passenger. He thought Frances was an edgy kind of name. He hadn't bothered himself with the rest of her name; she didn't care about that either.
He'd driven her to what he called Club Central, just south of the Stacks. It was a neighborhood to give middle-class parents nightmares, just skirting the tired tenuous rim of the inner city, where broken-down row houses with their plywood-covered windows and hollow-eyed crack addict residents had begun to make grudging room for renovated store fronts. Trent called it "dangerous chic." He'd furnished Big Macs and vodka for the trip, because he thought that combination was chic too. And so she'd filled her belly with grease and Stoly, then ground her knees into the custom floor mats as she paid her dues and sucked him off. He'd pulled a glassine bag and a needle out of the glove box while she washed the taste of him out of her mouth with the rest of the vodka, and he'd expressed surprise that she wasn't into the hard stuff when she declined.
And she'd decided then and there that Trent had exhausted his usefulness.
The Trans Am had been warmer than the shit hotel room she was in now, but she had privacy and a working shower for a couple of hours, and that was worth the price of four or five Trents at least. The nightmares only woke her up once that evening, and they weren't as bad lately, she didn't feel the gun grow hot in her grip anymore, didn't wake up screaming and trying to wipe the blood off her hands. In some ways, getting used to the horrors scared her more than the nightmares themselves.
She checked out at 2 AM. She could only afford the rent-by-the-hour rates every few days, and then only for four or five hours at a time. She was down to about fifty dollars in cash, and she didn't dare use the credit cards for fear there'd be a tracer on her in no time flat. But the after-hours rave clubs had opened at midnight, and she could hang there for a while and stay warm, until daybreak or until she found another Trent to get her through another twenty-four hours, whichever came first.
A booth with a payphone sat just to the right of the lobby exit. She hesitated, staring, some marginal image from her dream hell still hovering in a corner of her mind. It wasn't forgivable, this fucked-up tangent she'd gone off on. Not really her fault, but God, so not forgivable and surely not understandable, except...he used those big important words all the time, right? Love, protection, unconditional, acceptance. Daughter. His. So just maybe, maybe, he wanted to help and could still make it...fixable. Was that a word? Nice word if it was, nice concept.
Fixable, fixable, five or six steps across the lobby to make it to the phone, okay, that part was easy enough. Simple, non-threatening phone with a greasy plastic handle, worn smooth from years of desperate grasping fingers, cool against her face as she pressed the buttons. Fixable, fixable, seven digits and she could be safe, she could be fixed, only shit, she had to dial a "1" for local calls here and the fucking phone ate the quarter, and she had to remember to breathe as she dug around for more change, had to stay positive and picture him smiling and opening his arms, not still and pale and prone and oh so very red where she....
Two rings, then a grunt and a thumping sound, like the phone had been knocked off its cradle by someone still half-asleep and grappling with his own nightmares.
"H'lo?" He sounded...healthier than the last time. She opened her mouth.
"Hello?" Irritation in the voice, then something else.
Hope.
Fear?
"Frannie? Baby, is that you?"
As if on cue, high-pitched mechanical screams shattered the air just outside the hotel, and she almost dropped the phone as the police car sped by, lights flashing blue and red and distorted in the dirty glass doors. Not unusual in this neighborhood and nothing personal, but she was bathed in it for a split second, she was red like blood, like his, and the timing of the whole thing was sheer horrific fucking brilliance because right then, right there she knew, oh God, she knew.
"Frannie? Don't hang up, baby, please -- we can work this out --"
Bad idea, bad bad bad fucking idea. And it wasn't fixable, she wouldn't be fixable again except by penance paid in locks and bars and flashing lights the color of blood, and was it even fixable then, was she? Heart pounding, she slammed down the phone and ran on shaky legs, out of the lobby and south for two blocks, not stopping until she reached the warehouse with its blacked-out windows and the rave party in full swing.
**2/4**
Silence has become our only currency
You pay me and I'll be sure to pay you back
But step lightly till you cross the jagged border
For the earth may shift beneath you, pull the rug out,
All your history keeping track
The bass beat hit her like a wave as she pressed against the wall for dear life, the smoke and the techno thump and the purple sheen of the blacklights bringing her to a place that was somewhere between nausea and elation. Once her head stopped spinning she straightened up, unzipping her jacket and smoothing the front of her vinyl pants. She'd worked a little bit on the makeup tonight before she checked out, made herself look closer to twenty-one than seventeen. No one really gave a shit about age of consent at these places, but she wasn't in a position to push her luck, and anyway she figured that looking better might make her feel better. She'd pass muster here tonight, no problem.
They were all around her, a sea of strung-out kids out for their own escape, intent on getting laid or getting wasted. Sweaty black-clad bodies stretched out before her as far as she could see, writhing on the dance floor, crawling, lying down even, whether fucking or withdrawing or dying impossible to tell because it was all just a continuum, a haze.
Just another night in hell, welcome to the rest of your life, Frances Malone.
She shivered and pressed closer to the wall. In a few more minutes she'd start prowling for a dark corner to curl up in, crawl under her coat and get warm and anonymous. Maybe she'd even be able to sleep -- she'd slept in worse places than this.
Someone nearby had decided that scented foam would add a nice touch to the dance floor; her head began to ache from the candy-sweet scent and she fished in her backpack for her last couple of Kools. She ducked her head and was in mid-light up when someone barreled into her from the side. Bottled water exploded across the front of her shirt and trickled into a puddle of dust and damp ruined tobacco at her feet.
"Jesus Christ, will you fucking watch it?!" She was soaked right through to her skin and she shivered violently under the industrial ceiling fans.
"Dude, sorry. Hey, peace offering, 'kay?" It was Trent Part Two, this one a wannabe goth boy with red-rimmed watery eyes that leered out at her from smeared sweaty makeup. He dangled a candy bracelet and a couple of E's in front of her, staring fixedly at the peaks of her nipples where the water had hit the hardest.
"No thanks," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her back. She'd rather freeze to death than have to put out to Vamp Boy. She kicked at the soggy cigarette with the toe of one boot. Shit, the only drug she was into these days was nicotine and she couldn't even catch a fucking smoke break.
"Have one of mine, they're dry."
She jumped at the voice at her ear, then took a step back from the blonde man who'd materialized at her side out of nowhere. He leaned against the wall, extending a thin silver case toward her. She eyed the cigarettes suspiciously.
"If they look a little funny it's because they're a custom blend. Don't worry, it's just boring old tobacco."
His grin was amused, as if he'd read her predictable, naïve little thoughts. Great, Malone, get a wet tee-shirt from one pervert and another one slithers on up to enjoy the show. She began to clutch the jacket that had fallen open again, then stopped when she realized he was focusing his attention on her face, not her breasts. Curious, she pulled a cigarette from the case.
"Thanks." He struck a match for her and she flicked a quick glance at his face as she leaned in toward him. Late thirties, she'd guess, early forties tops. Nice brown eyes.
"Forty-one."
Startled, she choked on the cigarette smoke. His thin lips parted, perfect white teeth flashing in a lazy smile. "Well, that is what you were wondering, isn't it?"
"No! Well, yeah. Sort of." She was glad he couldn't see her blushing under the blacklight. "It's...I was just wondering because you're kind of old to be in one of these places." Oh, that came out just great. She cringed, he laughed.
"Yes, I am, I realized that as soon as I walked in. Believe it or not, I only stopped to buy matches, but all of the bars were already closed."
"Oh." She frowned at the sudden pervasive flavor on her tongue. "What did you blend into this thing?"
"A floral combination. It sweetens my bad habit." He lit one of his own creations and inhaled deeply. It gave her the opportunity to study him a little harder. Aside from his age, he'd fit in pretty well among the dangerous-chic set. Like most of the patrons of this strung-out little corner of the world, he had the all-black thing going. No need for this one to pretend that cheap synthetics were fashionable, though; his coat alone probably cost more than the car she'd gotten for her 16th birthday. She caught the flash of metal between skin and leather as he blew out the match, and impulsively she reached out and turned his wrist to get a better look. He raised his eyebrows at the contact but held still, smiling as she mouthed the name scrawled on the watch face.
"The watchmaker's name is Silberstein. Not that I mind this as an alternative, but you could have just asked."
"Yeah, but I like to experience things for myself." She broke contact, unsure if she'd just crossed some line of propriety -- and then more unsure why she even gave a shit about crossing that particular line when she'd barreled beyond so many others. "You know, don't take this wrong, but you stick out in here. This probably isn't the best neighborhood to be running around flashing expensive watches, you never know what kind of psycho you could run into."
His lips lifted around the cigarette. "No, you never do. Thanks for the tip. Although you realize you don't look much like a local yourself."
She looked beyond him, past the sweaty oblivious waves of flesh. "I'm not a local. This is just...temporary." Dear God, let this be temporary.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "Well then, it's not very wise for you to be alone in a place like this either, is it?"
"Trust me, I can take care of myself just fine."
The cigarette smoke muted his skeptical stare. "Mm. Mind if I ask how old you are?"
"Mind if I say old enough to have already figured out that the world generally sucks?"
"I'll take that as a 'none of your damned business, old man.'" He smiled, then shrugged lightly. "The world doesn't always suck, you know. Sometimes it's just lonely. It helps to have a friend or two out there."
A friend. John Grant had called himself a friend, until she really needed his help. Then he was her father's friend, and she was merely a minor annoyance on the other end of a telephone line, some pain-in-the-ass teen who was a just little too smart to trust him and all his fake caring and concern on the same side of a chain-link fence. Any way you sliced it that was her destiny, to be in the way and shit out of luck. "Friends are over-rated."
Tilt of the head, flash of white teeth around the cigarette -- and just how did he do that, talking and smoking simultaneously? "Spoken like someone who's a veteran of getting screwed over. Maybe you've just been hanging out with the wrong friends."
And with that, something finally clicked, something about the smile and the words began to raise the small fine hairs on the back of her neck. She took a step back.
"Look, if this is going where I think it is, you can just sling it to some other girl -- I don't need that kind of 'friendship' and I sure as hell don't need any help from a pimp or a pervert."
For a second he looked like he'd almost swallowed his cigarette; the brown eyes widened in surprise, an expression that looked oddly out of place on his features. Then he started to laugh, albeit self-consciously. "Ouch, Jesus, you think I'm a pimp? What, is it the coat? I realize I don't exactly look like a Republican or an altar-boy here, but a pimp? I think I'm both wounded and suddenly very fashion-conscious. Shit, a pimp!"
She should walk away, flip him off and leave. Because her warning bells had gotten fine-tuned over the last months, and all at once he was setting off the big ones.
But he was actually...blushing.
She watched the rising color fan out from his neck all the way up to the roots of his hair, plain as day even in the blacklight. She'd really shocked him. And your basic neighborhood psycho probably wouldn't turn all awkward-adolescent geeky and blush crimson over being mistaken for a pimp, right? Wouldn't just be...standing there. Harmless. Pretty, in a rich middle-aged kind of way. And the thought that she'd put him off-balance, flustered Mr. Button-Down who was part of a world that was normal and old and accepted, well, it had to make her.... A little proud at her power over him. A little warm. A little curious about what friction between leather and vinyl would sound like, feel like. Which made her a lot warm, except....
Except, fuck, suddenly he was laughing harder and it was at her.
"What, so now I'm funny because I don't buy into your bullshit? Because I'm suspicious when a total stranger plies me with cigarettes and comes off all concerned about my welfare?"
"Plies? First I was pimping, now I'm plying?"
"All I'm saying is it was weird. Come on, walk a mile in my shoes, how the hell would you interpret that comment about needing friends?"
For the first time he let his eyes travel from her face down the length of her body, quickly and impersonally until he fixed on the black platform boots. "Love that expression. However, I don't think I could fit into those shoes for walking, stepping, or anything else."
"You know what, I don't need to be laughed at, I'm out of here --"
"Parents or police?"
The words stopped her as quickly as any hands around her throat would have, left her rooted to the spot swallowing back panic. She had to turn around slowly, just to be sure that he wasn't strangling her for real, but he was still just there, just leaning against the wall, looking.
"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?"
A kindly smile, only the quirk of one pale eyebrow letting on that he wasn't buying the bullshit. "You're obviously running from someone important. I figured those were the top two choices."
"You don't know what you're talking about. I'm here because I want to be." Oh yes, and if she spoke with a bit more conviction and practiced until she was thirty, those words would still fall about a mile short of sounding convincing.
"An attractive young woman who has an eye for fine watches chooses to hang out in a combat zone and take a bottled-water bath courtesy of some sweaty boy on an E high? I like my theory better."
Every word out of her mouth put her more in danger of giving herself away, and damn if she didn't know that; but the sarcastic tone was just a little too much like his for her to let it slide. Arms folded, she mimicked his slouch against the wall and did her best to look down her nose at him, difficult given his height advantage. "Hey, pick whatever theory you like. Maybe you just don't get the scene. It's not my fault you're too old for dangerous chic." And, oh holy shit, had she really just quoted Trent?
Something flickered across his face at the phrase, a mix of anger, amusement, and something else, something dark and unreadable and able to quite irrationally scare the shit out of her for the split second it was there. Then his features relaxed into the same old well-bred blandness. "In that case I'd better let you get back to all this ambience. One for the road?" He held the silver case out to her, and as she leaned in to take a cigarette he leaned with her, close enough so his words and his breath traced a pattern on her cheek. "A word of advice, though? If you want people to believe that dangerous-chic line you have to look a lot less terrified than you did when you walked in here."
A tangled panicked image of sirens and gunshots and blood rushed through her mind as she jumped back from him. "You were watching me?"
He quickly brought both hands in front of him in a placating gesture, the burning cigarette still trapped between two tapered fingers. "Relax, relax -- I wasn't following you, if that's what you're getting at. Look, I'm not a pimp or a cop or anything, OK? I'm not even a dirty old man hitting on a pretty girl. The bathrooms are near the entrance, I was coming out and I noticed you when you walked in, that's all. And I noticed that you didn't fit this scene any more that I do."
"Yeah, right --"
"What, do you want examples? For starters, you looked like you couldn't stand the fact that you had to blend in with all the sweat and the drugs and the grime, but it was better than whatever you were running away from out there. When that idiot made you drop your cigarette you looked like it was the perfect end to a perfectly bad day. You're aware that this is exactly the type of place that brings out the perverts and the pimps, so your radar is on high. You'd be happy if the walls just swallowed you up, but since that's probably not going to happen you're hoping your jacket will be a warm enough blanket for the rest of the night, just as soon as you find an empty corner or a bathroom stall someone hasn't puked in yet."
She could deal with the reality, just not the descriptions, so fucking close to the mark. Shifting on one hip, she swallowed back the ridiculous urge to cry, focusing on his shoes until her mascara wasn't quite so damp. "That's pretty colorful. Not that it's right or anything."
Another secret grin around the cigarette, white teeth flashing in her peripheral vision. "Yeah, well, people are sort of my hobby. Sorry if I sounded harsh or like I was making fun of you, I wasn't. But I've gotten to be pretty good at reading body language."
"And you picked me to analyze? You have a whole room full of people to stare at."
Her eyes were dry enough for her to look up, in time to see him run a hand through his hair self-consciously. "Ah, shit, you've got me. I was watching you because you're the prettiest girl in the room, OK? Hey, I said I wasn't a pimp, I never said I wasn't human." He looked relieved when she smiled, then stuck out a tentative hand. "God, I am sounding like a dirty old man. So, am I forgiven, young lady?"
She considered the hand, then gripped it just as tentatively with her own. "I guess so. If you don't call me 'young lady,' that's just too weird." He laughed, then looked at her expectantly for a second before she realized she'd trailed off. "Oh, um, Frances -- I'm Frances." Shit, she'd meant to say "Naomi" or "Ann" or some name that wasn't hers, and then she realized she was still gripping his hand, and it was smooth and surprisingly cool and she felt like a bigger idiot than before because he was just so normal and so not like anything else crawling around this place, and she had to step back and hope he didn't see her blushing so hard because she kept getting these thoughts about a guy who'd actually just said "young lady," oh fuck. "Look, um, I'm sorry about being such a bitch before, it's just, you know, you can never be too sure in a place like this."
"No offense taken, I'm a firm believer in self-preservation. Well, Frances, it was nice meeting you, but I'd better get out of here while I'm still functioning. I haven't eaten anything all day and I'm starving, and I don't think the Jell-O shooters are going to cut it as dinner." He ground his cigarette out with the heel of his shoe, then paused before he looked up back at her. "You know, there's a decent diner a block away from the Stacks, I go there after work sometimes. Nothing fancy, but it's good comfort food and they're open all night. Want to join me? They have a matzoh ball soup to die for." Before she could respond, he held up his hands in the same placating gesture. "Before you worry, I'm not offering to buy you dinner or obligate you in any way, you can pay out of your own pocket."
She hesitated, pride and caution vying with the gaping hold that had opened up in her stomach when he'd mentioned a hot meal. "I'm sorry, I can't."
He shrugged good-naturedly. "I understand. Like you said, you never can be too careful."
"No, it's not that, god, you're the most normal guy I've hung out with for, like, ages. It's just. I -- I really can't afford it right now." She trailed off, too embarrassed to do more than stare at his shoes.
"And you weren't going to mention that little fact?" He sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Now I'm going to sound even older and duller, but hell Frances, you have to eat. I'll buy you dinner."
She shook her head firmly. "No. No, I'm not a charity case." Dammit, it would be a lot easier say it forcefully if he hadn't been nice enough to not rub her nose in the fact that he'd read her pathetic-broke-runaway body language so well. And if she weren't so hungry.
"I'm aware of that, thank you, I wasn't implying any such thing. You can pay me back as soon as you're flush again."
"I don't know...."
"Frances." There was something in his tone, not quite threatening, but brooking no argument; he'd stepped closer to emphasize his words, and she could smell the odd sweet tobacco on his breath, warm and disturbing on her cheek. "Whether or not the world sucks, it's all about choices. Right now you have two of them. You can have a warm meal on me, no obligation, no expectations. Or you can hang out here until you're hungry enough to accept when Goth Boy or one of his little clones invites you over for a cut of candy and Ecstasy, and you know how you'll be paying for that meal. It's your move."
Amazing, how he could speak the cruelest words wearing the most pleasant normal smile. She felt a shudder ripple up her spine, not from the cold or the dampness of her clothes. And how much colder would it be when he gave up and walked out and all that was left was her and this place and all its inhabitants who were not him? Too cold to think of.... His smile widened a little, as if he were reading her again.
"I guess you have a point. Hey -- you didn't tell me your name." Funny that she hadn't noticed that before.
"Didn't I?" He gave her the same apologetic, self-conscious look. "My bad. My friends call me Jack. Shall we?"
Amazing. Fuck up, hole up, hide away, and suddenly a girl could find a knight in shining armor in the strangest places. She nodded at her soon-to-be dinner companion.
"Lead on." Clutching the backpack to her chest, she followed him out of the blacklight.
*pokes at characters* Talk to me, dammit! I actually have ideas for this one!
...and no, my Harry/Sirius fics never did get beyond the planning stage, but in this new post-OotP world I figure I have more of a chance to actually rev 'em up. Because it's all about the Angst, baby. *G*
