Early Evening, 18 Bethas 2720
Charlie's Flat
Charlie's Flat
Chrysanthe’s eyes went wide when Charlie told her that the hair was all over her back as well. She scowled at him, quite firmly. Of course he wished to improve his own appearance as well, before they left; she supposed she should be grateful he had mentioned it at all, although he had done so only very grudgingly.
Charlie shoved at some of the blankets and pillows on the couch. She had the sense he slept there most nights, which seemed ludicrous given that he had a bed; Chrysanthe felt a distasteful sort of curiosity as to how the bed could be so dreadful as to forbid sleeping upon, and then decided she would, surely, rather not know. She had done her best not to really look at his sheet, once it was on the floor, and she felt such curiosity ought to remain unfulfilled.
“Of course,” Chrysanthe said, pressing her lips together. She had slept on the couch as well, but she had been rather drunk, and she was not sure she could bring herself to sit once more. Charlie lingered a moment, then made his escape into the bathroom.
With a sigh, Chrysanthe stripped off her jacket; the moment to repair herself was, actually, not unwelcome. She brushed at the fabric with her hand, grimacing; the hair seemed rather determined to cling, and was all over the back of it. Chrysanthe carried it over to Ewing’s work bench, glancing around. He had a roll of tape, at least; Chrysanthe ripped off a bit, draped her jacket over her arm, and set above using the sticky side to remove what she could of the hair. She used as small a piece as she could manage; she, at least, did not intend to be a poor houseguest for Charlie, not after he’d done her – well, in truth – several favors.
Chrysanthe had shrugged her jacket back on by the time Charlie emerged from the bathroom. Habit still had her slipping the jacket on carefully to avoid catching her braids. It was halfway up her back before she realized just how unnecessary it was; she paused, sliding it the rest of the way on, and ran her fingers through her hair, slowly. She smiled again, taking a deep breath.
It was, perhaps, a bit frightening to think of facing the outside world so, though there were few enough people she knew in the Rose – and nearly certain to be no one she’d know at whatever lowbrow bar Charlie chose. Chrysanthe shook her head, lightly, feeling the swishing of her hair; how she felt about that didn’t matter much, she decided. There was no going on.
“Of course,” Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows back at Charlie’s challenge. She went out through the door, and let him lock it behind them, and then they were descending the stairs she had fairly raced up not at hour earlier, and then they were outside once more. Chrysanthe breathed in, deeply; one could not really smell the sea air from Charlie’s little squat, but there was nonetheless a sense of it, Chrysanthe felt, throughout the Rose.
She grinned at Charlie, remembered she was displeased with him for not telling her earlier about the hair on her back, remembered that she had decided to let it go in light of his assistance, and though the grin briefly faltered, it held in the end. “Let’s see,” Chrysanthe said, thoughtful, “what sort of stories do you have about this bar? Anything good?”
They set off together down the street, walking side by side.
Charlie shoved at some of the blankets and pillows on the couch. She had the sense he slept there most nights, which seemed ludicrous given that he had a bed; Chrysanthe felt a distasteful sort of curiosity as to how the bed could be so dreadful as to forbid sleeping upon, and then decided she would, surely, rather not know. She had done her best not to really look at his sheet, once it was on the floor, and she felt such curiosity ought to remain unfulfilled.
“Of course,” Chrysanthe said, pressing her lips together. She had slept on the couch as well, but she had been rather drunk, and she was not sure she could bring herself to sit once more. Charlie lingered a moment, then made his escape into the bathroom.
With a sigh, Chrysanthe stripped off her jacket; the moment to repair herself was, actually, not unwelcome. She brushed at the fabric with her hand, grimacing; the hair seemed rather determined to cling, and was all over the back of it. Chrysanthe carried it over to Ewing’s work bench, glancing around. He had a roll of tape, at least; Chrysanthe ripped off a bit, draped her jacket over her arm, and set above using the sticky side to remove what she could of the hair. She used as small a piece as she could manage; she, at least, did not intend to be a poor houseguest for Charlie, not after he’d done her – well, in truth – several favors.
Chrysanthe had shrugged her jacket back on by the time Charlie emerged from the bathroom. Habit still had her slipping the jacket on carefully to avoid catching her braids. It was halfway up her back before she realized just how unnecessary it was; she paused, sliding it the rest of the way on, and ran her fingers through her hair, slowly. She smiled again, taking a deep breath.
It was, perhaps, a bit frightening to think of facing the outside world so, though there were few enough people she knew in the Rose – and nearly certain to be no one she’d know at whatever lowbrow bar Charlie chose. Chrysanthe shook her head, lightly, feeling the swishing of her hair; how she felt about that didn’t matter much, she decided. There was no going on.
“Of course,” Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows back at Charlie’s challenge. She went out through the door, and let him lock it behind them, and then they were descending the stairs she had fairly raced up not at hour earlier, and then they were outside once more. Chrysanthe breathed in, deeply; one could not really smell the sea air from Charlie’s little squat, but there was nonetheless a sense of it, Chrysanthe felt, throughout the Rose.
She grinned at Charlie, remembered she was displeased with him for not telling her earlier about the hair on her back, remembered that she had decided to let it go in light of his assistance, and though the grin briefly faltered, it held in the end. “Let’s see,” Chrysanthe said, thoughtful, “what sort of stories do you have about this bar? Anything good?”
They set off together down the street, walking side by side.
