Title: Run From Mommy
A/N: Squicky undertones ahoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.
He tries his best to avoid her but the problem is that there's no way to get home that doesn't involve passing the street lamp she's leaning against. Beyond that, Sora supposes he could have just refused to acknowledge her. Plenty of people do that; anyone who isn't interested in the services of a prostitute or isn't looking to arrest them usually do.
So easily could Sora simply have acted as though there was no one there leaning against the lamp post, but he can't even manage that. He doesn't know why he looks at her, why he stops, or why he chooses to greet her. Maybe it's out of the urge to be polite—probably not. Maybe it's because Sora's a bit of a masochist where these things are concerned—possibly. Maybe it's just because he wants to show his mother up—most likely.
"Hello Mother," Sora greets her stiffly, pausing in front of the lamp post.
Inoue Sorami hasn't changed much. There's still a cigarette poised in between her teeth, still the stench of the smoke clinging to every inch of her. She's still got cheap blonde highlights in her brown hair; her clothes are still skimpy and threadbare; she's even got that old scar on her calf like Sora remembers.
Brown eyes, drooping and framed in mascara, focus on Sora. For a moment, Sorami doesn't seem to recognize him. Her eyes narrow and she frowns. Then, a flicker of recognition passes over her face.
"The prodigal son returns," Sorami murmurs, tone and eyes unreadable but a bit of a sardonic smirk playing around her lips. "All dressed up and ready for work. And here I'd thought you'd gone and died in the gutter somewhere."
"I'd thought the same of you, Mother." It's a fight to keep his lip from curling and Sora knows how chilly his face must be, but Sorami seems absolutely unimpressed and as far from cowed as possible. That's in line of what Sora remembers of her; for all her faults Sorami was never easy to frighten.
The raspy whisper of a laugh rises and Sorami's face softens into a small smile as her eyes go to the ground. Sora bites his lip and fights the urge to take a step backward. He's always hated the way his mother smiles. She almost looks like someone Sora could like when she smiles and Orihime is developing a smile just like hers. "You know me; I always survive." Sorami discards her cigarette and looks Sora square in the eye. "Your father's died; I thought you should know."
"I wish I could say I'm sorry to hear that." That's all she'll get out of him and if she thinks Sora will ask exactly how he died she's dead wrong.
Sora's lack of grief doesn't exactly seem to perturb his mother. "Drink got him," she remarks indifferently. "Had to happen sooner or later; he's in the potter's field now." That's where just about everyone in their old neighborhood ends up, it seems. "So." Sorami's tone is brisk and just as uninterested as ever. "The brat still with us?"
This time, Sora doesn't bother to stop himself from curling his lip and his eyes are like ice as he responds. "If by 'brat' you're referring to Orihime, yes, and she's quite well." Better than how you left her, he adds.
Sorami inspects her chipped red nails. "Hmm." A shrewd, suggestive look comes over her face and she looks Sora up and down; Oh God, not this again. "You could come back you know."
A wave of bile climbs up his throat; Sora recoils. "Not if it was to save my life," he snarls.
"Not just you," Sorami amends. "You could bring Orihime too. Things would be different this time. Well…" she pauses, pursing her lips "…not entirely different."
Sora doesn't answer.
"You know, it really is remarkable just how much you look like your father."
This is all too real; this is all too familiar. Sora grits his teeth and wills himself to move. Walk away; just walk away. Don't look back; don't ever look back.
"That's right, run away from Mommy like you always did," Sorami calls after him, raspy voice dry and deadpan. "But I'll always be there, in your mind."
Sora knows that.
It's what he's afraid of.
