Fic: Stay Near
Title: Stay Near
Pairing: Chick/Critic
Word Count: 1,200
Disclaimer: Mr. Walker and Miss. Ellis own their characters, I just like torturing them. And the lyrics belong to a band called "The Four Aces".
A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Two important fics down, two more to go! *collapses*
You can't run away from it.
If Critic didn't get on the bed with her within three minutes, she would be forced to kill him. It had been one of times where she knew that psycho twin was away on... killing babies, probably, and while Film Brain's ranty call about not getting the appeal of Christian Bale was amusing, it had made her feel lonely. What was the point of going home to two empty apartments?
But it wasn't like she could tell Critic this or, Santa Christ forbid, ask him for maybe just one snuggle when they weren't horny, tired, too fucked up to give a shit, both completely and utterly wasted or a mixture of the four. So she had to sit alone on her bed while he ranted about Michaud. Yay.
"-who does that cockhole think he is? You'd think the owner of the bar would want more people coming in, not threatening to ban someone because he's apparently distracting-"
Better not even try.
She just sighed. Sure, when the hate flowed because of her, it was kinda fun to goad them into more manly male posturing but all their other shit was just exhausting. And with Benzaie out of the picture - not that he and Michaud got on well either - Y was the only guy now who was sensible enough to actually behave when he was around.
She knew that Michaud wasn't about to ban Insano or the Nerd. As bull-headed as he was, he realized that pissing off a ragey brat, a guy who got angry for a living, a wannabe mad scientist and a druggie who could pack a mean punch would end up more detrimental than letting them stay.
And she wished she could tell Critic these things: that Michaud really liked riling him up, that he wasn't the Devil in disguise, that he was right about him and Linkara looking for any excuse to not work, that you couldn't mix almost-love with business, that she wouldn't be around to defend him if Michaud hadn't saved her... but she could barely tell herself that, let alone Critic.
Better just close your eyes.
"Why do you like him?"
What, did he had insider information about her brain or something? "I don't-"
Critic crawled onto the bed and settled between her legs, but looking more like a kid than what she needed. "Then why the hell do you put up with him? He's bald-" she couldn't resist giving a pointed look at his baseball cap, which he ignored "-he's evil, he doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, his lisp is fucking irritating and-" He trailed off, looking stricken.
Her eyes narrowed and she wrapped his tie around her hand, pulling him closer. "Please, finish this list."
His head dropped and his words were muffled by his mouth attached to her collarbone. "and... he's not good enough for you."
She giggled almost maniacally at the absurdity of it. "And you are? Is that what you're saying?"
He bit her in response and she scratched him across the face.
And say your prayers.
"This is just business, remember? No sappy shit." That line was getting harder to say every time.
His eyes were unreadable as his hands were undoing her jeans. "Like I could forget, lady with the cold, black heart."
She grabbed the back of his head and brought him in for a rough kiss, smashing his mouth against hers. "I know!" she said afterwards, her voice sounding too shrill to sound like her own. "I slip away from Michaud, you leave Ask That Guy-" he stilled suddenly and she wanted so badly to hurt him "-we catch a plane to God knows where and survive by... I don't know, ranting on shit to anyone who would listen. How does that sound?" She was not a ten year old girl anymore, she wasn't about to cry hysterically into a pillow because she hated life.
He threaded his fingers through her loose hair (she wanted it cut shorter, Michaud liked it better long, guess who won?) and his voice was low. "Why would I want to leave Ask That Guy?"
She shifted, tugging his jeans down instead of answering. (She knew he wasn't expecting an answer anyway.) When she had been in school, she had all these PSAs on if a partner hurt you, or if they abused you in any way, you had to leave. Even when you had nowhere else to go, even when they cried after they'd knocked you to the floor, even when they destroyed bastards who took advantage, even when it was pretty much your fault they were like this and they still made you laugh.
You weren't supposed to hold on. You weren't supposed to find that they'd left you instead.
She was taken out of Nella-land by a cool tongue lapping at her nipple. For once, Critic had taken charge and she was much too drained to care. She pressed his head down, her nails leaving grooves in his neck as she guided him to the burn that Penny had left with her lighter. The memory of what actually happened had faded into the back of her mind and she couldn't get it back, but the pain and the wound were still there.
We could worry till we both got old and gray from it.
She ran her hands over the Critic's body, trying to find a new scar, trying to find something she could magically kiss better like they were in a shitty Disney-ripoff. There was a long, deep cut on his arm, had been hidden by his jacket, and she traced the mark with her finger. Kiss, touch, all you can do, can't go inside and rearrange him into someone new.
We never get starry eyed.
Evidently, nice sex wasn't nearly as fun as it was rough, as it was over in a flash. Once again, she was too drained to care and petted his head when he nuzzled her stomach. "I'm going to window shop for things I can't possibly afford tomorrow, wanna come and pretend to be my boyfriend?"
This is the night that nearly was ours before.
He mmphed an answer and she whapped him playfully. "An answer would be nice, you ass."
"Is she going to be there?"
She groaned. "Do you like any of the people I'm close to?"
He raised his head and wrinkled his nose. "I like... um, that kid that who has no chance of screwing you?"
It was a start. "So you coming with?"
"As long as I don't have to buy anything." And then he was asleep, just like a man.
She closed her eyes too, images dancing before her eyes and disappearing before she could focus. It might have been just him and her in the room, but it felt like the bed was weighed down by more than just two people.
And we can't run away from it anymore.
Pairing: Chick/Critic
Word Count: 1,200
Disclaimer: Mr. Walker and Miss. Ellis own their characters, I just like torturing them. And the lyrics belong to a band called "The Four Aces".
A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Two important fics down, two more to go! *collapses*
You can't run away from it.
If Critic didn't get on the bed with her within three minutes, she would be forced to kill him. It had been one of times where she knew that psycho twin was away on... killing babies, probably, and while Film Brain's ranty call about not getting the appeal of Christian Bale was amusing, it had made her feel lonely. What was the point of going home to two empty apartments?
But it wasn't like she could tell Critic this or, Santa Christ forbid, ask him for maybe just one snuggle when they weren't horny, tired, too fucked up to give a shit, both completely and utterly wasted or a mixture of the four. So she had to sit alone on her bed while he ranted about Michaud. Yay.
"-who does that cockhole think he is? You'd think the owner of the bar would want more people coming in, not threatening to ban someone because he's apparently distracting-"
Better not even try.
She just sighed. Sure, when the hate flowed because of her, it was kinda fun to goad them into more manly male posturing but all their other shit was just exhausting. And with Benzaie out of the picture - not that he and Michaud got on well either - Y was the only guy now who was sensible enough to actually behave when he was around.
She knew that Michaud wasn't about to ban Insano or the Nerd. As bull-headed as he was, he realized that pissing off a ragey brat, a guy who got angry for a living, a wannabe mad scientist and a druggie who could pack a mean punch would end up more detrimental than letting them stay.
And she wished she could tell Critic these things: that Michaud really liked riling him up, that he wasn't the Devil in disguise, that he was right about him and Linkara looking for any excuse to not work, that you couldn't mix almost-love with business, that she wouldn't be around to defend him if Michaud hadn't saved her... but she could barely tell herself that, let alone Critic.
Better just close your eyes.
"Why do you like him?"
What, did he had insider information about her brain or something? "I don't-"
Critic crawled onto the bed and settled between her legs, but looking more like a kid than what she needed. "Then why the hell do you put up with him? He's bald-" she couldn't resist giving a pointed look at his baseball cap, which he ignored "-he's evil, he doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself, his lisp is fucking irritating and-" He trailed off, looking stricken.
Her eyes narrowed and she wrapped his tie around her hand, pulling him closer. "Please, finish this list."
His head dropped and his words were muffled by his mouth attached to her collarbone. "and... he's not good enough for you."
She giggled almost maniacally at the absurdity of it. "And you are? Is that what you're saying?"
He bit her in response and she scratched him across the face.
And say your prayers.
"This is just business, remember? No sappy shit." That line was getting harder to say every time.
His eyes were unreadable as his hands were undoing her jeans. "Like I could forget, lady with the cold, black heart."
She grabbed the back of his head and brought him in for a rough kiss, smashing his mouth against hers. "I know!" she said afterwards, her voice sounding too shrill to sound like her own. "I slip away from Michaud, you leave Ask That Guy-" he stilled suddenly and she wanted so badly to hurt him "-we catch a plane to God knows where and survive by... I don't know, ranting on shit to anyone who would listen. How does that sound?" She was not a ten year old girl anymore, she wasn't about to cry hysterically into a pillow because she hated life.
He threaded his fingers through her loose hair (she wanted it cut shorter, Michaud liked it better long, guess who won?) and his voice was low. "Why would I want to leave Ask That Guy?"
She shifted, tugging his jeans down instead of answering. (She knew he wasn't expecting an answer anyway.) When she had been in school, she had all these PSAs on if a partner hurt you, or if they abused you in any way, you had to leave. Even when you had nowhere else to go, even when they cried after they'd knocked you to the floor, even when they destroyed bastards who took advantage, even when it was pretty much your fault they were like this and they still made you laugh.
You weren't supposed to hold on. You weren't supposed to find that they'd left you instead.
She was taken out of Nella-land by a cool tongue lapping at her nipple. For once, Critic had taken charge and she was much too drained to care. She pressed his head down, her nails leaving grooves in his neck as she guided him to the burn that Penny had left with her lighter. The memory of what actually happened had faded into the back of her mind and she couldn't get it back, but the pain and the wound were still there.
We could worry till we both got old and gray from it.
She ran her hands over the Critic's body, trying to find a new scar, trying to find something she could magically kiss better like they were in a shitty Disney-ripoff. There was a long, deep cut on his arm, had been hidden by his jacket, and she traced the mark with her finger. Kiss, touch, all you can do, can't go inside and rearrange him into someone new.
We never get starry eyed.
Evidently, nice sex wasn't nearly as fun as it was rough, as it was over in a flash. Once again, she was too drained to care and petted his head when he nuzzled her stomach. "I'm going to window shop for things I can't possibly afford tomorrow, wanna come and pretend to be my boyfriend?"
This is the night that nearly was ours before.
He mmphed an answer and she whapped him playfully. "An answer would be nice, you ass."
"Is she going to be there?"
She groaned. "Do you like any of the people I'm close to?"
He raised his head and wrinkled his nose. "I like... um, that kid that who has no chance of screwing you?"
It was a start. "So you coming with?"
"As long as I don't have to buy anything." And then he was asleep, just like a man.
She closed her eyes too, images dancing before her eyes and disappearing before she could focus. It might have been just him and her in the room, but it felt like the bed was weighed down by more than just two people.
And we can't run away from it anymore.