A/N: This one is for gemini-6989! Your prompts put me in the giggliest of moods! Thank you, darling!
A/N#2: Dearreader, Wren vs. Barmy Larpers Part 2 is coming up based on your All My Exes Live in Texas. I was uncontrollably giggling and snorting in a coffee shop drafting it, I am certain people thought I was mental :)
Volcano Girls by Veruca Salt
Bloody hell and all deities almighty, this is one sketchy area! John slows down his car and start twisting his neck uncomfortably trying to read the name of the street on an old brick building. No sodding luck. Bloody fuck… It is ten to ten, and this is his last chance to find a bottle shop. He growls. Barmy uni professors, they do take celebrating, or should he say mourning, the beginning of an academic year all too seriously! They are dragging him to some home party right after his first lecture tomorrow, and he was a plonker enough to offer to get some wine. What do Canadian professors even drink? He snarls and pretty much stops. At least he is on the proper side of the road, they should give him a medal for that.
Suddenly he sees a girl showing up from what they call a backalley in here. He tenses, she is definitely a slag. Black hair, dark lipstick, a black top that looks more like a vest, he is scared to look, but probably leather, fishnet stockings, and boots above her knees. She is decisively heading towards his car, and he considers speeding up. But then again, he is completely lost.
She bends and knocks at the window. She doesn't have to really bend to be honest, even on the giant heels she is wearing, she is ickle. He exhales and lowers the window.
"Listen, lassy, I am not interested, but I'll give you a tenner if you tell me where McDermoth street is." He adds some steel in his tone.
She is frozen with her mouth open. She has a wide mouth, and the burgundy lipstick really emphasizes it. These are amazing eyes though… They are outlined with an obscene amount of black paint, but the shape and the colour! Slanted, bright green, amazing! Without all this horrid make-up she would look like a fay…
"Wow, a Brit!" She has a nice voice, but he puts his finger on a button.
"I'm closing the window, if you don't want to help me. Well, in or out?"
"Actually, I was really hoping for an in," she smiles playfully, and he presses the button. "Hey, hey, wait, don't close it! I need your help!"
"Not interested!"
"OK, OK, I'll tell you where McDermoth is." He stops and lowers the glass again. "Let me in your car and I'll show it to you."
"No way in hell!" He clearly imagines her knocking him out with a cricket bat. And then he guffaws. She has nowhere to hide it in this outfit. And they don't play cricket here. Or do they?
"Listen, buddy, you need your street, and I need to get the hell out of here. Give me a ride to McDermoth. Don't you feel obliged to save a damsel in distress?" Since when slags are so well-spoken? There are only five minutes left, and he unlocks the door. She slides on the seat, and it is fucking perfume from Hermès. His ex wife wore it. What the fuck?!
The girl gestures. "Drive straight, then turn right on the second turn."
He presses the accelerator, and the car jumps ahead. The girl is quiet, and he screws his eyes at her. She has freckles on her nose and judging by the porcelain skin she is a ginger. That is definitely a wig. He turns, and she points her finger. "That's McDermoth right there, what are you looking for?"
"A bottle shop."
She shakes her head. "You are probably late, they close at ten." She lifts her right arm and looks at her wrist. She is wearing pink neon Swatch.
He stops in front of the shop, and sure enough it is closed. He swears under his breath. She is quietly looking through the window.
"Now where?" She sounds bored and polite. He is livid. He hates being put in an awkward position.
"Now you are getting out of my car and legging it wherever you need to."
She gives him an appraising look. "Are you sure you can't drive me a bit further?"
He leans to the door handle over her and jerks. His elbow brushes her middle, and it's like he is electrocuted. He turns his head and stares into her eyes. They are magnificent! And the skin! And the lips under the stupid lipstick! For a second he freezes and realizes that she is holding her breath. Her pupils are dilated. God, she is beautiful!
He pushes the door open. "Get out." She is still staring at him. "Now!"
She shrugs and climbs out of his car. She turns to the still open door, but he leans again and slams the door closed. He jams his foot into the pedal, just so he wouldn't let himself doubt it for even a second, she is just doing something to his grey matter, and the car speeds up with a squeak of wheels on the asphalt. He is berating himself, to feel attracted to a slag… What was it?! There was just something about her...
Bloody Canada…
XXX
He is leaving the auditorium, some of his new students passing him, goodbying, and then suddenly someone tugs at his sleeve. He turns and sees a ginger girl. The curls are wild, a flowerbed of orange springs on her head, and she is wearing Grandpa glasses. She is smiling, and he recognizes the eyes.
"You are the guy from yesterday, aren't you?" There is no make-up on her, not even mascara. She is wearing a plaid shirt and denim, and looks as Canadian as it gets.
He has photographic memory and the page from Wikipedia pops up in his head. 1.2 million Irish immigrants arrived to Canada between 1825 and 1970, at least half of those in the period from 1831–1850. By 1867, they were the second largest ethnic group (after the French), and comprised 24% of Canada's population. The 1931 national census counted 1,230,000 Canadians of Irish descent, half of whom lived in Ontario.
She smiles. "Are you a prof?" She is open and direct. Pity she is a slag. And they say that it only happens in films. Perhaps she does do it to pay for school. What an absurd situation… "Listen, about yesterday..."
"I am not going to tell anybody. Let's just forget what happened."
"What do you mean what happened?" She pushes the glasses up the delicate bridge of her nose. "Nothing happened except you threw me out of your car, which I think was rather ungentlemanly."
"I mean let's forget what you do… What I know you do..." Bollocks, why is it so awkward?
"And what it is that I do exactly?" She frowns, and then another bird runs up to her. This one is tall, bright and busty.
"Wrennie, my love, I've been looking for you everywhere… Oh hello! I'm Thea," she stretches her hand, and he automatically shakes it. Damn politeness of a trained puppy! What is he getting himself into?
The redhead points at him with her eyes, "This is the guy from yesterday I told you about."
"The douche who threw you out of the car on McDermoth?!" All the friendliness is gone from the busty one's face. "Not cool, dude! Do you know the type of people who live there? Or should I say who work there?!" He simply can't believe it. Is it a Monty Python skit?! The one called Thea tut-tuts at him and loops her arm. "Common, darling, your labrats await."
"Sure, in a second," the one called Wren looks at him. Her eyes are laughing. "I just had a revelation." She steps closer to him, and he shies away. She chuckles. That is one sexy chuckle, damn it. God, what is wrong with him?! "Yesterday you thought I was a hooker. I am right, am I not?"
He is staring at her in shock, and she starts laughing. It is loud, open mouthed laughter, and her friend Thea soon joins in. They are roaring, both eventually wrapping their arms around themselves.
"He thought you were a hooker..." Thea is wiping her tears.
"He did," the redhead is leaning, her knees literally weak from laughter, and he catches her under her arm. "And I have PhD!" She is almost sobbing. "Oh god, I've never been in a funnier situation… A hooker..."
He feels like a plonker, but it is almost OK. As long as she is laughing and grabbing his arm. God, she is gorgeous!
"Oh, it is priceless!" The other one is leaning on a wall. "Tell him what you do, tell him! I want to see his face!"
"I teach Genetics, I am a prof here. As you are, I suppose." He has never in his life felt that humiliated. And then another question pops up in his head. How old is she? She looks so young! "And answering you unasked question, older than you think." She is mocking him, but he deserves it.
Finally his voice returns to him. "Then what on Earth was that outfit?!"
More laughter erupts, and she is patting his upper arm. "We were at the nineties party yesterday. Some of our old friends from school threw it, and I don't drink so I decided to leave early. And the cab didn't come." He is staring into her eyes. God, he arsed every chance he had with her, didn't he?
She wipes her tears and breathes out. "Gosh, that was fun. Lunch?" She is smiling into his eyes, and he nods. She pats his shoulder and starts walking. That is a glorious backside! He follows and mentally thanks all possible deities for her sense of humour.
She gives him a flirty look over her shoulder, "And by the way, it is your treat. One has to pay for his pleasures." God, she is perfect!