They cheer your entrance at the soup kitchen, and one of the patrons has a bottle of something vile-smelling that dulls your thoughts suitably, so when John appears before you with puppy-eyes and a pinched expression, you just give him a smile and a wink, telling him the table's full, why not sit on your lap?
"Roxy," he says, "It's not like that."
No, you say, it never is.
He heaves a sigh. "I really like you, but—"
"Not like that." It comes out brittle and high, but, whatever. Another drink will fix that.
"I don't know what like!" He throws his hands in the air, aggressive gesture startling you. "You're really cool, and funny, and really, really hot, and I like hanging out with you, and sometimes I think it would be nice if we kissed. But you're also Rose's sort-of mom, and maybe my step-mom? And I didn't even think you liked boys until last night, or if you did you like Jake because everybody likes Jake, and—"
You pull yourself to wobbly feet, most of what he says lost in the beginnings of a nice buzz. "Kiss me."
He looks like you punched him in the gut. "I can't."
"Kiss me!" You're practically screeching, and the whole place is quiet and everyone's staring but you don't care, because John just looks so fucking sad and all you want to do is give him your heart, but he won't take it.
Just like everybody else.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go get Rose."
You pull up with a start. "Rose?"
He looks stricken for a second, no time to respond before you say, "You remember what happened last night!" He puts his arms up, backing away as you advance on him. "Look, we were really drunk, and it'd be best if we just forgot, okay? It's not anyone's fault, my dad's got insurance, we can just—"
"Excuse me?" You turn your head to find one of the workers giving you that concerned, dealing-with-a-rabid-animal look. "We'd like it if you ah, left the premises." Her eyes flick from you to John, standing in the doorway, and even though something angry and bitter clutches at your throat, you give a tight, short nod, stomping through the door after John.
The two of you stand down the street from the shelter, block of air between you frigid. "Guess the trail's gone cold," John says, but you ignore him, starting down the street.
"Where are you going?" he calls after you, loping to catch up.
"You said insurance," you say, picking up your pace. "Car, home, health. We don't look like we had a car accident, if we'd gone to one of our houses no one would have let us leave drunk, and health—" you falter. "Rose." You break into a run. "Oh fuck, Rose."
. . . . . . . . . . .
Running all the way to the hospital probably wasn't the best use of your resources, but you weren't really thinking clearly. Neither is John, since he's still following you. You'd sock him if you had the time to spare, but Rose, Rose is in the hospital and John knew and he didn't tell you and you have to get to her right now.
He said she's fine, but when you pressed he clammed up, and that doesn’t seem like a good sign. It seems like an even worse sign when you enter the hospital and the receptionist knows who you are. You stop thinking altogether when they point you to the morgue.
You feel numb, feet slapping against tile, lights bright and surreal overhead. You know where the morgue is somehow, which tells you more than anything else that you were there last night. You push through the doors, room too cold, too antiseptic, heads lifting to see you.
Rose's head lifting to see you.
You breathe a sigh of relief that flees almost immediately when her eyes meet yours, grief hitting you fast and hard, and you realize that there's a slab pulled out before her, a body on that slab, sallow skin and dark hair under a thin sheet of paper.
Sallow, alcohol-poisoned skin.
John is standing next to Rose, face sad and pained, and you suddenly think to wonder, when did he change into normal clothes?
Why didn't you notice?
"It's not your fault," he says. Rose doesn't turn to look at him. Doesn't even know he's there.
Because he's not. Because he's on the slab in front of her. "Roxy," she says.
You spin around and run. You don't remember last night, but you think you know why you would have wanted to forget it.
Fill: Team Dave<3Rose (Part 2)
. . . . . . . . . . .
They cheer your entrance at the soup kitchen, and one of the patrons has a bottle of something vile-smelling that dulls your thoughts suitably, so when John appears before you with puppy-eyes and a pinched expression, you just give him a smile and a wink, telling him the table's full, why not sit on your lap?
"Roxy," he says, "It's not like that."
No, you say, it never is.
He heaves a sigh. "I really like you, but—"
"Not like that." It comes out brittle and high, but, whatever. Another drink will fix that.
"I don't know what like!" He throws his hands in the air, aggressive gesture startling you. "You're really cool, and funny, and really, really hot, and I like hanging out with you, and sometimes I think it would be nice if we kissed. But you're also Rose's sort-of mom, and maybe my step-mom? And I didn't even think you liked boys until last night, or if you did you like Jake because everybody likes Jake, and—"
You pull yourself to wobbly feet, most of what he says lost in the beginnings of a nice buzz. "Kiss me."
He looks like you punched him in the gut. "I can't."
"Kiss me!" You're practically screeching, and the whole place is quiet and everyone's staring but you don't care, because John just looks so fucking sad and all you want to do is give him your heart, but he won't take it.
Just like everybody else.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go get Rose."
You pull up with a start. "Rose?"
He looks stricken for a second, no time to respond before you say, "You remember what happened last night!"
He puts his arms up, backing away as you advance on him. "Look, we were really drunk, and it'd be best if we just forgot, okay? It's not anyone's fault, my dad's got insurance, we can just—"
"Excuse me?" You turn your head to find one of the workers giving you that concerned, dealing-with-a-rabid-animal look. "We'd like it if you ah, left the premises." Her eyes flick from you to John, standing in the doorway, and even though something angry and bitter clutches at your throat, you give a tight, short nod, stomping through the door after John.
The two of you stand down the street from the shelter, block of air between you frigid. "Guess the trail's gone cold," John says, but you ignore him, starting down the street.
"Where are you going?" he calls after you, loping to catch up.
"You said insurance," you say, picking up your pace. "Car, home, health. We don't look like we had a car accident, if we'd gone to one of our houses no one would have let us leave drunk, and health—" you falter. "Rose." You break into a run. "Oh fuck, Rose."
. . . . . . . . . . .
Running all the way to the hospital probably wasn't the best use of your resources, but you weren't really thinking clearly. Neither is John, since he's still following you. You'd sock him if you had the time to spare, but Rose, Rose is in the hospital and John knew and he didn't tell you and you have to get to her right now.
He said she's fine, but when you pressed he clammed up, and that doesn’t seem like a good sign. It seems like an even worse sign when you enter the hospital and the receptionist knows who you are. You stop thinking altogether when they point you to the morgue.
You feel numb, feet slapping against tile, lights bright and surreal overhead. You know where the morgue is somehow, which tells you more than anything else that you were there last night. You push through the doors, room too cold, too antiseptic, heads lifting to see you.
Rose's head lifting to see you.
You breathe a sigh of relief that flees almost immediately when her eyes meet yours, grief hitting you fast and hard, and you realize that there's a slab pulled out before her, a body on that slab, sallow skin and dark hair under a thin sheet of paper.
Sallow, alcohol-poisoned skin.
John is standing next to Rose, face sad and pained, and you suddenly think to wonder, when did he change into normal clothes?
Why didn't you notice?
"It's not your fault," he says. Rose doesn't turn to look at him. Doesn't even know he's there.
Because he's not. Because he's on the slab in front of her. "Roxy," she says.
You spin around and run. You don't remember last night, but you think you know why you would have wanted to forget it.