Title: Kiss That Girl

Author: Lexie Jayne

Feedback: Would be lovely if you feel inclined.

Rating: PG

Warnings: Language

Disclaimer: Lexy belongs to me. Tawny indirectly belongs to Kara. Everyone else belongs to James Cameron and FOX, even though
they so don't deserve them. No profit is being made, I swear.

Notes: A minor hiatus and now I'm back. And not just because some of the DA fic I'm seeing sucks so badly, I felt I could do my part to improve it. There was a genuine reason I haven't updated - I wrote myself into a corner and had to do some serious re-plotting to work this out. I can safely say that this is going to be a Very Long Fic that will probably end up around where Dark Angel left off. I hope this was worth waiting for, and I will do everything I can to post Chapter 11 the second I finish it. :ducks angry readers - if there are any left: Please don't be too mad!

Other things, yes, my author name has changed. Huffah! Which means a lot of my old fic will be reformatted and possibly rewritten, so just keep an eye out.

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New York City was a dark city after the Pulse. You could see the past in the streets of Manhattan, in the handful of expensive, exclusive shops left behind. Those were the shops with bribed guards patting people down for weapons and escorting them inside; the windows displaying nothing but sheets of pastel coloured satin, and maybe a bunch of paper flowers.

But the Pulse had sucked the colour and the joie de vivre out of the city. The Broadway theatres were sealed up, no money for musicals. The last people to have access to the old theatres and to rent the old shops now squatted in those very same buildings – the ladies in the Dior boutique on Fourth Avenue were exactly the same as the older couple who stayed in the thrift shop in Alphabet City.

I managed to sneak into those exclusive shops ones or twice – generally, being the lanky, underfed teenage girl I was, I was hastily dragged back onto the street with numerous threats being thrown out after me.

But those shops were incredible – five or six dresses scattered in a huge white room; three or four individual pieces of jewellery displayed on silky pillows. The customers sat in worn, yet plush seats and sipped coffee whilst the shop assistants tried to sell their overpriced, imported couture.

I ended up prowling the city after I finished work in the newsagency – a few dollars in my pocket, my thin frame draped in a combination of stolen and thrift store clothes and nothing but time. Tawny worked long hours, and since our conversation in the kitchen almost two weeks ago, I didn't really want to spend extensive amounts of time with him, so our days fell into an almost domestic routine.

I left our apartment, which was feeling increasingly small, at day break to wrap newspapers and was done by eleven on a good day. I spent the rest of my time doing useless things – laundry, sleeping, picking pockets, tracking down food and wandering around the streets. I didn't return until after dark, sometimes with food, but usually empty handed and cold.

Tawny was unnecessarily cheerful whenever he did see me; we were safe, had a place to stay and he had a job that kept his mind and hands busy. Construction may have seemed like monkey work to the general population, but Tawny enjoyed it. He suggested I try and get a job in the communications department, but I had shrugged it off – I was too young to even be considered for that sort of job, and if I did get it, alarm bells would go off within the company, and would eventually filter back down to Manticore.

"Lexy," Tawny pushed a bowl of take away curry towards me. "You okay?"

I poured my soda – lemon flavoured, I had lost my taste for cherry flavouring – into a chipped mug and took a sip. "I'm fine. Just tired." I twisted the ends of my hair around my fingers, the ends lighter and brittle. I would need to take a pair of scissors to my hair in the next few weeks, or risk looking like a member of some freaky cult.

"You should get some sleep tonight, instead of sneaking down the fire escape," Tawny said around a mouthful of food. "You think I'm that out of practice, I don't hear you?"

"I think that you know that I'm so in practice it won't matter if I sneak out because I know how to handle myself," I replied, finally digging into my dinner. We had practically bought shares in the local fast food ventures – the most cooking we'd done since arriving had been limited to breakfast or instances of desperation. Anyway, fresh food was more expensive than fast food.

"I think you need to get some sleep, or you'll end up having a seizure on the streets somewhere," Tawny began stacking the dirty plates as I stared at the food congealing on my plate before swallowing another mouthful before taking the plate to the sink, where Tawny was washing the dishes with the gritty-feeling liquid soap.

"Hey, Lex, I wanted to talk to you about something." Tawny focused on scrubbing at the perfectly clean plate. "Look, what time do you have to go to work on Thursday?"

"The same time I always go to my mind numbing, back-breaking excuse of employment," I muttered, wiping the soggy dishtowel over the plates.

"Do you think you could get the late shift? We could get breakfast Thursday morning at the corner place." Tawny looked up at me and I smiled at him tentatively. Breakfast – maybe we could talk and make something work. "Milkshakes and pancakes sound good." Better than my staple of vending machine coffee from the newsagency and jelly babies; my intense dislike of coffee was overruled by how long my days were, and how I needed something to wake me up.

"Great." Tawny grabbed the stack of dry plates and shoved them in the cupboard over the stove. "I start at 6am tomorrow, so I'm gonna crash. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

I nodded, and dropped the dishrag on the counter. Maybe we could fix this, make it better again. I wasn't about to go to bed before midnight. I made some hot chocolate from some crappy chocolate powder I found in the back of the cupboard and watched a Mexican soap opera until the channel closed for the night, static breaking my concentration and sending me to bed.

I could hear the rain hitting my window as I wrapped myself in the old quilt and snuggled down, hearing the traffic in the street and people yelling out – Spanish, English and Mandarin; trying to translate the cries from the street below lulled me to sleep.

Tawny was gone before I stumbled into the bathroom that morning – his wet bath towels were on the floor, along with a pile of laundry I'd have to do when I got back from work. My own jeans were gritty and clammy, my zip-front top smudged with grime from the streets.

I grabbed a can of soda from the fridge and an only slightly stale cupcake from a forgotten packet on top of the fridge, my boots left discarded where I'd kicked them off the night before, a post it with a note from Tawny stuck to the toe of the left one.

'L – What ever I have to do to get you to do the laundry - consider it done. Laundry dollars in the freezer, stuck to the top. There's like, fourteen dollars there. And milk. Please, for the love of god. I'll get Mexican for dinner – T.

I crumpled the note into my pocket and sighed. I'd take our laundry to work, and do it on the way home, rather that go back and forth.

A backpack heavy with more than two weeks of dirty clothes, towels and blankets, and laundry money jammed in my boot, I made my way to work, a subway stop away.

The subway was the most revolting place in America – it stank of sewerage, alcohol, vomit and about a hundred of the world's most disgusting scents. The homeless slumped along the walls, dead bodies were stepped over, and anyone could be attacked, murdered or molested at any second of the day. I kept my head down, my top's hood over my face as I stepped over a woman sitting in her own filth, clinging desperately to a pair of black-faced children. Any money I tossed at them would be stolen from them; it was really better for everyone if you just turned away.

The subways themselves were rusted and old, dried vomit and urine on the floors and seats, old syringes littering the ground and the odd junkie passed out. You could tell the people who didn't ride the subway often – they were the ones who went green from the smell. Everyone else wore gloves, even in summer, and maybe a mask, and heavy shoes. Some people bought newspapers before getting on the trains just so they had something to sit on, because newsprint on your ass all day is certainly better than the filth on the seats.

I would've walked to work if I hadn't been late, finding our laundry.

The fresh air hit me like a wave, cooler and fresher. My gloves were jammed into my pockets and I pushed the hood of my top off of my face, as I made my way to the news agency. Nancy, the other employee, had signed for the delivery and was knitting, the piles of unsorted newspaper pages fluttering in the air.

"Mister Webster's just gone to get himself some breakfast, Linda," Nancy s

miled blankly at me. "Put your bags under the counter and you can get started and all."

It was awkward in the back of the newsstand, putting the pages in order, rolling them and snapping the bands around them, listening to Nancy and Cal Webster, the owner of the newsstand, chatting, the smell of bacon and egg sandwiches wafting through the back area, the sting of the bands as they snapped across my hand, paper cuts and the scent of cheap paper and ink making my head swim a little.

But I'd been at this for awhile now, and I was finished before twelve, tucking the day's pay into my boots, and hurling my bags from under the counter.

"Thanks, kid." Cal nodded at me, the papers in their crate on the stand just next to him, ready to be sold for roughly what I made an hour – each. The economy was shit, and people like me were being screwed over every day.

"Mr Webster, I was wondering if I could come in late tomorrow." I offered him a smile, my hands jammed in my jacket pockets.

"What, six thirty?" Cal squinted at me. He was a hard looking man with a square set jaw and a crew cut, with wire framed glasses that sat on the end of his nose; he looked closer to fifty than his real age – thirty eight. I could understand why he'd been married and divorced three times.

"Closer to nine thirty," I said, praying I wouldn't lose my job. The truth was, there were heaps of newsstands in the city looking for workers, but Cal's five bucks an hour was top pay. My horrible job would be worse if I was only early three seventy five an hour.

He squinted at me again. "Take the day off, Linda. My girl Casey can come down for the day. Won't pay you for the time off though." Well, duh. "And I'll see you at six on Friday morning." With that, Cal and Nancy resumed their conversation and I was summarily dismissed.

I walked to the Laundromat near our place, not feeling like another ride on the subway. My Manticore senses made it stronger, and some mornings it was so bad, I felt like gagging. As bad as the New York City air was, it was better than being trapped in the rancid trains.

The Laundromat was empty, as I tipped our things into a machine and fed a few dollar bills into it, and had nothing to do but wait for forty minutes. And then another half an hour, as it tumbled through the dryer.

The market was pulsing with people as I made my way through, so hungry it felt like my stomach was tucking my back. A Styrofoam cup of watery but hot soup found its way into my hand, as I sat with my back against an alley wall, drinking it down so fast, I couldn't taste it and I could feel the heat in my stomach, as I watched people hurry by, yelling and swearing at other people, thieves running, their prizes clutched tightly to their chests.

"You're a pretty little thing."

I looked up, a man standing over me. Tall, neat and tidy, wearing a suede jacket over a clean black shirt – but I wasn't going to start trusting a stranger now.

"Waitin' for your Momma?" The guy bobbed down to my level, both hands in his coat pockets, his Texan drawl feeling like nails on a chalk board. My training flooded my brain unwillingly, but it was instinct; get the hell out now. Except Lydecker might have put it differently.

"Just resting for a minute," I was on my feet, my backpack on my bag, my messenger bag slung across my chest. I could defend myself, and there were crowds of people just metres away. Nothing was going to happen.

"Coffee break, huh?"

"Something like that." I fiddled with the strap on my bag, inching towards the mouth of the alley, Tawny's bottle of milk cold against my leg, even through my bag.

"Well, now you've finished your little break, maybe you and I can get down to business." His hand was on my shoulder, and my stomach felt heavy. I didn't want to cause a scene. I just wanted to get the hell out. I took another step backwards, his hand digging into my shoulder.

"Pretty little thing like you," he drawled, "Gotta make a living."

"An honest living," I said flatly. "I'm leaving." I jerked out of his grip, and moved quickly towards the crowd, but he managed to grab hold of one of the loose straps on the backpack, and I tumbled forwards, sprawling into the dirt in the middle of the crowd, feeling the glass milk bottle shattering under my weight and the shards of glass sliding into my thigh.

"For an X5, you're as clumsy as hell."

I bit my lip, stumbling to my feet, a woman hurrying to my side.

"You okay, honey?" Her eyes were kind, and I noticed a man and a girl following her - her family.

"The man in the alley," I blurted out, my hands out, the skin of my palm tore and bloody. "He tried to grab me."

The woman looked at me, and up to the man, still in the alley, the shadows covering his face.

"Girls like you shouldn't be wandering around places like this alone, even during the day. You got anyone waiting at home?" The woman examined the palms of my hands.

I thought about the depressing flat that needed airing and cleaning, quiet and empty.

"Yes. My brother," I said, ignoring the gnawing put of loneliness in my stomach.

"Far from here?" Her eyes were so kind. I wondered what it would be like being her daughter – safe and loved. The urge to ask her if I could come home with her bubbled up in my chest.

"Next street over." I pointed in the opposite direction.

"You run on home, and tell your brother and parents what happened. They'll keep you safe, sweetie." The woman smiled at me. I managed a ghost of a smile back and turned away, walking away from the open air market, the air rancid with rotting fruit, vegetables and meats. If the Texan followed me, I would just short of kill him, I knew that. I'm sick of being the victim. I didn't have to be the victim; I was born to be the heroine of the story… or something. Maybe in a jumbled up version of the story. Really, Manticore bred me to be the bad guy, the murderer, the assassin, the faceless, soulless devil.

As I dragged myself up the stairs to the apartment, I wondered if there was some kind of middle ground between victim and assassin; heroine and villain.

I spent the afternoon sitting in the dirty bath full of lukewarm water with my underwear still on, picking shards of glass out of my leg with my pocket knife and trying to resist the urge to scream. Or cry.

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