#bubble-crazed-lunatic

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic

   It was dark, and still hot in her little apartment. The light was spilling in from the tenement landing and the street below, through the red and orange and yellow scraps of fabric Charlie used as curtains.

   Her daughter hadn’t been able to sleep well, but now, collapsed against her mother’s chest and in her lap, she was fast asleep at last.

   Charlie was watching her old friend across the room, on her couch. He looked so... old, now. Gently, she stroked her daughter’s reddish hair, watching him with sympathetic eyes. Slowly, she got up, disappearing into the other bedroom to carefully put her daughter down before she returned. She didn’t sit back with him immediately, but instead to the case over the kitchen sink. There was enough liquor in there to reasonably fell very large game. Some things about Charlie never chained, of course.

   A glass of gin and a glass of whiskey. She did nothing by half measures, either -- both were well above a shot. The whiskey was eased into his hand, and gently, she held onto his other hand.

      “My amuri, my father’s father, called it -- well, he didn’t talk English, not to his grandbabies, but it’s like survivor’s guilt. He used to get nightmares -- abuji said he heard them, at night, talking to him, or crying. The Great War took a lot from him, and when he came home, he came home to country that felt foreign, and four babies who barely knew him. Even when I was born, and growing up, nearly twenty years later, he was still hearing his friends in the night time.”

   There was something unspoken in her statement. Charlie was never one to talk very openly about her pain and her suffering, a flaw that had never done her any good. Her tone of voice, the way she spoke gently and held his hand, said what she couldn’t -- you are not alone. I hear it, too. Of course, one would have to have a relatively perceptive friend for that to be noticed.

   Gently, Charlie kissed his knuckle, shaking her head.

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic

         “--of course it wasn’t me,” she snapped, pulling her clothing more solidly around herself. She didn’t know why -- he had seen her in all states of undress before, but it was a little different when he had managed to catch her in a compromising situation with someone else.

   Scoffing, she crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the wall of the alley.

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic      while drunk

      As far as drunken mistakes went, they were each other's favourite.

   He was charming. She was vulnerable. They were both lonely, and each other's only real friend. It was like they were just drawn to one another that way. It didn't help at all that they were always compounding their obvious problems with alcohol.

     London. 1984. It was pouring with rain outside, and people were crammed into the dark, basement club, all black leather spiked with studs and combat boots tracking mud. The music was loud, the lights low. They were crammed into a rickety booth alone, empty glasses strewn across the table. As usual, she had sprawled herself across him, his arms around her, her hands cupping his face as she pressed her mouth to his. She tasted of cigarettes, gin and lip gloss. For a moment, she broke away from him to breathe.

      “--I love you.”

    Her words were probably only just audible over the din, hot breath brushing over his skin. She didn't know why she said it, but it had felt right to. She did love him, although perhaps not in the way that statement, issued in that way, was typically meant.

   Again, she caught his mouth in a kiss, arms slipping around his neck.

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic

   The choice between certain death or ritualistic marriage and probable death wasn't exactly a difficult one for them to make. At least if they went through with this, they would probably be able to make a break for it while everyone was distracted. For Charlie, however, it only solidified her resolve to never accompany him to any alien planet ever again.

      'It'll be fine,' he'd said. 'We'll have so much fun,' he'd said.

      'Please don't shoot, we're unarmed,' he'd said.

   To be fair, it wasn't all his fault. It was just a coincidence that they managed to match up to a prophecy held by the human colonists on this planet. A huge, horrid coincidence.

   So. Get married, and be sacrificed to their living deity, which was something of an enormous and very upset earth worm with legs, in the morning, or be hanged, drawn and quartered where they stood. It'd been an easy decision, if somewhat complicated by the fact they hadn't been able to make a cohesive plan. After all, they couldn't be together the night before their wedding. That would defeat the purpose.

   The wedding get-up, she was sure, was designed for people of generally less quantity than her. It was also bright, almost neon green, which didn't suit anyone, much less Charlie. Her hair had been woven with flowers, although badly, resulting in several tangles.

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic​

;; bubble-crazed-lunatic

      “--you mean you usually get dressed? Couldn’t tell, hey.” she asked dryly, stretching out on his bed and fiddling with her wand absent-mindedly. She’d already gotten dressed herself, and everyone else had long since left his room -- the pleasures of free periods first thing in the morning were untold.

   She dragged herself up to a sitting position, legs crossed, chin in hand, idly twisting a kinky curl in her fingers. Her persistence in playing with her hair made it go even frizzier.