𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨. @devilletting : thirty - eight, a kiss while one party is carried, to karen.
𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘀. she was careful to never, ever cross them, because that’s when you get yourself in trouble. that leaves you vulnerable. clammy - skinned, karen once laid on the linoleum of some kid’s bathroom— she didn’t know who, some friend of a friend, or a girlfriend?, she was just there for free booze and so she wouldn’t be alone— and watched as her stomach emptied itself. she looked at the brown vomit on the ugly floor and thought about how much she’d fucked up. someone must have scraped her off the tile, because when it was morning, she was knocked out with a mouth full of cotton, sore - jointed, on a couch that smelled like shit and with missing time. there was dried vomit on the side of her face and in her hair. this is a better situation, karen supposes. it helps to put things into perspective.
grasping uselessly at the wall, when her foot fails to connect with the stair and she pitches forward, she expects to be met with a busted lip or bloody nose. instead, someone catches her mid - fall. something clatters down the stairwell. lifeless hair streaks her vision, even as she’s maneuvered so that her full weight is in those arms. from the corner of her eye, karen catches a flash of white at the foot of the stairs: matt’s leading cane, forgotten, and in favor of swooping in to save her. is she even worth saving? no, definitely not. but she doesn’t ask anymore why matt is so strong, and does not question how he knew that her knees were going out and that she could not make it up to his floor without hurting herself. all night, she’s ignored the bruise forming at his left temple. they don’t push one another, her and matt. he’s saying something to her, he almost always is, but she can’t make it out through the fluid rushing in her ears, from their impossible closeness, maybe.
karen folds up in his arms like a collapsible object; an art installation titled ‘woman on the verge’; and when onlookers gaze at her meaningfully they ask ‘ of what? ’; is it tears? or a mental breakdown? she reeks of whiskey and the kind of sweat fueled by adrenaline, sunk deep into the underarms of her button - down and she thinks she may have to throw this one away or at least wash it several times, so the correct answer is actually ‘on the verge of emptying her stomach in front of her boss’ but she keeps very quiet as she is carried up to an apartment that is not her own. if she weren’t so fucked up, this would be exciting. a promise of release of all the tension bundled up between them. but as it stands, she’s nauseous, and her head lolls against matt’s chest.
“ — thanks, matt. ” she mumbles, half - muffled by the tender flesh of his neck. stubble pricks at her nose and mouth. there is the slightly stale scent of dried sweat and something sweeter and muskier, a cedarwood aftershave, maybe. her gratitude, though slurred, is punctuated by an appraising pat on his chest, not far from his heart.
each step feels like a wave thrown against her. she weathers the storm, but just barely. “ i guess i can’t take care of myself after all, not when it matters. ” the laugh that tears from her is more bark - like: spiteful and biting. her lips curl back. “ what a fucking joke. ” her teeth are very straight and white. they are made for winning people over. this is necessary, because her heart is a hideous black thing and her palms are wet with someone else’s blood. it doesn’t matter how many times she wipes them on her jeans, stumbling down dark roads and forests quieted by heavy snowfall, the stench remains, so everyone knows karen is a killer. she thinks she always has been. her nature is an immutable one. what could matt see in her? or foggy? she deserves none of this kindness.
finally, with feeling, she cracks, “ i’m— ‘m lucky to have you, you know. ” her face is lifted from where it had been buried into his crumpled suit front. it could be throbbing behind her eyes that spurs her to take action, or the smell of him, or the pressure of his arms bracing her back and knees; any one of these things that make women act foolish. the kiss is small, but deliberate, pressed unevenly to his lips before he has the chance to answer with a quip or something else self - effacing or otherwise insincere. being open is not one of his strengths. she’s got a bad habit of falling for these types.