AN
Hi. This is my first fic I've posted on here, I used to be an avid Harry Potter fan fiction writer, but I've decided to branch out to Skins. I haven't written descriptively in a long time however, so my skills may be a little off!

I stepped out of the pub and slid a cigarette from my packet. Placed between my lips. My hands poised in front of my face, lighter clasped between my fingers. Frozen.

White t-shirt spattered with blood and dirt. Shaggy hair matted and untidy. Sheepish, lost expression on his face. Dead eyes. He stared at me.

I opened my mouth to speak. No words came out. My cigarette fell and hit the pavement.

"I'm fucking Cook." I heard him mumble, as I scrabbled on the ground to find my fallen cigarette.

I straightened my body, shook my hair from my face.

"I'm fucking hungry." I replied.

He laughed. A short blast of sound. A lopsided smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Where am I man?" He asked, looking up to the sign above the door.

"You're at The Wishing Well." I replied, "where have you come from?"

Before this odd-looking, stranger with the shocking appearance got the chance to reply, Jack emerged from the side of the pub, bounding towards the pair of us.

"Evie! I just got a sick ten bag from some dealer! I've had him before but he did me a shit deal, but this is good stuff!"

I smiled. Jack suddenly noticed the man next to me.

"Hey! I'm Jack! Who are you?"

"He's fucking Cook." I answered for him, smirking.

"Smashing!" Jack exclaimed, "Why are you covered in blood, fucking Cook?"

Never holds back. Jack's the type of guy who will speak his mind. He reminds me of a puppy dog, in a sense. The scraggly hair dangling around his ears, the big friendly smile, the enthusiastic personality, and those big excitable eyes. It's a curious thing, the source of his energy, as he's constantly stoned.

"It's a long story mate," 'Fucking Cook' replied solemnly, "Listen, could either of you sub me a drink? I've no money on me at all, had a long journey."

"Mate I would, but I'm broke," Jack replied, shrugging his shoulders. I offered to buy the guy a drink.

I got our drinks in. Amaretto and Lemonade for me, and a pint of Carling for 'Fucking Cook'. Jack doesn't drink, just smokes marajuana routinely.

Cook was quiet. He sat in the corner, observing, absorbing the conversations around him with a keen interest. What were the blood stains about? He was giving off a strange vibe. A mix of cold, abandonment, and loneliness. I wanted to fix him. I have a penchant for trying to 'fix' people. Sometimes, people are so broken, that when they get repaired, they purposefully break themselves again. They're not used to the normality.

Jack asked Cook if he would like to indulge in a joint. Cook was up for it. I followed them out of the pub and round the side while Jack skinned up.

"Anyone got a lighter?" Jack asked. I'd left mine inside. Jack went to find it, leaving me alone with the blood-stained, cold stranger.

"Are you going to explain the blood then?" I asked casually, fumbling for my cigarettes.

"Nah," he replied, tilting his head to look into the sky, "it's complicated."

"I'm a good listener." I supplied.

"No." He shook his head, turned to face me, "You don't want to know."

I nodded.

"That sounds fair, if you don't want to tell me. Hey, it's your business and I don't even know you. I'm sorry."

All of a sudden, he cracked a genuine smile.

"You're a nice girl," he said, looking me up and down, "not a bad figure too."

"Not a bad figure? Well gee, thanks." I rolled my eyes. He laughed and let his body flop against the cold, brick wall. He sighed. Jack strolled around the corner, brandishing my lighter.

"Let's get this thing burning!"