AN: Well, it has been awhile. To any new readers, welcome, and too those of you who follow me, I'm sorry. It's been, what, almost a year? Oddly enough, college has proved more productive for my writing than the summer beforehand. Anyway, this is a little one-shot about Blake and all of her insecurites, kept vague so that I could possibly make it into an original piece with a few tweaks. Enjoy. And if you don't, feel free to tell me why in the bluntest way possible.
Routine
Akhfash's Goat is a dive. The owner knows it, the customers know it, everyone who hears the name knows it. It's a dingy bar in a part of town nobody cares about, and, by God, does it look the part. No one ever comes to this place, which is probably why it's still in business. It's the perfect place for people who don't want to be found: not enough fights to make it infamous, not enough money to make it respectable. This bar is the woodwork people crawl out of, and it recently got a new busgirl.
Does it really matter where she came from? Tables need bussing, terrorist attacks or no; and, no one cares who does it, least of all the customers. Anyone can tell she's on the run if they look close enough, but no one ever does. Sure, they take the time to check out her ass. They don't look at the callouses on her hands, right where a sword's grip would dig in. No one thinks twice about a girl wearing a bow in her hair, or a sideways glance over the shoulder. A pretty thing like her is just part of the atmosphere; she doesn't have a story any more than the barstools do.
It's a slow day, and she's just looking out the window. Maybe on the lookout, maybe just bored. She expects to see something, it looks like. But, when she doesn't, is she sighing because she's relieved? Or disappointed? Happy that nobody's caught up to her yet, or sad that someone didn't bother to chase her. Either way, she'll be around a little longer, and that means a few more horny drunks than usual. A little more wasted money in the till.
It's been a few days, and she hasn't run off yet. She's starting to recognize people. There's the guy who always whistles at her, nowhere near as handsome as he thinks he is. Every time, she gets better at resisting the urge to break his legs. Now and then, a woman with a voice like a car with a bad muffler comes in. All the patrons threaten to throw her out when she starts sobbing into her martini, but no one has the heart to do it. There's also an older man who brings a book with him; he orders one drink and never finishes it. She's partial to him, if only because he's quiet. Everyone calls him Nick, except for the owner, who calls him asshole.
Akhfash, the owner, is a prick. He's a middle-aged man with sunken eyes and darkish skin, always has something to rant about. If he weren't so bitter, maybe someone would care. Maybe, instead of rolling their eyes when he gets all worked up, people would try to help him. But, then he'd have no reason to complain, and she doubted he could live without an axe to grind. One of those people. Even his sour face is starting to feel like home. That's probably her cue to get going, but, best to wait until payday.
She spends one more sleepless night above the bar. They've all been sleepless nights, lately; the only rest she gets comes when she's been awake for three days and just can't take it any longer. As she desperately tries to quiet her mind, the hormones take over, and she lets herself imagine what it would be like to be back in the arms of the one she loves. For a while, she forgets everything, and her whole world is made of golden hair and held within the reach of two strong arms. Yet, even as the afterglow of their dreamt reunion sets in, a flash of red cuts it all away. It would be the most wonderful thing to return to all the people she's come to depend on. But, that's just why she can't go back. To lose them all again, to bring the monster that dogs her steps to their doors, would be hell. For their sakes, she can only run.
The old man sees her off with a paycheck and grumbling about finding a replacement. He had to know this would be temporary. It's possible he'll miss her, but is too determined to be angry at everything to say so. She gives him a hug he's too proud to ask for and a heartfelt thanks that he returns with a backhanded compliment. That's the end of it.
She ambles down the street with a false casualness, discretely watching her back. Not many people are out this early, which is good and bad. It means only a few of the random passersby could be out for her blood. A big group – no matter how well disguised – she'll see coming. It also means no witnesses. No crowd to disappear into. Nowhere to run. And, she was strangely at ease with that.
It's by pure chance that she notices anything is wrong. A woman in a tailored pants suit hangs up her Scroll and makes a hurried turn down an alley, and a boy with a fox's tail and weathered sweats happens to follow. Coincidence explains it, and maybe it's paranoia talking; but, all the same, it wouldn't hurt to make sure.
She stalks carefully over to the alley, to a point where she can see, but not be seen. For the bystander's sake, she hopes she's wrong. For her own sake, she doesn't know what to hope. If this really is just two strangers walking the same way, nothing need change. She can be on her way to the next hiding place, keep on running. She can flee from her problems, like she always does. But, if it's what she thinks it is, if that innocent woman is in danger, she must act. She must tip her hand, expose herself. She must fight, and keep fighting. Both prospects frighten her to no end.
Finally, she can't put it off any longer. She looks to find that her instincts were on the money. Four White Fang members, in full uniform, have encircled the woman while their fellow in street clothes has her distracted. Her hand snaps to the blade concealed in her coat. Flight is no longer an option, and, honestly, that's a relief.
The thugs go down easy. New blood, apparently. She's gone before the lady in the suit can say thanks, or get a good look at her face. But, she's not running away. Not anymore. She can never go home again, never return to her friends. But, if she can't be with them, she'll fight for them. She'll fight until there are no more monsters to follow her home. When and if that day comes, she'll see them again. She'll tell them that she finally stopped running away.
AN: Well, what do you think? I kept what little shipping there was ambiguous (that whole paragraph felt off), partly to avoid drama, partly because I have conflicting feelings about who I ship Blake with at the moment. Remember, feedback is a writer's lifeblood.
Until next time, respect all life, love each other, and don't run with your spears.