worst_greatest_one | (no subject)

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I haven't labored over my clothes like this since Watford.

I don't have much money to spend on them, but I've brought home a nice enough pair of shirts, some trousers, and even some used Oxfords that still look nice. I haven't bought a tie, but I think that might be too much anyway. The truth is, I don't know. Agatha and I just sort of sprang into being as a couple.

I've never been on a date before.

I pull off the blue button-up and put it back on the bed. I forgot the undershirt anyway, but before I reach for it, I grab up the bottle of cologne. It's not bergamot and cedar - those are the only scents I could think of when the woman at the counter asked me, so I asked for something specifically not them. This bottle smells of a really fancy, clean forest, which should go well with the smokey smell that never quite leaves me.

I start to tip the bottle against my neck, then stop. Fuck, I forgot how much I'm meant to use.

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"Crowley, Snow, can't you leave well enough alone?" I snap, exasperated. It's less heat and more pleading, and entirely embarrassing. Why won't he stop? Why can't he keep my mother out of it?

"I don't need your help. I don't need you," I tell him. My voice sounds harsh in its conviction, but it's me who needs convincing.

"Okay," I say, equally exasperated, "Okay, but you've got me, and you need something." I stand up, but I feel like I'm looming, so I go over to where the wall ends instead. "I don't think we need to fight anymore all the time," I say in a much smaller voice.

Isn't he tired of it? He's tired of something.

There are things I need. To avenge my mother. For Father to stop looking at me like I'm damaged. (And not because I'm a vampire.) Blood. Home. To stop feeling like this. I need to stop wanting Snow.

I get out of bed and look for a pair of pants that aren't sweats. I need to get out of this apartment.

"Why?" I ask without looking at him, pulling open a drawer and taking out a pair of jeans.

"What do you mean, why?" I ask, confused as to why he's looking for clothes. "We're in Darrow. There's no Mage, there are no Old Families, so far there's no Humdrum - there's nothing anymore that says we have to be enemies."

I shrug. "Why can't we just stop fighting? Then I could help you.'

I slam the drawer closed and walk over to Snow, folded jeans clutched in hand, and stop a few inches in front of him. I lock eyes with him, a challenge, just daring him to look away.

"And how are you going to help me, Snow?" I ask quietly. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," I admit, swallowing nervously when he stops so close. He never gets this near to me unless he's about to shove me, but I don't think that's what this is. His voice is quiet, and his eyes aren't pinched. I'm not used to him being so close and calm.

"I don't know what's wrong with you. You've been ill since we got here, and it's worse tonight."

I watch him, and I mostly ignore what he says.

"Did you have a good date?" I ask, breathing in to get an idea for myself. Snow's cologne, still, his soap and shampoo (different from Watford's). Cocoa. That other boy. I can smell him on Snow's jacket.

I'm not expecting the subject change, and I falter. "Yeah," I answer, a little disoriented by his mood swings, but the memory of kissing in the park comes back to me, and I smile. "I've never been on one until tonight, but it went really well."

I had assumed as much from how he was when he'd come back, but I needed to hear it for myself. I nod and let myself take a good, long look at Snow - his messy, golden curls, his tawny, flushed skin, his blue eyes and pink, smiling mouth - and then tell myself that's it.

I'm done. I refuse to be in love with him any longer. There has to be a way to not be in love with someone, and I'm going to find it.

"That's good," I think I say, after I've finally looked away. I say something, but it doesn't matter. I step back into my bedroom and then walk out, to my bathroom to change with privacy.

He's looking at me like he's never seen me before, careful, cataloging, and I have no idea what he wants. The smile slips from my face, and I watch in stunned silence when he turns away, goes to the bathroom on his side without ever once looking back.

Exhaling a breath, I shake my head, and only then do I remember the muffin. I leave it next to his bed and crawl into my own. Memories of the bench might actually give me good dreams tonight.

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