A/N: This is set during the event that Chloe tries to blackmail Nathan with- right as she's trying to swindle him out of his money, and he drugs her.
Also! Kids struggling with their medication, too.
Because of this it's a fair warning to say that him drugging her is definitely mentioned during the fic. If these things make you uncomfortable it's probably better to not read!
You can find antidepressants in Chloe's bathroom during one of the episode, too, and they're heavily implied to be Chloe's. So here's a little introspection on that, too.
When Chloe Price ends up in Nathan Prescott's dorm, she wonders if she's made the right decision. This is something she doesn't wonder for long, however- the high swirling in her mind and the flush on her skin from one two many beers manages to knock out any rational apprehension she might be feeling.
Of course, she's not here just to be here. She'd be shocked if there ever was anyone who would, other than Victoria Chase, or whoever the fuck actually wanted to spend time with someone as volatile as Nathan Prescott. She's only here with one objective in place; to jack Nathan's money and slide out.
There should probably be a sense of shame in what she's doing, but after borrowing money from Frank didn't work and Rachel bailed on her, there's not much else she thinks she can do. She'd rather kiss up to her pathetic excuse for a stepfather than actually work for the money- a feat that's impossible with how much she actually fucking needs.
It's already been six months since Rachel had disappeared. She couldn't afford to stack up any more time, because by then it might be too late.
( 'Too late for what?' Chloe thinks, and then bites her lip hard and dashes the thought from her mind. )
This is just totally fucking awkward, though. Nathan had looked like an easy target at the bar - drunk off his rich boy ass, waving around money like a fool - and he continues to look like one here, inside his own dorm room. That doesn't make it any less awkward. They're not exactly on friendly terms; when she was at Blackwell, she remembers sneering at him as he'd come down the hall with Rachel. He never failed to toss scalding remarks in her direction.
"Gonna go take a piss. Don't touch anything, punk bitch." Nathan slurs through his words and Chloe flashes him a grin, leaning back against his bed and grasping the can of beer he'd handed to her just moments after they'd gotten in. She cannot tell if her fingers are wet with sweat, or the condensation from the can.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Prescott. Your shit is worth more than my house."
"Of fuckin' course it is. Worth more than your life too." He grouches, stumbling out, and Chloe remembers why she hated seeing Rachel with him, seeing her speak with him easily, friendly. Chloe didn't get it, and she still doesn't. She doesn't understand how Rachel could stand to make friends with someone who had a personality about as charming as a serial killer.
( Rachel's choice in friends was always questionable. Nathan Prescott. The Vortex Club. Chloe.)
When he leaves, she takes a good thirty seconds to chill on his bed before she forces herself up, teetering uneasily on her feet. Sure, she may not be as fucked up as him, but she can count herself intoxicated enough to not be able to move as smoothly as she might have wanted. She sips at the can of beer and starts digging through his shit.
( She also knows someone else who would have done the same thing. She almost laughs at the memory of a best friend with freckles scattered against her skin like stars and a nervous shuffle. She almost crumples the can in her grip. )
What she gleams from this is that Nathan Prescott is one screwed up dude. A realization that doesn't really come as a shock, no. That's something that didn't require finding posters of women tied down and gagged, or the snuff films lining his DVD shelf. 'Nymphomaniac? Dude, get it together.'
And then, in her drunken search, she spots a prescription pill bottle inside his drawer. There's a momentary pause, and no, this isn't Nathan's wallet, but she finds herself picking it up anyways. It feels much heavier in her hands than it should, and she leans against his desk as she reads the label. Or she tries to. The letters seem to scramble around, and she has to shut her eyes to take care of the dizziness she's suddenly feeling.
"Shit," Chloe curses underneath her breath, putting the pill bottle inside the drawer again. She knows Nathan deals, too. She knows he deals, because Rachel's scored from him before and rumors spread like wildfire around Arcadia Bay.
But she wonders, and she hates herself for it. She hates herself for wondering if Nathan Prescott ever felt the same as her, looking at that one pill bottle. Wondering if he'd been forced into the chair of some snobby therapist, forced to listen to some shitty plan of therapy that couldn't work for shit, because no one understands. Wonders if his father had ever given him the same look she'd received from Joyce - pity, like there's something wrong with her.
She wonders if he hid the pills underneath his tongue, too, felt them dissolve against the saliva in his mouth. Tasted the bitter combination of chemicals that were supposed to work - not make her feel numb, disconnected. And if as soon as they'd left the room, he had desperately spat it out into the nearest available container, too.
"Back. You better not have touched shit, Price-" Chloe blinks sluggishly when Nathan swaggers back into the room, shutting the door behind him, and she hurriedly bumps the drawer closed with his hip. She tries to look casual, leaning against his desk, but she feels herself almost slipping and grips onto the edge to keep herself from toppling over.
Fuck. She must be so much drunker than she thought. Thinking too deeply about Nathan fucking Prescott proved that.
"The fuck are you doing over there?" Nathan hisses, narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously once he actually looks up from the door.
"Jus'... distracted by tha' porn mag underneath your bed. We've got th' same subscription." Chloe manages to say, words feeling thick in her mouth, rolling out more slowly than she likes. Her gaze on him is becoming blurrier by the second, his outline blurring into itself. Even as she looks at him like this, her hand burns where she'd touched the pill bottle, and she reaches blindly for her beer, almost knocking it over.
Nathan turns red, or so she thinks. At this point she can't really tell, and she shuts her eyes and tries to take a sip of her beer. She misses her mouth and feels the cool liquid spill onto her collarbone instead. "F...Fuck."
"Shut up. And put that shit down before you get it all over my floor." Suddenly, Nathan sounds miles more sober than she does, and Chloe wonders how that happened. She only drank this one beer, and she's not even halfway through the can. If there's one thing she knows about herself, she's not a lightweight, and she didn't drink that much at the bar either. This isn't going according to plan.
So she listens to him, and puts the drink down.
As soon as she goes to take a step forward, everything swirls into a mess of color, something entirely indistinguishable. She's pretty sure she falls down. She can't remember hitting the floor.
( When she wakes up, blearily spotting Nathan Prescott's figure hovering over her, she bitterly thinks that those pills must have done about as much for him as her own had done for her.
Which is to say, nothing at all.
She kicks out blindly. )