"Thanks Stein. I mean for the ride and stuff. . . Uhh. What was the name of that guy who towed us again?"
"...It's Kilik."
"I-uhh, yeah. Umm, please, send him my regards. Mhmm, yeah."
Silence fills the room, disturbed only by the periodic ticking of the giant clock to her left. She settles deeper in the old sofa and tries to ignore her urge to flee. The man, Stein, was a weird fellow. He was curt with his words, a complete opposite to her father, and appeared to harbor a strange hobby of collecting dead things and animal–at least she hoped they were body-parts of animal-origin.
She looks at the two men sitting opposite of each other, with one of them opening and closing his mouth every few seconds, as if in want to say something and break the uncomfortable silence. The other was just sitting, legs crossed at ankles and sipping at his coffee, completely ignorant of the rather awkward situation. Even the small boy sitting next to him–Stein's son, with no doubt, he kept looking at her with the same sick interest that was just, really uncommon for a child of his age–he seemed to pick on the unnerving silence, glancing to and forth from Spirit and Stein.
Really, how did they, her papa and doctor Frank Stein, managed to get along back in their days of police fame? It was said they were an unstoppable combo: Stein with his forensics and her dad with his accurate assumptions and sixth-sense. Other than that she could never fathom how their clashing personalities did never break something apart.
The stuffed bear keeps looking at her with its glassy stare, and the dim, orange light of the fading day reflecting in his eyes makes it look a lot like the real deal. His mouth is forever warped in a silent roar. There is a moose head right next to it. And, next to it a stuffed goose. And, on the shelf a fox.
Big hand on the clock reaches twelve and a cuckoo jumps out, signaling it's seven o'clock. For her own saneness she hopes the small bird is wooden.
She grips the glass of orange juice tight in her hands and, for the lack of any interesting diversions that would distract her from questioning how and just when the stuffed bear will return from the dead, begins to examine the opposite side of the room that thankfully, isn't stuffed with dead animals. She scans the walls, her gaze falling from one weirder thing to another. Was that a dissected frog in alcohol?
"So, I heard you and Marrie got married, hm?"
"And I heard you and Kami got divorced."
"I-Ehh, I–yeah." Her father casts down his eyes. She turns back after few seconds of affirming that he is okay to examining what is probably a stomach and the beginning of the small intestine of the poor frog. In macabre awe, mind you.
"Yeah, we got divorced. Six years ago. It's–I mean–"
Yeah it definitely is its stomach and those are the intestines that she, at first, confused for some kind of fabric, floating in the yellow liquid of acetylene.
She will have some quality night sleep next time.
Her father clears his throat finally mustering up enough courage to add something else or compliment on the spooky inner decoration. She seizes her chances, calculates a positive outcome and stands up, interrupting her father in the middle of his 'You've a really nice house' insincere pleasantry. "You have it nice he–"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Stein, dad, I," she stutters when Stein provides her with a calm but questioning stare, the boy next to him looking at her the same way as his father–the same head tilt and squinted eyes–and she has to gulp down and try again, her voice getting perceptibly higher in pitch.
"I–I juts remembered that I left the car window open," she smiles tightly, "I should go and check it, no? Don't worry I will see myself out. It was nice meeting you, mister Stein, and your son, of course," she smiles at the boy in question, "and, uh, thank you again, and, um, goodbye."
"Maka? Maka!"
"Bye dad! I will see you later!"
She walks around the couch, two grey heads turning to watch her every move, and one red head frantically attempting to catch her attention and hint that maybe she shouldn't leave him here, and for the love of God, help him get out too in the same unsuspecting way.
She only finally sags in relief, after she closes the net door, and hops off the porch onto the soft green grass.
"What to do now?" She swings on the soles of her feet, her arms moving to and fro with the movement of her body.
The air is pleasantly warm on her bare legs and shoulders, and she closes her eyes for a second to savor the moment.
One of the many disadvantages of living basically in a desert is that you almost never get to see living greenery and she doesn't mean small park they had back in Death City, or the plants that could be seen from the windows of the first floor flats, or the occasional dry shrubs by the roads, no, she means actual greenery. Tall and graceful pines, small grass and the ever present hum of life.
The forest is beautiful.
She remembers why they went here all those times. The beautiful smell, chirping of birds, humidity in the air. . . Well, no wonder her mama deemed it her favourite place in the world. She quickly discards her flip-flops, burrowing her toes in the moist choppy grass, props her arms on her hips and breaths in a lungful of the wonderful clean air.
So this was lake Tahoe.
She opens her eyes again.
"What should I do?" She says, more to herself, not for the ears of anyone else.
Of course she is going to see the lake first. Well, after she takes few things from the car first. The keys dangle from her fingers, shining with the scarce rays that have managed to shine through the tall pine trees.
She slips on her flips and starts to leisurely walk to the park-site.
She spends the rest of her day laying here and there, reading the book she brought with her from the car, and familiarizing with the camp site, along with the very few facilities that laid on the grounds, mainly the small restaurant, the public baths and she even popped inside the small repair shop.
She kicks at the dusty walkway, nuzzling into her hoodie, she has been, thankfully, cautious to bring with herself. Goosebumps raise on her bare legs–"Ugh, stupid chicken legs!"–and she picks up on pace. The night is close, but the night life is just starting. On her way here she has spotted at least three couples on their way out – she is not envious. Not at all. There has never been a second in the twenty years of her life she has been envious of lovely couples. Not even once. She swears – heading for the restaurant, or just for a nice walk. Maybe for a nightly dip in the lake, just for the hell of it.
She stomps down a few times, rumbles and continues her walk to the car. Or should she call it home for the time being? If she remembers correctly, now she should turn to the left, just behind this red Toyota, and the car should be right there–
Her Mercie comes into sight.
She resists the urge to skip.
Fails to do so.
"Oh, my little honey boo-boo. Were you sad without your mommy here? Were you? Ohh, cutie pie!" She looks around for any possible witnesses. Her baby talks with car were rare occasions, only few and far between because she liked to pretend someone as rational–as she liked to think about herself–as her would never and under any circumstances stoop down to baby talking a car.
"Oh, my death! You, Mercie are soooo beautiful." She crouches down, beside the front right wheel, where it was estimated to always set aside the keys. She pats around a few times, combing through the grass with her fingers and comes up empty-handed.
"What the? I'm pretty sure I've left them there–" She spots an open window. What? She was also pretty sure she has closed each and every one of them! And that meant just one thing–
"Dad!" She shouts, simultaneously jumping up. "Dad! I know you are in there. Open up! It' me, Maka!"
No one answers. She bangs on the door.
"Dad! Okay, look. I'm sorry I left you there, okay? Now open up!" Really, her dad. . . But it is weird for him to leave her hanging like this for more than three minutes. Her father wouldn't be capable of doing such a thing to his sweet precious angel. She rolls her eyes nervously.
"Dad?"
Still no answer. That means he is either not there or he is sleeping. She bangs on the door few times, louder than before.
Okay, so he is not in here. Her banging would have woken up even a bear during its hibernation. That brings her to: are there any bears in the vicinity of the camp?
Suddenly it struck her. Her Papa has surely been in the car before she came, and seeing as nobody is home at this time, surely, he must have left for a drink, and her papa, being her Papa must have forgotten this one thing. Where to, and where never to put the keys.
They were just heading for Steins cabin, when her papa tried to leave the keys on the spot she absolutely hated the most: the roof of the car. Firstly, it was the most common place to put your keys, so if any burglar came they would be screwed, and secondly, and more importantly, she couldn't reach there without first climbing up the car like a stupid little monkey. So sue her for being small.
"Pa!? What did I tell you about the keys? If you put them on the roof I can't reach them!"
"Oh, donchu worry my sweet little angel," he pulls at her cheeks, "your papa will be here to save you. I wouldn't leave my daughter in a distress."
She has accentuated this little fact at least one hundred and eighty times over the course of the last three years.
"Gosh! Dad. Darn it." She drags her palms across her face, pulling at her cheeks. "Chicken shit. Chicken shit!" She relieves herself with a few more nice words and then sags in defeat.
"Darn!" And with this last one she sets to work.
"Oh. I'm sorry baby boo-boo. I don't want to step all over you." She coos as she sets her food on door platform and grips the upsides of the door. She raises her hands up, and starts to pat around on the roof.
Her fingers hit something and she successfully slides the keys further to the middle of the van.
She really has no time for this. She chucks down her flops and puts one foot on the doorknob, pulling herself up.
"Almost, almost. Come on! I've. Got. You."
"Should I call someone? Like the patrol officer or just, directly, the police?
And she stops, her limbs freezing halfway in their wake, as she suddenly whips around.
The light of the lamp that is right behind his back, illuminates her face; he meets her eyes, their toxic green the most beautiful and currently maybe the deadliest shade of green he has ever seen. She slits them, pretty doll eyes, and he becomes painfully aware that maybe he should have left this girl burglar alone, lest she whips a gun from her pocket and shoots him right here and now, as his muddled brain helpfully chirps. He shakes his head a little, trying to clear the fog that has, clearly, swallowed all of his, even previously lacking, brain cells.
She jumps down from the van, landing safely on the ground with a soft thump, small pines snapping under her petite weight, and swings on the soles of her feet. And he can't help but think that she can't be some hooligan he took her for when he first saw her acrobatic creations on the van because she suddenly looks all innocent, with the way her hands swing forward and then come to clasp together behind her back.
She smiles up at him–really, she is just plainly tiny compared to him, a five foot something thing–and he has to gulp down a frown. He poked at a little girl that looks about as ready to kick ass–his ass–as he is about to turn around and run for his life.
Maybe he is just being paranoid. Smoking pot always makes you paranoid.
...But maybe it was justified, right now, at this moment and with this girl.
He should have just let her be.
Her notices her smile is rather tight and that it doesn't reflect in her eyes. At all. Fuck.
"What would you know about it? For all I know you could be the one that is here to rob me." She hisses back, and it reminds him of a cat, no, better, of a tiger ready to attack, its back curled, and fur standing erect. So no, it wasn't paranoia, and yes, it was him just being reckless and interfering with what he shouldn't because these things really weren't in his best interest.
For some reason it is ridiculously funny–the thought of this tiny girl leaping onto him–his chuckles breeding in his throat and getting ready to be spilled carelessly into her face.
Who the hell was this man? She squints up at him. He is big, a giant compared to her, tall and his frame lean, but she could probably take him out in the battle if needed. One nice kick in the stomach and he would easily bend over, and enable her access to his face to work her magic on it. She slowly moves her foot back, acquiring a better leaping stance.
"Chill it lady," he drawls out, his voice bored and low. It's too slow, she grows suspicious, far too sluggish for him to be clean. She guesses it for alcohol, but then again he was standing eerily still to be drunk. "Don't get your panties in a twist, I mean no harm." To prove his point he raises his hands above his head and chuckles.
She looks at him incredulously, trying to comprehend just was his problem. It's not helping at all that she can't make out his face with his beanie and a hood pulled over his head and the light blinding her. At this point he is just a dark figure with bittersweet, deep voice that makes her want to see just how he really looks like, wants to observe this stranger who only maybe wanted to help someone, but instead got in her way.
"Okay, look. It's not your problem, but even then, this is my van. I sleep here, and live here for the next month and half. I was just trying to reach the keys my idiot of a papa put on the roof, and if you haven't noticed, I kind of can't reach there without climbing up first–hey, are you laughing!?
He bursts into laughter, sidestepping so she can, suddenly, make out his face, his sharp toothed grin that grows into a snort and then full-blown laughter, his eyes screwed shut, and tufts of white hair–white, she notices, white like snow she saw only two times in her entire life–sticking from his beanie. It strikes her, even when he is laughing like an idiot that he is strangely handsome, with his high cheekbones and tan skin. Does he possess some weird genetics or is he just bleaching his hair? She guesses it for the latter.
"Are you stoned?" She deadpans, and doesn't mean it at all, but guessing by the way he looks at her, silent for a moment before he bursts laughing again–his eyes are dark red to her surprise, almost mahogany, like old blood–she hit the bull's-eye.
Her brain signals her red lights, and she backs up.
"You are clearly stoned. I shall call someone." She turns around, wary to turn her back to him, and ready to fetch the keys, when he abruptly stops his laugh fit. She looks at him and, to her surprise, he appears to be calm again, only mirth swirling in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth curling upwards.
"Okay, hey, no need to resort to such a drastic," he cringes at the thought, "measures. You were saying something about car keys?" Nice save. He pats himself on the back, of course only imaginary, repressing his laughter at the thought of reaching behind and really patting himself on the shoulder.
"What, now you want to help me?"
"Uh, yeah sure. I mean, why not?" He utters a short laugh, bending his head down, and lifting his eyes at her. He resembles her a dog, a small puppy that looks equal part guilty and equal part playful.
She eyes him, suspicious beyond belief, but then realizes that if he tried something funny it wouldn't be such a problem to either beat him on the knees herself or call for help. After all, they were surrounded by other campers and she has the scream of a banshee. "Okay." She sidesteps, giving him more place to approach her.
"They should be right there, on top."
The guy–she still doesn't know his name, and won't ever do–stops beside her giving her last meaningful look, before he turns to her van and stretches his arm up–he also straightens his slouch and she becomes aware just how tall he is, really, wow–his hand disappearing behind the edge of the roof. He pats the surface few times, then his hand comes back, the keys dangling from his fingers. He shakes them mockingly into her face and she snatches them from him. He snorts.
"Thanks." And she grins because why not. He may be a stoned stranger, but a person who went out of his way to help her, nevertheless. She could see he meant no harm.
"No problem," he responds easily, and she grins at him even more, and, of course, he being him, has to be his idiotic self, shrinking back at the sight of a pretty girl smiling at him, and destroys it everything."Tiny-tits."
And her grin freezes on her face. Crap.
"Soul! Come on man. Where are you?! Your god demands to know! Kilik is waiting for us, duuude, you have to check out what he got this time!" And leave it to his stupid friend to save his ass, as he did countless times before. Sometimes he had to leave it to him; Star was a life saviour.
The girl leans to her side to peer over him, curious as to find what kind of a monster has generated this level of noise and he quickly backs up while she is distracted.
"Oh, well, it was nice meeting you and all, but I've gotta go now, so. Uh, yeah." He finishes off lamely. He waves at her and turns on his heel, casually strolling away from her before his ogre of a friend could find him and damn them both to hell. Something told him that this girl just wouldn't let slide two stoned dudes walking around the camp, without first stirring the waters a little.
"Thanks." She shouts after him.
"No big deal, Pigtails. See ya" He throws over his shoulder, and manages to hear her growl before he finally escapes around the corner of another camping van, this time the red Toyota, congratulating himself on evading her wrath so smoothly.
"Huh. I highly doubt we will see each other again." He mutters under his breath; after all the park was huge, so what were the odds he would ever meet her again? He takes another turn and finds the creator of all the noise, who throws an arm around his shoulder and drags him who knows where, all the while blabbering about meaningless things as only Star could manage.
"What an oddball." She mutters to no one in general watching the car he has disappeared behind few more minutes after all the ruckus created by his friend dies. She shrugs then and gives a look to the keys in her hand. She grips them in her fist and turns around, opening the car and disappearing inside. Hopefully she won't meet him again. After all the park was huge enough, so the odds were in her favor, no?
She smacks around herself, her phone ringing in just a small distance from her. "Stupid, shitty phone."
She heard their giggles and felt the hot moist air on her naked skin. The hall was dark, not even one lamp to fight the shadow present. Her flip-flops made a squeaky noise on the wet floor and she almost slipped, catching herself against the white tiles of the bathroom wall. Her towel, rough and scratchy from all the times she hadn't put enough detergent to the laundry, almost fell from her chest. She had to juggle wildly the mountain of her clothes in her arms to catch the traitor on his slide down. Her sweatshirt escaped her hold and one of the sleeves fell right in a small pool of water by her feet. She cursed silently.
"Great." She quickly pulled it up, examining the damage. It was wet maybe up to the elbow. She tried to wring, but it still came out wet.
This was just not her day.
She adjusted her towel, double-checked the tight knot she had made on it for extra measure and opened the bathroom door, the sharp light blinding her for a second.
Her fingers finally hit the hard plastic of her buzzing phone. Her eyes protest when she thrusts the screen up to her face. It takes a few seconds for her sight to adjust and make out the faint outlines of the letters that blink on her phone. It's four am. With a groan she rolls out of the bed.
What first hit her was the hot wave of air, and then the intense mix of various shampoo and body wash smells. She took a step inside, softly clicking the doors shut. Water was everywhere, a big soapy pond in the middle of the floor. Bathroom was divided in numerous stalls, currently occupied with bathing women in various states of nudity, some of them wearing bath suits–why hadn't she brought hers?–some of the confident ones completely naked. They all turned their heads when she walked in, but turned their attention back almost immediately when they realized she is one of them rather than some daring pervert. She walked in between the stalls, determination set in her features to not look left or right. She found an empty stall between the one occupied by a japanese girl with long black hair in a full body swimsuit and a busty naked woman with cat ears on her head. She chose not to question it and quickly discarded her towel on one of the hooks on the wall.
She has ever been to a public bathroom once, four or five years ago in Japan, on one of her very few trips with her mom, after the divorce. Come to think of it that was the last time she and her mom ever went somewhere together. It has been a rather uncomfortable experience. And seeing as the growth in the chest department hasn't progressed at all since she was thirteen, it was going to be uncomfortable this time again.
It's kind of hard to navigate through the darkness, but she would rather choose not to wake Spirit up and stab her toe on something, than have him following after her. She finds a cloth on the floor and by groping it determines it's her beanie. She pulls on shorts she finds next to it.
The hot water was heaven. She could already feel her muscles relaxing. Long rides in cars were always the worst. She turned around intent on looking for a body wash, but got greeted by a purple head looking at her instead.
"Oh, hey I haven't seen you around here. Are you a newcomer?" The busty woman popped her head in Maka's stall. She almost yelped from shock, her hands coming to wrap protectively around her chest.
"Ah. Yes. I am. I am." She stuttered when the purple haired woman took a few steps in her direction, coming dangerously close to trespassing her personal space. No one came into her personal space. Ever. She had been almost obsessively crazy about it since that one time in her grade school her stupid friend of Blake ran in on her and few various girls taking a shower after her swimming practice.
It was her personal space and her's only.
"Oh, honey. Hello! I'm Blair. Nice to meet you!" She thrust her hands to Maka, and yep there it is, the cat women could be officially dubbed as the Official Space Invader. She unglued both of Maka's arms stuck to her body and shook them enthusiastically not minding Maka's huge shocked eyes.
"You are so cute kitty. Where is your mommy? Is she not here? Blair will wash your back!" The woman shouted excitedly, pulling on Maka's cheeks, and almost immediately reached for a body wash.
"No. No! No need to. I'm already going-"
"Come on Blair, don't abuse her. Don't you see you are making her uncomfortable?" The tall japanese girl appeared around the corner. Maka smiled graciously at her, already grabbing her towel and walking around the purple haired woman."Thank you for your offer, but I'm already done. Thanks."
She tied the towel around herself, and hurried out only offering a thankful smile to the dark haired girl. What she couldn't see was the japanese girl hissing out 'Blair!' at the cat woman and smacking her softly on her arm.
She tiptoes out of the door and shuts it silently behind her. Like a ninja.
She hums the tune from mission impossible and even goes as far jump around corners with her fingers pointing like a gun, the darkness of the night covering her role-play.
It takes her almost fifteen minutes to get her ass to the bathrooms, and only after turning three times in the wrong direction and coming face-to-face with an obnoxious purple and orange van. The keys–the wonderful luxury of baths came automatically with paying the camp fees–jingle silently when she slides them in their proper hole. She exhales quietly, mission impossible tune reaching the crescendo in her head, and opens the door, freezing up when they creak, the noise ringing through the darkness like a gun shot.
She slides inside, locking the door behind her and gropes the walls for the switch. Her fingers hit something and suddenly, she can see clear as day again.
She opens the doors to her left, dubbed as the girl's change room with a small figure in skirt, avoiding looking on the right side, where the men's locker room are. She has almost made a mistake last night when she nearly opened the wrong door, only getting stopped by a fellow female bathroom user coming out of the girl's dressing room.
She lights the room up and sets her things aside on a bench.
She walks out three minutes later, phone in her right hand and a new bottle of shampoo in the left, full and ready to be used. She sighs as she eyes the sterile looking hallway. It looks like a scene from horror movie. Sharp, white light shining from one flickering lamp that glistens on the tile walls and floor and beyond that, a dark hole, swallowing up the rest of the hall like a giant mouth.
The hallway becomes gradually darker and darker with each step she takes away from the one and only light installed by the door. She turns left and even the rest of the feeble light disappears. She unlocks her phone and tries to lighten the passage so she would at least see under her feet. Her flip-flops squeak when she steps in puddles of cold water, her reflection getting lost in the endless circles by her feet. She walks around the men's bathroom–that means the women's should be close too–Her phone slides from her fingers and with a clatter falls right in the pond. It becomes awfully dark after. With a shout she falls to her knees. Just her luck. Just her dumb luck.
She finds the phone and after a few minutes of blind and panicked searching, also the battery. With shaking hands she puts it inside and hits the power button. Nothing happens. Her phone almost meets the floor again when she brings her hand down, about to throw it on the wall in rage. She stops in last moment, apathy flooding her veins. There is no use in throwing a fit now, no?
She stands up, reaching out for the wall to steady herself. Her eyes adjust after few minutes, and she continues, her finger touching the slick walls for guide. She continues in the same direction–at least she thinks it's the same direction, her sense of navigation has gotten awfully quiet in this darkness and she almost misses it–the uneven feeling of wood under her fingers, the slight pain when her knuckles hit the knob–she nearly shouts in victory when she throws the door open. The room is full of light-oh my Death, light! Finally!-and she hears water running. She quickly slips in, figuring out it must be just a lone rider like herself taking a shower in the midst of the night.
He turns the water more hot, leaning forward and letting it spray on back. His hair gets plastered to his forehead and he sweeps it back, then leans on his arm again.
Water feels like heaven. He could feel the knots in his back already unravelling and he rolls his shoulders few times.
Black Star always found the most uncommon and probably even the most uncomfortable of places for his illegal activities. No, they couldn't smoke in the van because Stein would find out, and if Stein found out, it would be royal problem. There was a reason why they got lost once in the forest, why Kilik had to get three stitches after he cut his forearm on a wire in abandoned lake cabin, and why he now has a fucking back cramp like an old man after sitting three hours crammed with his knees under his chin in a small tree house with five other dudes. Not that he was complaining at the time. But fuck, the aftermath? It was the worst.
Especially if the quality wasn't that good to begin with.
It was a wonder how that monkey of a man Black Star never seemed to show any sighs of being wasted the day after a smoke out. He himself, on the other hand, seemed to have a hangover no matter what little amount he smoked or the quality provided. But that was the price he was willing to pay for a brief second of neglect and carelesness – that could result in happiness, if he squinted hard enough – the ganja provided: he was lost and maybe even addicted, but it didn't matter. His life was a load of bull crap and this was his only was of loosening up.
Soul sighs and drags a palm across his face.
A thud startles him out of his trying-to-get-his-shit-together treatment. His senses are still a bit dull, but he has already come out of the fog that has enveloped and embraced his whole world just hours ago. He turns after the sound, but then relaxes – it must be other person just taking a shower like him. There is nothing wrong with that. He stops the water, takes a bar of soap and starts washing the grime and smell of smoke of his body.
He hears the shower, probably three or four stalls down from him, turn on and he smiles to himself. It must be one of his friends – maybe Harvar? The dude's eyes always got an angry red, and taking a shower supposedly helped him calm the itch down.
Soul stops the water and brushes back the lone strands of hair from his face.
He walks out of the stall blinking out the water from his eyes, trying to rub it out while simultaneously reaching blindly for the towel he always hangs on the hook left to the stall. His hand slaps against the wet cold wall.
After opening his eyes it is confirmed: he has forgotten the towel. Fuck his muddled brain.
He leans out of his stall. The bathroom is glistening with the fog of his shower. He is getting awfully cold; goosebumps rise on his chest and arms. He doesn't want to imagine what his legs must look like right now. In the same row, just two stall down, he spots a green smudge –the fog is making it really hard to see –hanging on the racks.
...Harvar won't mind, right?
And if by any chance he does, Soul could just go and fetch the towel he has forgotten in the dressing room, no?
He stalks down the corridor and takes the towel, careful as to not peer in the stall. As much as he likes his friends, he is not interested in a dick-flash, thank you. He dries his face first and then ties the towel around his hips. Despite its fluffy look, the towel is rough and scratchy on his skin. It's not nice. Sue him for liking his things pleasant to touch. Fog is beginning to materialize, few drops already gliding down the walls. He reaches out, tracing the hollow lines with his finger. He hears the person squeeze a bottle–the substance squirts–and start humming terribly off tune. The voice is strangely feminine, but he gives it no thought.
He should have.
"Harvar. Sorry bro. I borrowed your towel and-"
"What the-AHHHHHHH!"
And a blond head peaks around the corner screaming his ears off. Very big and very green and very shocked eyes look at him, small mouth open in shock long after all the air needed for noise escapes her lungs. She clicks it shut, and the very big and very green and very beautiful eyes turn venomous, she sucks in air, and in the mean second she is silent he manages to utter an entirely useless: "What the fuck."
A small fist comes flying around the corner, so fast the only thing he manages to register is a smudge and the sound of sound barrier being broken, before his head snaps back and his nose signals one big red 'Ouch!'. He curls inwards immediately, trying to helplessly salvage the situation by gripping the bridge of his bleeding nose and shouting out apologies mixed with curses, while the girl goes off on a rampage.
"I haven't seen anything, oh my god, I haven't seen anything. Darn. Ouch. Fuck. You are like a bear or something, what the hell? Fuck. I'm so sorry. What the fuck-"
"...youlowlymammal,I'mgoingtocastrateyou,youhearme?Fuckingpervert,seehowI'mgonnareportyou,don'tyoufuckingmoveaninch-"
He straightens up, squinting through teary eyes at the woman–no, a chick–with the power of four bears and voice of a sirena that's down with a cold, that somehow still managed to be bloodcurdling intimidating with only a head and one fist poking from around the corner. And he couldn't even focus on his eyes on her. She waves her fist menacingly in his face – I'msofillingoutanreport – she takes a breath – thefirstthingtomorrowmorning – and he backs up, figuring she wouldn't dare to get out of the stall and beat him to pulp if it meant he would get to see more of her naked glory.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"He uncovers his face, his blood dripping and dissolving in the pools of water on the floor. The sound of water running is a weird background noise, and the fog thicker and thicker by second covers them like a comforting hot blanket, and this seems just like some bad dream produced by his sex-deprived brain, because, this can't be happening for real. Wasn't this like something that happened only in porn? Dude ran in on girl and then they had loads and loads of wild sex in showers? As far as he is concerned he hasn't signed up for something like this.
"Gah! Don't look! Oh my god, turn around-" She rips his ears.
"I didn't see anything, I swear! I didn't see anything!"
"Don't look, don't look, don't look!" There is a pause, and he hears the person take a breath and a strangely accusatory 'You!' leaves the girl's mouth. Her voice echoes of the walls and repetitions of 'you,you,you' corner him in like some afraid little fish in the sea of fog.
His vision clears and what he sees makes his mind go momentarily blank – it's the burglar girl. And by the fiery look that she gives him that makes the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand, she has recognized him too. "So, not only you are a marijuana smoker, which is illegal by the way, but you also come to peek at girls while they are showering? That's illegal in some countries, you know? And-and give me back my towel!" She stutters out the last part.
The light refracting on the droplets makes her face weirdly angular, outstanding from the soft white of the fog; her jaw is firmly set, and her cheeks are red and he just wants to flee.
He feels the heat rush up to his face, and probably the rest of his body at her order. He doesn't know what compels him to do so, to listen to this mean, evil, short girl, but he obeys her without a word, flaming up when her eyes become, somehow, unbelievably larger than they already are, when she realizes that she has just brought doom over her. His hands reach for the knot he has made on the towel. He waggles his brows, but it probably cancels out with his red face, so he adds lamely because he never knows when to stop: "so you want me to undress for you?" And, oh god, he has made it worse.
Her face immediately contracts with something akin to horror and he would like to pretend the disgusted grunt she lets out hasn't ever been directed at him. He would also like to pretend his gaze never slid down the delicate curve of her neck and all the way to the visible parts of her body. He is not a pervert.
'I am not a prevert.'
Okay, maybe he is, just a bit, but hey, isn't every dude a closet one anyway?
She blushes pretty pink, at least her collarbones and that one exposed shoulder do – her face color comes alarmingly close to the color of lava that, truthfully, matches his own. He pries his eyes of her creamy skin and forces himself to look at her horrified face.
"Ewww, don't you dare! Keep it! Keep IT!" She shouts and hides her face beneath the wall. It's cute: he snickers at her, then masks it up with a cough. He shouldn't laugh in situations like these. Especially if he is this close to a four bear force ready to be unleashed. And especially if he is only clad in tiny, green, uncomfortable towel. Her towel. New rush of fire surges through his veins.
"So okay. This is weird, and I-". And he wants to apologize because he is not that big of an ass as he tends to make of himself, when he realizes it. "-and for your information, coming into guys' bathrooms is illegal too. And a bit perverse, I would say."
This is his ticket out.
"What do you mean?" What is he talking about? Is he, by any chance, implying that she is the one who did the deviancy? That she is the stalker, the trespasser, the pervert? Oh, no she isn't going to fall for that. She is smarter than that. She looks at his smug, but red face and, oh yeah, he is clearly trying to make her feel like the guilty one. Like she would ever even think about stalking dudes while they shower. That is so under her league.
But then again she hasn't seen where she has entered. Maybe he really is just someone who was on the wrong place wrong time. He has planted a seed of doubt that hit a fertile ground.
"I mean what I mean. Okay look, this is awkward and all and I'm sorry for borrowing you towel, but I just want to go to sleep without a fear that someone is going to hunt me down in the morning for a thing I haven't done-"
"But you have done this. You are the one who is here! This is clearly a sexual assault, and I'm not going to-"
"Just look at the door when I leave, okay? I will leave the towel hanging right there, next to the door." With that he starts to back up; step over step away from her and closer to the safety.
"So you will just leave? What the-no, turn around! I mean it. I'm still going to find you in the morning! Hey. Hey!" She shouts at him. Three steps away from the door he turns on his heel, opening and closing, and again opening the door, only his arm reappearing when he reaches in and hangs her towel on the hook.
She wastes no time when the door closes again: she flies for the towel, almost slipping on the floor, her left hand clawing helplessly against the foggy wall. In the last second she grabs her towel, steadying her balance and her shaking legs. She hastily ties it around herself-and ignores the fact it was touching the junk of some random dude just a second ago. The door shudders violently on its hinges when she throws it open, just an echo of distant running steps greeting her when she pops her head in the dark hallway.
So, he has fled.
Silly man. That's not going change anything. She will find him in the morning, call the cops and maybe kick him a few nice times in the balls, if she manages.
Fog starts pouring out of the gap above her head; she feels the colder air blowing in the bathroom.
She harrumphs–it's unlikely he would come back. Culprits never came back to the scene of their crime. She grips the doorknob–the air is chilly on her skin–and before she turns and shuts the door behind herself, one thing catches her eye: a small silver man figure hanging on the upper part of the door.