It’s like willfully subjecting yourself to stigmata. Spectators have long since expelled breath for the next rouse while his hands are stubborn enough to keep hold of the fury. He has tough skin, armoured skin hardened by flying glass and genetic blows thrown left field—still, everything aches. The dance places them thousands of feet above a pitfall, and, walking on air without an ounce of finesse, he masks his relief when the fire’s snuffed, grip loosening, eyes wavering ‘til he breaks contact as the answer hangs cruelly in the air. They need the drinks, a shot of sympathy, a sip of delirium.
She’s got this penchant for earning his amity, dragging it round roadside, then burying it alive. They’re veering off rails but miraculously staying on track by the force of a lark, and since he’s well acquainted with the taste of concrete, there’s no shortage of understanding in his “Fuckin’ hell, Rae"—a curse for charred palms, for burnt knuckles, for her situation as well, surely, though it isn’t the impact of scraping the bottom that has him tight-lipped. Leaning against the wall, Oser bites back pain and watches her collapse. Wants to help in all manner as a gent should, wants to stay away. For a start, it’s “Not just the drinks," hoarse and inaudible, maudlin toned; “I’m sorry" comes after, sorry for shitstorms, here’s an umbrella.
But he means it. Without spite or the curt shrug, he struggles to her eye level, crouching wearily before her. Hoists the other bag after a moment of flinching hesitation. An inkling of thought remains fixated on the fire, always the fire, and he pushes it aside. Somehow, there must be a careful way of transitioning a back pat to a smack across the jaw. “I know how it is. Dealing with twats ain’t no way to make a livin’. We need a place to sit, I meant, work things out… I dunno, something to get you runnin’ again."
Never mind the fact that kindness is coating what essentially seems to be a trip to the dive bar—that’s simply daft cogs at work. He sees a large portion of her in himself, all the loathing included. Makes the stern follow-up a tad easier: “But you gotta work with me. No sparks, no bullshit. Save it for the punks."
What kind of fire is it that she expels? The kind of fire that you feel first, see later. It's an art form that is fine-tuned to one raven-haired, foreign-accented, petite Irish girl. But oh, of course, if there's one word she's ever hated it'd be petite, the one word that can shove her into the category of small, delicate, pink-lipped girls and their finely manicured fingertips, waiting to claw at what she might refer to as her 'chalk-white' complexion; waiting to tell her how 'unorthodoxly beautiful' she is. But if there's one thing the fire doesn't need, it's sympathy. Sympathy doesn't fuel a fire, anger does. So give her anger, and she can burn all night long.
The way her eyes glint in a less than violent way when they glance at the burns is, quite frankly, astonishing. It's almost an apology for the flames, if one thinks of it a certain way. But no one thinks the same way as her, of course, so, it'll remain a mystery, much like the perhaps-apologizing-girl herself. A slight toe at the gravel, a minor fissure in the armor of loose-lipped insults and foul-mouthiness that suits what is actually a petite lass. A sigh, and a questionable look is given in exchange for his almost apology. "Drinks?"
It's not that she wants to stay around--She doesn't--it's that she's got no where else to go, of course. She's half a mind to go thundering up the creaking steps to the land lady's apartment, fists pounding on the door and swears pouring from her mouth, like any other New Yorker would. She's got no where else to go, and then there's some word-gargling bastard keeping her in conversation by the skin of her teeth. She stormed off once, and a second time wouldn't really do much justice to exemplify just how infuriated the fire is. A dull stare is all he gets, and it's probably one of those stares that could be read one of two ways. "Oh? A place to sit? Why not on my fuckin' couch--Oh! Wait, what's that? Oh, right--I don't even 'ave a fuckin' couch! So tell me, dear Oser, where te' fuck do ye' want to sit, hm?"
The word 'stern' has never meant more than a joke to the kid, of course. No stern teacher could get the kid to show up to detention. No stern principal could catch the kid actually doing something wrong. No stern parent could--Well, the kid had no stern parents, and therefore came the entire disregard for stern in the first place. Right about now, perhaps one stern potential peer could get the kid to cooperate. "..." Blank stare. "Do we have to shake on it?"
