Discalimer:Haruka and Michiru and all Sailor Moon characters belong to Naoko Takeuchi. Everything else belongs to me. Please do not steal!
Rated M for a good reason, and this is a Haruka/Michiru story. Don't say I didn't warn you, 'cause I just did.
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1
In the small space in between the isles, with her back pressed against the bookshelves, a young girl sat on the wooden floor by herself. One leg bent under her, the other bent up and supporting the arm which in return was supporting her chin, she tried to get as comfortable as humanly possible as her eyes scanned the printed pages in front of her green eyes. Blonde, shoulder length hair tied up in a messy, improvised bun with a pencil in an attempt to keep the wild strands off her eyes.
Low rise, faded blue bootcut jeans were covering her seemingly endless legs; a frayed slit over the right knee, and black, three inches high heel boots on her feet. The white scoopneck tanktop with a racerback hugged her form perfectly, leaving a rather nice view of her cleavage, accentuated by the sunglasses hanging from it, to whoever walked passed her. Next to her, a granite colored jacket rested carelessly over the herb green cross-body bag.
But the small space or the shelves against her back did not bother her. Neither did the reigning silence of the public library. That was actually a nice, welcoming silence, when considering the attention she needed to pay to her current activity. What did bother her though, constantly and to no ends, were the blonde locks that kept on falling into her face, no matter how many times she pushed them off. There was only so much one simple pencil could hold, and even if she did have a proper hairband to tie it up, that damned thing she called her hair would always find a way to rebel against her. And as she blew off yet another blonde lock off her line of vision, small, soft hairs tickling her nose in the most unnerving, annoying way, she started to consider, not for the first time, putting herself through a Sidney O'Connor phase and just shave the damned thing off.
Or maybe something less dramatic. Like cutting it. All of it.
A sided smirk found its way to her lips then, and she shook her head lightly.
Not that she found Freud amusing at all. The guy had such a way with words, most of which she had heard of and had a vague idea of what they meant but was not particularly familiar with- psychoanalysis was not something she was that much interested in-, the entire thing was confusing her even more. Or maybe it wasn't her, and it was more of a therapists' thing; the guy had been a pioneer in the area, after all. It wasn't so hard to understand why most therapists' now a day had a tendency to be confusing, talking in circles and riddles -or just talking a lot- but never really saying anything useful.
Not to her, at least.
She went to one of those a few years back, right after her parents died. Her uncle and legal guardian had thought it would do her good, helping her with her grieve, seeing as a thirteen year old girl was obviously unable to deal with such loss by herself.
Obviously, her uncle was not only clueless as to what being a teenage girl meant -not that she could really blame him for that-, but also didn't really know her at all.
She was not keen on sharing her thoughts and feelings that easily, least of all to complete strangers, and she most certainly didn't appreciate some old man wanting to force his way into her head. Still, she had been sent there. And after almost two months of weekly sessions, with one stubborn girl not saying more than a few words to the old, bald, fat man sitting in front of her, studying her from over the edge of his thin glasses resting over his large nose, asking her how she felt about things such as school and friends and life in general, only to get the same dry, sober, simple 'fine' as an answer, the old fat man decided to give up on her. Saying something about how she definitively had an attitude, but he couldn't really reach her.
Of course he couldn't reach her. She never let him. And those weekly sessions had only proven to be fruitless to the old man, and quite pointless and boring for her. Yes, she had cried her parents' death. Alone, in the privacy of her room. She had her own way of grieving; she certainly didn't need some therapist to tell her how to deal with it.
And there truly wasn't any other half valid reason for her to be sent there. Even after her parents past away, after moving in with her uncle and with her family life completely changed, she had still managed to keep a somewhat normal life. Straight A student, captain of the running team at her school -the youngest one ever, at that-, and an excellent piano player.
The only thing she did quit was gymnastic, and her uncle had seen in that a sign of her drifting away and shutting herself off. And though that was not particularly untrue, since she did find people trying to force their way into her life just because highly annoying, and she certainly didn't appreciate or care for shallow relationships of any kind and nature, that was not the reason behind her decision to quit the team. She had simply been tired of jumping around, training day in and day out, getting nothing out of it but a nice medal or a trophy to decorate shelves and then just stay there, gathering dust. The original rush that had led her into gymnastics in the first place was long gone, and she didn't find it thrilling nor exciting anymore.
She knew it was probably a sign of arrogance on her part, but she honestly didn't think it was humanly possible to get any better or any more flexible than she already was, unless she somehow found some sort of super power that would allow her body to turn and twist like a rubber band. She was just as good as any other athlete going for the gold medal at the Olympics; she simply didn't feel passionate enough to go ahead and get it.
And then of course there was the fact that at the tender age of thirteen, her body had already reached its current five feet nine inches height, deciding to grow up on her seemingly overnight. Her life has never been exactly normal, so of course Mother Nature wouldn't give her a break; she had gone from looking like an every day, average thirteen year old pre-teenager, to resembling a fully developed young lady at least two years older than her actual age.
Her height, her looks, her taste in music, her cultured mind, and being far from resembling any other boy crazy under hormonal revolution teenager her age usually led people to assume she was much older. And many were surprised to find that not only was she still in high school, but she was only fifteen years old.
The sudden growth her body went into and the slowly but steadily growing feeling of boredom had been her main reasons to quite gymnastics and scratch it off her extracurricular activities. Working the uneven bars and being suspended in nothing but air while worrying about accidentally flashing herself, or in pain because of an uncomfortably tight bra that would prevent such accident would also restrict her air supply, was hardly a good thing. The last thing she wanted was to have an accident that could not only be potentially and highly embarrassing, but also send her straight to the floor and then rushing to a hospital with a sprained ankle. Or worse.
Not that she was particularly afraid of getting hurt. She was strong enough, and proud enough to take in the pain and suck it up. But she wasn't stupid; she knew worrying about her breasts and whether or not her training outfit offered proper support and coverage was not exactly the right thing to be worrying about when flipping around.
She had mastered both the uneven bars and floor, and she found the volt and the balance beam kind of boring -not that she wasn't good at those as well. And reaching such high level at such young age only added to her general boredom towards gymnastic, along with the lack of any real friends among her teammates that would have made her at least consider staying. Most would see in the tall, agile blonde nothing but competition, and except maybe for a challenge or two, she had rarely have much of an exchange with her teammates.
With no real friends in there and getting bored fast, she had simply wanted to try out something new. Something with a bit more rush to it. And after quitting gymnastics, she had tried every single sport, from martial arts to basketball, soccer, and baseball, and pretty much any other sport that she could think of. And though she was good in all, excelling in most, nothing seemed to fit her spirit. That was, until she finally got to high school, and the good name and reputation of the running team got her attention.
Remembering how much she used to love running around as a kid, thinking that, if she put her whole heart into it, she could run like the wind, letting it carry her, she made up her mind and give it a shot to the running tracks. She actually liked being a part of the team, and though she had long ago grew out of her childhood fantasies, she could still feel like being carried away by the wild element every single time she was out there running.
And that was the one and only reason why she had stated on the team for this long. It made her feel alive. With her legs moving fast, carrying her fast and far, and the wind caressing her every pore. There was a certain magic to it; to be able to run free and wild.
Untamed, just like the wind.
But these were her reasons, and it was her life, and she honestly didn't understand why she should explain herself to some shrink that thought asking stupid questions would somehow help her in the process of becoming an adult. She was, always had been and always will be a rather private person; she chose very carefully who to share her thoughts with, and that bald, fat old man was just not among those few.
Since when wanting to be left alone equaled to needing therapy, anyway?
How ironic, she thought to herself, as yet another smirk made it to her lips when taken under consideration the kind of readying she was doing on that exact moment. Of course, her readying 'The interpretation of dreams' had nothing to do with her losing her parents or with the pains and tribulations of growing up. But still, the irony didn't escape her.
The sound of soft steps, high heels meeting the wooden floor and invading the isle she had claimed to herself forced her out of her own thoughts, and she looked up just in time to see a girl walking in.
She was able to catch a glimpse of deep blue eyes before the girl turned her back to her. One long, slender finger gently tracing the wooden shelf, as she read the titles of the books. Curly, aquamarine hair tied up in a high, carefully messy looking bun that gave way to waving locks that cascaded freely down the girl's back and shoulders.
A blue halter top tee gently kissing the girl's body all the way down to her round hips. Low rise, side tab jean shorts showed off a pair of perfectly shaped, pearly white legs, ending with deep blue four inches high heeled pumps on her small feet. A light gray cotton wrap was hanging from the brown chamois handbag resting on the girl's shoulder, as she held a small card in one hand, taping one finger against the shelves with the other.
The blonde frowned. Something about the girl felt familiar…
She shook her head, clearing her mind and getting back to her reading, dismissing the thought. She would most certainly remember such unique hair color.
"Damn!" the soft, almost melodic whisper made her look up again, as the aquamarine haired girl turned around, hands on her hips and sighing, letting blue eyes wander around the isle for a moment.
"Can't find what you're looking for?" she guessed, in a hushed, husky whisper, not wanting to disturb the reigning quietness.
"It's not here," the girl answered, frowning slightly and looking straight into her green eyes.
And as deep blue gazed into her, for some strange reason, a sense of deja vúinvaded her, and her stomach felt suddenly heavy inside her. Do I know this girl?, she asked herself, frowning now.
"I guess someone must have checked it out already…" the girl trailed off, once again letting blue eyes wander around, until she tilted her head to a side; curls falling over her shoulder at the movement. "Or maybe there's a blonde girl sitting on the floor readying it right now."
She blinked, suddenly getting kicked out of her semi trance like state at the girl's soft, melodic voice and that slightly teasing, kind of ironic edge to her words. She blinked again, looking down on the book she held in her hands.
"Oh."
Shaking her head, she stood up and off the floor, moving her legs a little to allow normal circulation again and straightening her back. And forcing the girl to tilt her head upwards as she did so, despite the high heeled pumps, just so that she could look at her. The boots the blonde was wearing only adding to her already tall frame.
"Here, all yours," she said, whispering again, and handing the book to the other girl. "Maybe you can make more sense out of it than me."
The girl took the offered book, looking down on it for a moment before gazing up at her again. A curious frown coming to her soft, delicate features, making her small, pointy nose wrinkle cutely.
"Does he say anything interesting, or he just talks in circles?" she asked, softly yet somewhat ironically.
She chuckled at that. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who didn't think so highly of therapists...
"Depends on how you look at it," she answered. "I'm not an expert on the subject, but in my opinion, he just sounds like any other shrink out there."
The girl smiled at her then, arching a perfectly shaped aquamarine eyebrow. "He was a shrink," she pointed out.
"Exactly the problem," she agreed, nodding her head.
They both laughed then, only to earn a disapproving look and a chastising hush from the old librarian lady that was putting some books back into their rightful shelves a few feet away from them. With an almost insulted frown upon her aged face and placing a finger over her lips, the lady silently ordered them to keep quiet and be silent. And she chuckled sheepishly, shrinking her shoulders and shoving her hands into her pockets.
"Sorry," the aquamarine haired girl apologized for the both of them, calming down her giggles, and then turning back to look at her.
She ran a hand through her hair, shoving her bangs out of her eyes only to have them falling right into her face again, and took a look at her wristwatch. "Crap," she muttered. "I have to go."
"Sorry to keep you here," the other girl apologized, smiling up to her.
"It's not your fault."
"Alright," the girl said, nodding her head, "sorry for taking your book, then."
She shook her shoulder, as her trademark sided smile came to her lips, and she winked at her. "Don't worry about it," she said, before bending down and taking her bag, crossing it over her shoulders, and hanging her jacket from her bag. "See you around."
"Sure," the aquamarine haired girl whispered back, returning the smile with a soft, small one of her own. "Bye," was the last, soft whisper that reached the blonde's ears before she disappeared around the corner.
Making her way fast down the stairway and striding down the lobby, she stepped out of the library, putting her sunglasses over her eyes and taking another look at her wristwatch. A softly whispered, yet colorful curse coming out of her lips; she was barely fifteen minutes away from getting majorly scolded at.
But then she smiled, making it to her car in a small jog and unlocking the door. She always enjoyed a challenge, and making it on time while facing the afternoon traffic sure sounded like one. Inserting the key, she stepped on the gas, taking off fast, barely keeping herself under speed limits.
She made it into the car shop just in time. Parking her car outside, she took her sunglasses off her eyes and placed them on the top of her head as she walked in casually. The sound of her black high heels clicking against the greasy floor alerted the young man working under the hood of a red car parked there, and he lift his head up, only to hit himself against the hood.
"Damn!" he grunted, massaging the sore spot with one hand, while trying to clean off the grease from the other against his dark gray, already dirty overall. "You're late, Tenoh," he said to her, checking his hand to make sure there was no blood, and then glaring at her.
"No, I'm not," she argued. "Right on time," she said, pointing at the clock hanging on a wall. "As usual," she added, smirking cockily.
Amber eyes rolled at her. "If you really want to be on Matsumoto's good grace, you better get that nice ass of yours in here and get to work."
Walking right past him and completely ignoring his warning tone and words, she winked at him, making her way to the locker rooms. "I already am," she simply stated, before stepping into the small room and closing the door behind her, not without catching her co-worker's narrowed eyes and openly laughing at him.
Ever since she started working here, she had been on Matsumoto's good grace. And probably even long before that, considering how Matsumoto and her father grew up together and had been best friends since childhood. The man had known her since she was on her mother's belly, and that alone was reason enough for the middle aged man to be fond of her. The fact that her father had taught her everything and anything there was to know about cars and engines also served as a good plus she surely took advantage of, making her job a whole lot easier.
Granted, Matsumoto had only agreed on taking her in and give her the job probably out of pity for her and respect for her late father's memory. But she had proven herself worthy of the job by being able to fix any car and leave it as good as new. If she couldn't fix it, no one could.
But although she enjoyed her part time job at the shop, she only came here for one very specific reason. She wanted to race.
And Matsumoto was not only her father's best friend and owned this well known car shop, but he was also the head mechanic and master brain of the pit crew down at the racing track. And that was exactly the place where she wanted to be. Only, behind the wheel, stepping on that gas pedal with all she was worth and flying down that track.
When she first went to him, wanting to get on the amateur team, Matsumoto's first answer had been a categorical, kind of colorful, decided and downright stubborn no. But after some negotiation and convincing on her part that almost bordered on begging -though her pride would never let her admit to it-, he had finally agreed on letting her give it a try and get her tall frame into one of his racing cars to go around the track for a couple of rounds, but only if she proved to him she understood the fast machine that carried her. In Matsumoto's language, that meant knowing how to fix, dismantle and put back together a car.
Accepting the challenge, trusting in her knowledge and abilities, she agreed to Matsumoto's conditions, taking a part time job a few days a week, providing she wouldn't let her studies aside, and earning herself some pocket money in the process. He had yet to meet his end of the bargain, but she was willing to wait. For a while, at least.
She walked out of the lockers room, overall covering her long legs and then tied around her waist, and a white, though completely ruined for good tank top hugging her curves. Black working boots on her feet, and a red bandana over her head to keep her hair in place and out of her eyes while preventing it from getting dirty.
"You know," her co-worker said, getting her attention as she made her way to one of the cars parked in there, waiting to be fixed, "right now, you look exactly like any guy's hot fantasy."
She rolled her eyes at the comment and rather unoriginal fantasy, shaking her head. Choosing to ignore him and just do what she came here to do, she made sure the mechanic jack was properly adjusted and then placed the tool box right next to the creeper.
"Oh, come on, babe!" he said, walking up to her and smiling charmingly. "When are you going to give me a chance?"
"When you grow brains," was her easy, bluntly honest answer, as she laid herself down on the creeper, taking the tool box with her and sliding under the car.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she heard him asking, and once again, she rolled her eyes.
If every single guy out there was as lame and full of himself as this one -and she was seriously starting to think they were-, then she was sure she was going to die one old single lady. Taking a wrench and studying the machine on top of her, she vaguely wondered if it was too soon for her to start looking for cats...