Title: "Purple Haze"
Fandom: Runaways
Summary: Chase reflects on the scent of hair-dye. (Spoilers for V.2 #18)
Words: 1,000
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Runaways is the brainchild of Brian K. Vaughan and Adrian Alphona, and the property of Marvel Comics.
The gold ring caught the light from the vintage beaded lamp near Gert's side of the bed. Chase fingered the ring unconsciously; it was tight and uncomfortable, but he did not want to remove it. He sat on the bed, not moving, not crying; only thinking.
The room originally belonged to her parents, the Yorkes. When the team first stumbled upon the new Hostel, they were all struck by the eeriness of the place; not only was it cavernously empty, but the six bedrooms and well-stocked supply rooms gave the impression that the base was a shelter, as if the Pride was waiting for a bomb to drop.
Or for the end of the world.
Chase immediately knew which bedroom his own parents had designed: it was white and cold and sterile, like a laboratory. Within a week he had completely trashed the room, and by the second week he was sleeping in Gert's.
He remembered the first night clearly: the team had just saved Los Angeles from the ridiculously-named, bell-headed villain Dr. Bong. The other girls were already asleep, but Chase's blood was still pumping from the fight. When he knocked on Gert's door, she didn't say anything; she looked into his eyes with an amused curl on her lips, and then she took his hand and took him to bed.
The next morning, Gert opened her closet and revealed to Chase the large oil painting of Dale and Stacey Yorkes that had once hung over her bed. They were dressed like fashion victims at a Renaissance Fair.
"Creepy," Chase said with a yawn, stretching like a cat under the covers. "I'm glad you took it down. I wouldn't have wanted 'em to watch us."
Gert's response was more thoughtful: "If only it were that easy to put their memory away."
Chase never "officially" moved into her room. It was something that happened gradually: his clothes found their way into her closet, his CDs somehow became scattered on her floor…Chase could never sleep in his own room. Even without a portrait hanging over his head at night, he could still feel his parents' presence hovering over him. The only nights he slept alone were when Gert dyed her roots, filling the bedroom with that sharp, unappealing scent of dye, and even then he retreated to the couch, not his own room.
The boy's reverie was interrupted by a low, plaintive whine; Old Lace nudged the bedroom door open and walked inside, her head hanging low. Chase extended a hand to pet the dinosaur; he knew that she was the only creature alive that truly shared his grief.
Old Lace prodded the bed with the tip of her pierced nose. A moment passed before Chase realized what she was doing: she was picking up Gert's scent on the pillow.
Sighing, Chase picked it up and pressed it to his face, inhaling the scent that clung to the striped pillowcase. The aroma of the "Purple Haze" hair dye was still fresh, and Chase felt a sharp pain in his chest. It was a real, physical pain, not unlike what he felt whenever his father socked him between the ribs, but he knew that if he pulled off his shirt there would be no bruises.
Like with all serious blows, the most damage was internal.
Chase let the pillow fall on his lap. "You know what, girl?"
Old Lace perked her head up.
"I hated the smell of Gert's dye. It reeked. That's why I didn't sleep with her the last night she was here. That's why I…"
Suddenly Chase was aware of the salty sting behind his eyes, and the moisture running down his cheeks.
"She was always so soft and warm, and then I had to feel her going cold and stiff…I had to feel it twice, she died in my arms twice…"
Old Lace made a quiet, mournful sound; a whimper that wasn't quite a whimper.
"I hated the scent of that damn dye…" Chase picked up the pillow, squeezed it, and pressed it to his chest. "I still hate it! I hate it…but…it smells like her. It smells like her."
His face twisting into a grimace, Chase wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. "I can't…stand it…"
His eyes still closed, Chase felt the heavy weight of Old Lace's head on his lap. He looked down at her and saw the very real, almost human sadness in her giant red eyes. Chase smiled in spite of himself.
"So what can I do, huh, girl? What can I do?"
He was surprised to receive an answer of sorts. Old Lace raised her head and began to nuzzle Chase's chest, her nose pointed at his right side. Chase was amazed at the power of Old Lace's perception. He was wearing his favorite jacket, and it was full of hidden pockets that made it easy to stash anything from a switchblade to a bag of chips swiped from the Circle A. Inside the biggest pocket, however, was a thick tome. Chase pulled it out, his gaze fixed on the cover image of a six-toed foot. Opening the book for the first time, he was surprised to see the inscription on the first page:
The Abstract of the Wise Men.
Followed by two signatures: Victor Stein. Janet Stein.
He immediately closed the book. Again, Chase felt the constricting sting of the ring around his finger. He stared at the Abstract, not moving, not crying; only thinking.
His voice was a hoarse whisper. "What can I do?" he wondered aloud, unsure if he was asking Old Lace, Gert, his parents, or even himself.
Eventually, the answer came to him. His head bowed, Chase rose from the bed and turned off the beaded lamp, filling the room with darkness. The Abstract tucked under his arm and Old Lace at his side, Chase left Gert's room, closing the door tightly behind him.
That night, he slept in his parents' bedroom.