She's lying on the floor, right where she half-fell, half-flopped down. Her neck is twisted, watching me from an odd angle. I'm propped up against the lockers, pointedly not meeting that gaze. I can feel it, though.
There's no way to be gentle; I can't stand the unhealthy mix of question-want-fear. Mostly question, though.
I have to meet it.
"I don't like it when you look at me that way. That...questioning way."
Her eyes close and her head tilts off to the side, shifting that maddening gaze to the lockers.
"Like a kicked puppy dog?"
The comparison is accurate, and I wonder why I didn't see it before.
"Yeah."
She's quiet, and the silence is tense. Its early though - or it's late; hard to classify three in the morning.
I let my eyes close and half-formed images begin to flicker to life.
A sharp tap on my foot startles me back into a parody of consciousness. She's sitting against the lockers, too far away to have touched me, arms wrapped protectively around knees pulled in tight.
The guy who woke me up is half-grinning at me, the obscene hour showing on his face.
All our shields are down, and it's impossible to hide what anyone is thinking.
We're like wraiths of ourselves.
She's not, though...
She's still got that maddeningly defeated look.
Like a kicked puppy dog.
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