Title: Queasy

Fandom: RHPS

Character/Pairing: Riff, Columbia

Prompt: 014. Green

Rating: G

Disclaimer: Richard O'Brien wrote it. 20th Century Fox bought rights to it. I have nothing to do with either of the aforementioned carbon-based life forms.

He cautiously opened an eye, was greeted by an extraordinarily low-cut bodice and a high, squeaky voice, realized his mistake, and rolled over. Sleep was unwilling to take him back, however, and he groaned. Whatever he had ended up forcing down at that tiny nightclub was definitely not agreeing with him now, and he shut his eyes tighter, balling his fists in the sheets and willing himself not to be sick in front of this complete stranger.

Ah, but the girl wasn't a stranger. That one thought seemed to stick out at him, and he dragged it painfully from his nauseous brain. He had brought her back to the castle. And now, all hell was going to break loose, if he wasn't too sick to care.

Gods below, did that girl ever shut up? He rolled over again, against his better judgement, and began to open his mouth to give her a piece of his mind, but the bile rushing up his throat prevented that, and he lunged for the window, which had been blowing an annoying cold breeze into the room, instead.

Wiping a hand across his mouth, he turned as the girl approached him, thankful that he could still stand. She was smiling at him, but her eyes were concerned. "D'ya feel better now? I never eat when I'm on the job...It'll turn ya green for weeks!"

Riff moaned, sat down on the bed, and muttered, "And that's why you're the scantily clad dancer, and not me."

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He found her in the tiny washroom, crouched on the cold stone floor, the sheen of saliva on her fingers clearly telling the tale of how she had made herself sick. She'd been crying, he noted, tears and bile gathering in equally corrosive puddles on the floor beneath her.

"That's why I never eat when I'm on the job--" he began, but her small fist in his groin stopped him, and he doubled over, joining her on the floor. Her scream was wordless, and yet spoke a thousand accusations.

She left him there, sprinting by in a flurry of flushed skin and striped flannel.

He'd not let her scream at him again.