TW: Drugs, Alcohol, Assault

She wasn't trying to die. Not really. She had only wanted to sleep for a while. When her back hits the cold tile wall, she is shocked into a spark of consciousness, unsure whether or not she wants to cling to it.

"Useless," a voice mutters. She doesn't know whose it is. Maybe hers. It sounds sufficiently hazy, as if half-imagined. "Useless," it says again, and then the air has gone thick. She is cold, colder than she's been since… since… She cannot remember. The fact that she cannot remember doesn't bother her. She'll sleep, and afterwards everything will be better.

There is a sound, and then there is pain. She suspects the two are related, but she cannot be certain. The sound comes again, and a moment later the pain. They are connected, she thinks. She is a scientist. Or at least, she believes she is. She'll settle the matter when she wakes up.

"Get the fuck up," a voice says. She is fairly certain this one isn't hers. Her own thoughts are pleading with her to sleep. Each attempt at waking feels like the moment at a swing's highest peak, right before the sharp fall. There is the sound of buzzing- no, tapping- and then she is jolted into herself, coughing the dryness out of her throat. As her body shakes, she is aware of just how heavy it is. Her hands swipe at her face, try to clear her eyes. It's raining, and the water hits her lips, runs in rivers over her. Her body is so heavy, her dry tongue swollen in her mouth. As she blinks, she is surprised by how white the sky is. No… not the sky. She is sitting up. She is staring ahead, not up. "About time," the voice mutters, pushes her hair out of her face. The wall. She is looking at a wall. White tile stacked above white tile. The shower. She's on the shower floor. She follows the grout with her eyes, traces the stains. She hopes a particularly dark one isn't blood.

"Violet, hey. Look at me, Violet."

Her vision swims as her head turns to the side. She is seeing double, triple… One elongated drag of shape and color. There is the sound again, the pain. Her face. It is her face that hurts. She stares at him, trying to root herself. Olaf. Why is he here? She's in the shower. He hits her cheek again and she hits him back.

There is a lovely moment as his head goes backwards, a beautiful red marbling the overwhelming white of her vision.

"Jesus fucking-" he holds his bloody nose, looking in disbelief at the feral child before him. Her hands are still clenched into fists, but he can see her concentration slipping. "What the hell was that?"

"I'm in the shower!" she shouts, eyes closed.

"I know!"

"Don't look!"

"You're fully clothed! And even if you weren't…" He turns off the shower water, grabs her by the bicep. "It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Why am I in my clothes?" Confused and still frightened, she opens her eyes, staring down at herself. "I'm in the shower!"

"Because someone can't handle their liquor! How much did you drink?" Sitting her up, he pulls her to her shaky feet.

"One… two…"

"Two what? Shelves?"

"I found this," she points sloppily towards the floor.

"Found what?"

"You know…" She mimes twisting something. "The thing."

"What thing?"

"Right there!" Emphatically, she pointed towards an empty sink.

"What are you-"

"The, um, blue! Blue and the," she twists her hands again. "You know!"

He stares at the sink, the towel, the mirror- The mirror.

"Violet, did you open this door?" He touches the mirror above the sink. "Are you trying to tell me you took the blue pills?"

"That's them!" She straightens up, excited, only to immediately stumble.

Catching her around the waist, he lowers her to the floor. "Alright. Very good. Hey, Violet, can you open your mouth for me?"

"Why?" she starts to say, but then she is choking, hands cold on the ceramic tub ledge. His hand is on the back of her head and her jaw aches as the acid in her stomach crawls up her throat. Gagging, she pulls away, vomiting onto the shower floor. It tastes sour, like warm liquor. His fingers dig into the back of her neck as he shoves his hand into her mouth again. He is going to reach right down her throat, she is certain of it, and so she fights back. The room is spinning but she is still alive and she doesn't know why he is choking her like this, but he is, and she hates it.

She tries to shove him away but he is stronger and it is only a few more seconds before she is gagging again, vomiting into the tub. For a moment she is embarrassed, wonders if she got any on his hands, but then she remembers she does not care, and so when he grabs her again, she aims for his nose.

Half an hour later, she is laying on the bed, wearing the only dry clothes he could get her into. Namely, her underwear and a pair of socks. Fast asleep, she is curled into a fetal position, hair tangled behind her. Looking her over, he takes a moment to check her breathing; it would be a waste of effort if she were to die this early. He wonders if she did it on purpose, if she'll do it again.

She's surprisingly heavy for so small a person, but maybe that was just the dead weight. She had looked plenty dead; Snow fucking White, passed out on the floor. He'd actually stopped in his tracks, stared at her crumpled body. The first thing he had felt was disappointment. After all those years, all that work, the damn bitch had cheated him of his victory. It was another minute before he realized she was still breathing, and while still irritated, he had been glad not to have to go through the work of disposing of the body.

The tell-tale liquor bottle is still on the floor, and so he picks it up, takes a swig. She's a real idiot, mixing drugs with absinthe of all things. He thought medicine cabinets were supposed to be safe from bougie little idiots.

Climbing into the bed beside her, he takes another swig, places the bottle down next to himself. He has already peeled off his clothes, washed first the shower and then himself, and now he is just damn tired. The sun is rising and he hates it.

Her back is to him, and he lets his fingers trace along her side before slipping to her front. Shifting close, he smells her wet hair, cups her breast in his hand, regrets the fabric of her bra. Yes, she'll owe him for tonight. He can feel the excitement growing inside him at the prospect of what he can get in return for a life-debt. He lets his legs curl behind hers, holds her close to his naked chest. He doesn't let his mind wander; he is tired tonight, doesn't have the energy for all that would entail. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she will be just as small, just as naked, just as indebted. Instead he focuses on the low throbbing pain in his nose. She'll owe him for that too. Damn girl.

It had almost been nice, being able to move her without issue. She'd never been so compliant in her life. Her body was flushed, warm as he carried her to the bathroom, dropped her into the tub. Call it a wives' tale, but he'd been in the bag often enough to know what worked. Things didn't become concerning until she stayed asleep, and he was once again faced with the threat of having to dispose of a body.

"Useless brat," he whispered to her, fully aware she couldn't hear him. He'd smacked her cheek lightly, hoping to knock her awake. Finally, when he was considering forcing some coffee and bread into her, she finally woke up. Of all the things he had expected, violence was not one of them.

He stares at her still damp clothes on the floor, makes a mental note to generate another opportunity to see her like that. The dress is a terrible sky blue that did wonderful things once soaked through. The peach undertones of her skin showed through beautifully, lined by the harsher white of her underwear. Even later, when he had peeled off the layers, he hadn't been able to resist taking his time, kissing her skin as he dried her. She'd fought a little, but not nearly as much as she'd done when he'd tried to save her life. She lay on the bed now, having changed into a mismatched set of a blue bra and panties. It was cute in an amateur model way.

Kissing her neck, he curls his fingers, runs them beneath the top of her bra. She shivers in her sleep, sighing. Burying his face in her hair, he exhales, tightens his grip.