A/N: This is very simplistic for my style. I like it, though. Hope you do, too. Enjoy. :D
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Twelve Minutes of Miss McGruder
Zeech
Minutes pass, and she hasn't moved. She stares at the ceiling, and could not be further away from him than she is now. Mind you, he has separated himself as well; the pizza box is half empty and rests on his lap as he finishes what should be his last slice. Her face, pale and contorted in unreadable thought is sideways on the pillow. Away from him, like the rest of her.
She is thinking of something. Maybe of him. She does know who he is, and she knows what they just did. She pulls the soft foamy blanket around her lithe body as she comes to sit against the headboard. There is not much to cover up, really. She didn't even remove her skirt.
Minutes pass, and she realizes her blouse is open, and her breasts are exposed. She must have just noticed the draft of cool air, and stares blankly down at them. She has done something, something decidedly dirty and clearly against her higher judgment. But her higher judgment has retired for the night, and with an opponent's fist to the temple has crawled away into a nice soft bed to sleep the concussion off.
Somewhere in the back of her thoughts it has given up trying to speak to her. Somewhere in the back of her thoughts she remembers cradling him in the moment, her fingers in his hair and his damp cheek pressed into her cool throat as he gasped –
The room is cold again, and he looks over at her, offering a slice. She looks back at him, and starts to button her blouse back up. Another minute passes before she shakes her head, no. McGruder brings her knees closer together, and self-consciously pulls her skirt as low as she can, turning her head the other way. The window is black, with stars. Isn't it always black with stars?
He says something, in that voice of his, that weasel-y voice of his that she's come to recognize. His fingers – they're long, delicate fingers that shouldn't belong to a thirty year old man, she thinks, as she catches herself staring at them – touch her arm, and she looks up at him again. Her thin brows contort again. What did he say? She didn't hear, and doesn't care to ask.
"You should go," she hears herself say, a voice hardly her own and stuck in a throat she can't feel as her own. But he hears her, and stares back with blank eyes, quietly swallowing the rest of the pizza that was rolling around in his mouth. Maybe he doesn't understand. She nods to the door, her frown still on her face – and doing nothing to disturb the pleasant arrangement of her pretty features.
"I should go," he agrees, finally, and closes the pizza box. He yanks his pants up the rest of the way, but for once he leaves his shirt open. McGruder frowns. He's so skinny. McGruder watches him run his own hands through his hair, take one look in her mirror, and start for the door. Something that feels like panic begins to rise into her chest, and she jerks as erect she can manage right now. She crushes her thighs together as she says his name, and he turns.
"McGruder?"
"Rimmer," she says again, and tilts her head lazily to the side. She thinks of the right words to say, and they won't seem to come as quickly as the panic did. He only stares at her, for thirty or so seconds bringing forth nothing of the smeghead. He only stares, wondering what she might say. There's hope in that long face, and an uncomfortable feeling combats the panic. Guilt, perhaps. McGruder ignores it, and speaks softly. "Do you like me?"
"Like you?"
"At all?" Rimmer pauses even longer at this, and finally nods. The entirety of his weakness comes forward in that nod when he releases a hint of a satisfied smile. McGruder's frown deepens, and she nods quickly. Too quickly – pain floods her head and shoots down the back of her neck. She blinks to steady him. "You do…that's good."
"You're very pretty," he says, out of the blue. There's no reason behind his voice. Where did it go? McGruder blinks again.
"If you like me," her voice is certain. More certain than it should be, more certain than the rest of the haze that is her world. She sounds certain. "Then you'll keep this quiet, won't you?" His face changes. Not a smile, not eager, just snide. She sees a sneer. Hope takes a seat in his eyes – it's easy to hide. They've gotten darker. Yvonne inhales slowly, deeply, and focuses on his face. It doesn't work. Yvonne looks away from Arnold, and back to the window. Still black, with stars.. Surprise, surprise. "You'll keep away from me because you like me, won't you?"
"I'll keep away," his voice is hard. Harder than it should be, harder than the rest of the weakness and failure that is his world. His voice sounds hard. "Because you're a smegging pratty little dyke with a right hook that would make Rocky cut and run, but if you're thinking it scares me, you've got another thing coming, lassie."
Smeghead. Or trying very hard to be.