#dirtbeg

          andrew spent a few good years picking his best friend up from odd locations  --  sometimes mundane,  sometimes terrifying,  sometimes just off the side of the road where he had passed out before the phone call ended.  the cycle might have continued well on if stevie had not gone to jail,  locked up where he could no longer put himself in danger,  or anyone else.  

          to him,  this is a familiar scene.  perched down on his knees to make eye contact with the other man slumped against the wall,  andrew assess his condition,  eyes flicking over his face. 

“Good,” she teases. She can be lighthearted about this. She can be a fun, normal girl who deserves fun, normal things. 

He’s so tender with her when she feels like she deserves it the least.

She whispers insecurities into his hair; he murmurs back nothing but comfort, but reassurance.

She’s high — she shouldn’t be, we know this, they know this, but she’s gotten better and better at hiding it from him — enough to be a little emotional. She has to wipe away tears when he isn’t looking — then distract him further when the tears won’t stop falling. She pushes his head away until all he can do is bury his face against the crook of her neck. 

He kisses her throat, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. Finally, he feels tears damp on her face and simply kisses her harder.

“You’re beautiful. You’re perfect, and I’m so lucky you chose me.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“C’mere. Let me hold you.”

They re-position until she’s the one nestled against him. She kisses his throat, his ear, the corner of his mouth. She’s still crying.

“Let’s just go to sleep, Spir.”

It’s only the second time or maybe the third, but Spirit lets Jack Ainsworth spend the night again. She realizes she could like this, waking up next to him. It’s the beginning, and things are always like this then — but she’s done this enough times to know the way she feels about Jack is different than just anyone else she’s met out at the bars and clubs.

They’re facing each other in bed and not saying much. She’s sleepy still — maybe a bit hungover, maybe a bit strung out. Her hands are tangled in his hair, stroking his head idly with her thumb and forefinger. Her hands remain here when he lowers his head, kissing her collarbone — so gentle, so reverent, it almost makes Spirit gasp. Instead — 

Lila is hardly watching — uninterested, aggressively so. She keeps looking towards the door, waiting for Juniper to come back.

It isn’t like her to be gone for so long, even when she works in the city. Lila detests being here after the kitchen oven clock reads 11:54pm with no Juniper to show for it. Her foolish boyfriend is hardly a consolation prize. Lila’s eye twitches.

She takes out her phone, scrolls Instagram before writing:

u shouldnt be here again. its not safe

“You noticed?”

(The fringe is a little obvious.)

“I do this sometimes. I like letting it grow out, too. My little sister helps — I have pretty shaky hands, which is embarrassing, considering what I do for a living.”

She rambles, self-conscious.

<You need my help.>

She gestures, obviously, from herself to Jack. You and me.

<To look less stupid.>

“Yeah?”

She’s on the lookout for evidence of the fire Jack set, even as she kisses his cheek and puts her “spend-the-night” backpack in a seat at the kitchen table.

“I’ve been thinking about you, too, baby.” She loops her arms around his neck, taking in his scent (and especially whether or not he smells singed).