Environmental exposure, cold temperatures, bad weather, comfort, minor wound care, implied homelessness, implied past trauma
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Vera wasn’t going to let some little ‘storm of the century’ get in the way of her weekly grocery shopping. The kind but anxious cashier recommended she wait it out inside the shop; it wasn’t safe to be outside. But Vera only lived a few blocks from the corner shop and she had walked through worse.
The winds were relentless, whipping the rain - and possibly some small hail - like bullets through the air. Thunder roared and lightning crackled, but she plodded along, cane in hand and footsteps sure.
Her pace only faltered when she saw someone else out on the street. Her first instinct was to hypocritically chide them - what in heavens name would someone be doing outside in weather like this? But upon closer inspection, and wiping some rain from her thick rimmed glasses, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Are you…alright?”
They didn’t look alright. Their face was gaunt, eyes hollow, but even curled up at the cusp of the alleyway Vera could tell they were well fed and well built. Like something out of the magazines she enjoyed in her youth. Except their hair was cropped short, their black shirt and pants and socks soaked through - for heaven’s sake, they weren’t even wearing shoes!
“Young man,” Vera would apologize later if she had made a mistake, but the sight of them reminded her all too much of the boys she once taught. “Who in the blazes let you out of the house dressed like that?”
His head snapped up at the question, eyes wide and wild and for a split second Vera felt afraid of this stranger, but not as afraid as he was of her.
“M - ma’am?” He was shivering and Vera only felt warmer with anger at the sight of him. She was bundled in layers and a waterproof poncho and still she was miserably damp and cold. This young man must have been on the verge of hypothermia.
She sighed and held out a waterlogged bag of groceries. Vera didn’t miss how he flinched from the gesture.
“I - I can’t take that, ma’am - ”
“I don’t want you to take it. I want you to help me carry it home.” She tilted her head, studying his reaction. “Unless you’d rather a little old lady like me slog through - ”
“No ma’am. I can carry it.” He shot up to his feet and it was Vera’s turn to flinch. She could tell he was a large man when he was curled up like a soggy kitten, but seeing him tower over her was still a bit surprising. He could see her reaction and his shoulders sagged, curling forward as he held out a shaking hand. Vera gave him a determined look and handed him the groceries.
“This way.”
—
Her apartment wasn’t very far - barely a block from where she picked up this stranger, but she counted herself lucky she bumped into him. The weather was getting worse, and she started to doubt she would have made it home with all her groceries in tow if she had walked by herself. She unlocked her house, a thin sliver of the city block bought with the blood sweat and tears of her younger years.
“You can set those right there on the carpet - here, let me get you a towel.” Vera started shedding her own soaked layers, eventually reaching her relatively dry sweater and slacks. The young man stood awkwardly in the doorway, cautiously setting the groceries down on the entryway carpet. “Don’t just stand there with the door open; get in here.”
Vera heard the door close while she was dragging a towel out of the hallway closet. He looked even more out of place in her foyer, a shivering giant that looked oddly fragile. She softened her smile when she held out the towel.
“Here, try to dry off enough you won’t drip. I’ll find some clothes you can borrow.”
He slowly began to wipe off his face and arms, movements stiff.
“I, uh,” his voice was hoarse and low, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak, “I should be going…”
“In this weather? I won’t let you. At least not without a warm shower, change of clothes, and some tea.” Vera stood with had hands on her hips, blocking the doorway behind him. She was well aware how easily he could leave if he wanted to. And so was he.
Vera almost took it as a small victory when he took a step deeper into her home, but then she noticed the tension in his body language. She came up beside him, the start of a question on her tongue when his arm lashed out - not hurting her, but guarding her from moving forward. His face was pensive, eyes scanning the hallway with a trained precision -
He didn’t move a muscle when Vera’s old calico stalked around the corner, tail twitching and a soft mhurp acknowledging its owner had returned. Vera patted the young man’s arm, and he slowly lowered his guard.
“That’s just Mimi. Here girl!”
The cat perked at the sound of her name, bounding over to its owner. Vera could feel the man in front of her shy away from the small cat, but the tension in his shoulders was slowly uncoiling.
“Tsk, get out of the groceries, you sneaky kitty.” Vera shooed her beloved cat away, picking up a bag. The young man grabbed the rest almost automatically, following her to the kitchen table.
After directing her guest to the bathroom and finding an ancient pair of sweats and a sweater that might fit his physique, Vera set about putting away groceries and putting the kettle on for some tea. Mimi danced around her feet, ever hopeful for a treat.
With the last of the groceries put away, Vera began cleaning up after the stranger. She had instructed him to leave his soaked clothes outside the bathroom door, and he had.
The fabric of his clothes was strange, a rubbery grip to the material almost like a wetsuit. Unsure if they would survive in the dryer, Vera hung them up by the fireplace. (The electric mimic was still warm, even if Vera missed the smell of a real wood stove.) She shuddered to think how miserably cold he must have been in such thin, uninsulated clothes. From the sound of the water rushing on the other side of the door, she hoped he was enjoying a warm shower.
She noticed he had also left the towel she had first given him outside the door, and there she noticed the blood. Not a lot, just a thin splotch of red. Maybe he had cut himself shaving his hair so close to his head. Vera set out the first aid kit on the table as she poured two teacups of steaming water.
Her guest had perfect timing; just as the tea finished steeping, he shambled out of the bathroom. He looked even more out of place in the soft, patterned sweater and ill fitting sweats, eyes so unsure as he approached the kitchen. He was looking at the first aid kit.
“Come’ere. Let me have a look at that cut.” Vera gestured to a chair she had already pulled out from the table, and he guest immediately sat. She could now see the thin slice at the base of his skull. Probably an accident with the razor, one edge clean and the other sloppy, as though the pain had startled him. “Nasty gash. Though I think you’ll avoid stitches. Let me get some antibiotic ointment on that though…”
He sat stock still as she inspected and dabbed ointment on the wound. His face was flat, but she could see his hands gripping the armrests in pain.
“You allergic to any meds, honey?”
“No, ma’am.”
Vera set some ibuprofen next to his teacup and began to put away the first aid kit.
“No need to ‘ma’am’ me, sweetheart. Not a fan of it. My name is Vera.” It was then she realized this stranger at her table hadn’t told her his name. “And you are?”
He hadn’t answered by the time she settled into her chair. When she looked up his eyes were wide, staring into his still steaming tea.
“Honey?” His head jerked up as if hearing her for the first time. “How about you drink some of that tea?”
“Yes, m - miss.” That timid voice of his finally stuttered, shaking hands taking the small, fragile cup. Vera just smiled softly and watched him.
Anonymous prompt: Fritz and Rita’s first meeting (part 1/2)
Rita does not like to start fights.
All things considered, in fact, she feels like she’s exercised some pretty impressive self-restraint in recent months. It’s not always easy to hold her tongue and walk away, but she chooses to, for the sake of her own health and peace of mind. If it means being the bigger person, she can put away her pride and not let a simple disagreement turn into a broken nose and a lifetime ban from Red Lobster.
Joining fights, on the other hand… well, there’s no shame in that. If someone else has already dealt the first blow, then what moral ground is there to lose?
So when she hears the unmistakable sounds of an impromptu brawl happening just behind the bar where she’s parked her bike, Rita wastes no time sticking her earrings in her pocket and rolling her sleeves, chomping at the bit for that next rush of adrenaline.
Except there’s no real fight going on. Instead, she rounds the corner to find some frat house reject laying kicks into a balled-up figure on the ground, bellowing the kind of language that makes her think that this guy doesn’t have a very good reason to be beating someone’s ass in an alleyway. Rita, on the other hand, feels entirely justified in her decision to grab the nearest makeshift weapon (a miraculously unbroken liquor bottle, good for her!) and bash it over Mr. Slur’s head with all the fury that her five-foot-five frame can muster.
As predicted, the guy goes down in an instant. Rita spares a second to press a finger to his neck, just to make sure she hasn’t done anything too crazy, and huffs a sigh of relief when she finds a pulse. Good. She does not need anything else on her conscience.
A pained groan cuts through her train of thought, and she turns to find the balled-up figure from before attempting to sit up, with an arm curled protectively around their ribs and a curtain of greasy blond hair obscuring their face.
“Oh, shit,” she blurts out, scrambling to crouch beside them, “Hey, buddy, you alright? Do you, like, need a hospital, or somethin’?”
The person shakes their head, waving a hand around dismissively, before spitting up what looks like a gob of blood onto the asphalt. They gingerly begin to get up (and Rita gets up with them, worriedly hovering), still holding their ribs and groaning as they finally manage to stand. In the dim light of the back door’s exit sign, Rita tries to get a good look at them.
He’s a guy, as far as she can tell, with straight hair down to his collarbones and a short, ill-kept beard. A pair of round sunglasses (at night???) completely obscure his eyes, and the rest of his face is pale and sunken. He’s taller than her, even while slouching, but skinny enough that Rita thinks she could knock him clean on his ass even if he weren’t at his current disadvantage. His jeans and his well-worn bomber jacket both hang off his frame, and his sneakers look to be held together with nothing but duct tape and a prayer.
He looks like shit, is what Rita thinks. Damn her bleeding heart.
“Hey,” she says, clapping a hand on The Guy’s shoulder. The Guy jumps at the sudden contact, looking up from where he was prodding at his (probably badly bruised) side. “Do you live around here? I can give you a ride home, if you want,” Rita offers; because she’s nice like that, dammit.
The Guy shakes his head, hands burying themselves in his pockets.
“’No’, you don’t live around here, or ‘no’, you don’t need a ride?” Rita asks.
“First one,” The Guy mumbles, barely opening his mouth.
Great. “You got anywhere nearby you can stay at?”
The Guy grimaces, glancing briefly downwards where Rita spots (Jesus fuckin’ Christ!!!) a sad pile of blankets laid out on the ground next to the bar’s back door. Great. Perfect. Just when Rita thought her heartstrings could hold their own against this sad, scrawny man.
“Okay!” Rita announces after an awkward pause, “Okay. C’mon, buddy, you’re gonna stay with me tonight. No arguments,” she says with finality, gripping The Guy’s jacket and pushing him in the direction of her bike.
He digs his heels in for a second, reluctant. “I—uh, you don’t have to—,”
Apple. Clay will never ever love you. Benji will eventually get over you and clay will just put you out the door, alone and scared.
Apple smiles and shakes his head at the first part—of course Master Clay will love him eventually. He just needs time! But then...
"Nonono, Benji wouldn't, would they!?" The tears well up in his eyes, and they're falling before he can stop them. "I-I still need time to earn Master Clay's love. I still need time—"
"Do you know when??" Apple asks suddenly. His hands are shaking and his eyes are big and teary with worry. "I need to convince Master Clay fast, so he won't get rid of me when Benji—I need ideas."
But the subliminal message experiment, any gifts he might want to make—all his ideas, they need time, time he doesn't have. He only hopes Benji will want to keep him around for just a little while longer...
