Work Text:
The woman is wearing his shirt. She probably thinks it's Worick's – it's the light grey one that asshole stole a while back, made of some fancy schmancy 'hand wash only' material. Nicolas may or may not have appropriated it from a corpse a few months ago. Not off the actual body, because that would have been a bit much, even for Nicolas. The guy just had it with him in a convenient plastic bag, and he wasn't going to need it ever again, not after Nicolas was done with him.
“Nice,” Worick remarked when Nicolas made the mistake of showing it to him, looking mighty impressed.
Predictably, the shirt disappeared from the clothes line after the first time Nicolas had washed it – with his hands – and Nicolas was just about done mourning it.
But here it is now, stretched across those giant tits triumphantly, none the worse for wear. It's probably happier there than it ever was on any of its previous owners, and Nicolas can't find it in himself to blame the thing.
Dimly, he's aware of the woman talking. He slides his gaze away from her tits – not up to her face but over her shoulder, towards the window. He feels like shit. The comedown from uppers is more like a crash these days – the only thing that could get him off this couch right now would be popping twice the Theo-recommended dose of uppers, but he doesn't have a job lined up for tonight so that would be a pointless waste of the stuff.
The woman moves into his line of sight. She's been doing this a lot – leaning around his shoulder when he turns his head away, obviously trying to ignore her. Nicolas doesn't get her, this A – L – E – X – if that's even her name; it's what Worick fingerspelled to him, but Worick tends to make up nicknames for people on the spot so who the fuck knows.
She's afraid of him – as she should be – and yet she keeps seeking him out, overenunciating her words to the point he can't even begin to guess at what she's trying to tell him, clumsily signing words in all sorts of fucked up configurations because she doesn't know any better but she just keeps trying – why? What's the point? Nicolas doesn't understand what she's hoping to gain from making nice with him. Does she honestly not realize his opinion doesn't matter either way?
She crouches in front of him, and the shirt rides up high on her thighs. She either doesn't notice, or doesn't care about him seeing. Whichever it is, he doesn't like it. The thought of her being so far gone she doesn't mind flashing her panties to the likes of him, and then to be seen as this sexless thing – especially because it's true; he probably couldn't pop one right now if he was ordered to, and he doesn't appreciate the reminder.
Food, she signs, but what she says is, “Dinner,” with her head cocked to the side. Probably asking if he wants any.
Nicolas doesn't get why she just wasted two hours of her life cooking – for him, it looks like, because Worick isn't and won't be around for hours yet. He doesn't get what she's trying to accomplish here, and he also doesn't get why he can't just tell her everything his fingers are itching to tell her: that he's bothered by the way his best shirt is molded to her curves, that most days he's way too fucked up on Celebrer to tell the difference between sugar and salt – she could serve him dog food for all he cares, for all it matters.
He wants to tell her that he can see her hands shaking just as bad as his own, and is she stupid? Does she think she's tougher than the drugs? She isn't – no one is. Gods are elusive and people lie, but drugs – drugs get their job done and make their absence known, every single time, without fail.
She stands, skittish, as he pushes himself up with a grunt.
“Dinner,” he says, signing the word, hoping that she gets what he's trying to tell her – sign what you're saying or nothing at all, it's too fucking confusing otherwise.
She smiles, sheepish but relieved. That's another thing Nicolas doesn't understand; she looks so fucking pleased every time he opens his mouth, even though he knows he can't speak for shit.
Dinner, she signs shakily, with a firm nod.
What a strange woman.