(See end for A/N.)
...
1.
Saffy just stares at Patsy, who's clinging onto the kitchen table for dear life in her pathetic mid-hangover. A stranger might sympathize.
Saffy laughs inside at the thought. A stranger doesn't know any of the reasons not to feel sorry for Patsy. Perhaps it's better that way.
Detestable old slag, she thinks. Patsy speaks to herself then, mumbling, asks herself if she's hungry, rambles off.
It's a bit awful, really. Saffy hates what seeing this woman does to her, to her mind, to her body. This creature, this thing that leeched onto her life before she could even be born.
Saffy grabs the champagne from the older woman's hand and drinks it right in her face, standing close. Patsy can only stare, for once too dazed, too shocked to make a cutting speech.
2.
Patsy's on the ball this morning. She can see that little bitch's eyes all over her. Wanting her! Wanting her! She was off sticking it in far older women when this kid was born. It's almost sad.
"What are you looking at?" she demands.
Saffy looks up from her half-attended coursework. "Pardon?"
Patsy only laughs, a humorless bite, a bark.
3.
Saffy looks down at her own stomach, puts her fingers on it. The skin is warm underneath her hands. She feels like some frilly heroine out of a trashy, pseudo-medieval romance book. She's even got the nightclothes to match. It's so helplessly cliché and semi-sordid — forbidden attraction, denial of feelings, ridiculous brooding in the dark.
The prince isn't much of a prince, even if she did live as one for a while, in the seventies. Prince of shit, corroded with lung cancer. Saffy flinches. Disgusting, this want, disgusting for every reason of treatment and birth. The long-suffering heroine in her tower.
Patsy's got this sick kind of bravado, clawing her way through life with a lurching audacity, a face and voice that set the flesh on edge.
She's got a body people would kill to have!, her mother had once said.
Her reply — Yeah, morticians!
What a joke, then, that she could come to want that body.
To touch it, hold it, hit it, tie it under and own it like a baron in his manor. To the manner born, all striking tool and clutched chain and hands scratching, shoving their way deep. Whether you want me or not, Patsy.
Of course, it's only a fantasy. Saffy sighs in exasperation as her hands scrape downward.
...
A/N: Written a few years ago, inspired by a drabble meme.
The rules were:
"Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
Write a drabble related to each song that plays.
You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble.
You start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!"
(The prompt/meme also indicated to write for ten songs in a row. With this particular pairing, I wrote for three songs, but played them on repeat and spent more time on this than the drabbles for other fandoms I was writing for.)
The songs used that went with the three parts (a sort of soundtrack to the fic, then):
1. White Ring - "Roses"
2. K'NAAN - "ABCs"
3. Eurythmics - "This City Never Sleeps"
...
On re-reading this, the Patsy/Saffy pairing seems very one-sided, unrequited, but my original view when writing it (taking a more subtle/subtextual approach) was that Patsy, particularly in part two, had the same attraction, and nearly-resented it of herself with inner conflict just as much as Saffy did.
It didn't come across as much as I'd've liked it to in this fic, but at that point, I had it in mind to write more for this pairing that would have eventually established their mutual attraction further. I doubt I'll do that, now, but with the release of the AbFab movie in 2016 next year, I might. :)