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May. 20th, 2006 08:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
h_hollister*blip*
Hippolyta, who had finally gotten the time and the courage to go check in on the pub, was home after her visit there. And laughing. It was a laugh of despair at life. A month she hadn't been there, and the night she goes back, there's Thundercracker. It's not just a coincidence, anymore. It just bloody well can't be. Too much. Too bloody much.
She feels like she's being pulled in eighteen different directions. She wants to go to sleep, she wants to take a hot shower, she wants to get down on her hands and knees and scrub the floor for hours, she wants to stand out on her balcony and throw rocks and rude words at passing pedestrians.
She wants Thunder to walk in the front door and take her in his arms and...
What she ends up doing, though, is slumping down at her newly-returned kitchen table with a bottle of scotch and a pack of cigarettes and a glass and an ashtray. She pours out a belt of the booze with a lazy arm, lights up a drooping cigarette. Her right elbow finds the table, her forehead meets the heel of her right palm, and she slumps even further down in her chair.
Trying desperately to push the moment where he kissed her on the cheek out of her head. How much that little peck had shaken her.
Not fair. Not fair.
She's ashamed. More than anything else, she's ashamed. How's she supposed to tell Ramon all this? He's had too much crap in his life already without having to hear that she's still hopelessly in love with Thunder.
Why can't she ever let this sort of thing go?
The cigarette bobs up and down as her mouth twists into a bitter little grimace. She takes it out of her mouth and taps it absently against the edge of the ashtray, watching a chunk of ash crumble away. Then it's back in her lips.
She's not crying. She absolutely refuses to cry. Refuses. What would be the point? It wouldn't be helpful or cathartic in the least. Even a good solid cry wouldn't bore this feeling out of her heart.
...Shit, she didn't even check to make sure that he had someplace to stay. Idiot. But then again, what was she supposed to do? Find out some way of getting him in on the secret (since she was pretty sure Terry wouldn't want to hear from her right now), bring him here? Let him stay here again? Hah. HAH. They've already had one run-in with a disgruntled ex, Ramon might not be so lucky to escape with a just a shattered kneecap if it happened again.
And, more than that, she knows she couldn't trust herself to keep herself from throwing herself at Thunder.
Wouldn't that be nice? A wonderful little repeat of last December. Only instead of it being a broom closet, it'd be her own bed. And Ramon wouldn't take it with the... equinamity that Thunder took it.
No, it's better that she has no idea where he is now.
Tee...
Oh, god.
Hippolyta, who had finally gotten the time and the courage to go check in on the pub, was home after her visit there. And laughing. It was a laugh of despair at life. A month she hadn't been there, and the night she goes back, there's Thundercracker. It's not just a coincidence, anymore. It just bloody well can't be. Too much. Too bloody much.
She feels like she's being pulled in eighteen different directions. She wants to go to sleep, she wants to take a hot shower, she wants to get down on her hands and knees and scrub the floor for hours, she wants to stand out on her balcony and throw rocks and rude words at passing pedestrians.
She wants Thunder to walk in the front door and take her in his arms and...
What she ends up doing, though, is slumping down at her newly-returned kitchen table with a bottle of scotch and a pack of cigarettes and a glass and an ashtray. She pours out a belt of the booze with a lazy arm, lights up a drooping cigarette. Her right elbow finds the table, her forehead meets the heel of her right palm, and she slumps even further down in her chair.
Trying desperately to push the moment where he kissed her on the cheek out of her head. How much that little peck had shaken her.
Not fair. Not fair.
She's ashamed. More than anything else, she's ashamed. How's she supposed to tell Ramon all this? He's had too much crap in his life already without having to hear that she's still hopelessly in love with Thunder.
Why can't she ever let this sort of thing go?
The cigarette bobs up and down as her mouth twists into a bitter little grimace. She takes it out of her mouth and taps it absently against the edge of the ashtray, watching a chunk of ash crumble away. Then it's back in her lips.
She's not crying. She absolutely refuses to cry. Refuses. What would be the point? It wouldn't be helpful or cathartic in the least. Even a good solid cry wouldn't bore this feeling out of her heart.
...Shit, she didn't even check to make sure that he had someplace to stay. Idiot. But then again, what was she supposed to do? Find out some way of getting him in on the secret (since she was pretty sure Terry wouldn't want to hear from her right now), bring him here? Let him stay here again? Hah. HAH. They've already had one run-in with a disgruntled ex, Ramon might not be so lucky to escape with a just a shattered kneecap if it happened again.
And, more than that, she knows she couldn't trust herself to keep herself from throwing herself at Thunder.
Wouldn't that be nice? A wonderful little repeat of last December. Only instead of it being a broom closet, it'd be her own bed. And Ramon wouldn't take it with the... equinamity that Thunder took it.
No, it's better that she has no idea where he is now.
Tee...
Oh, god.
