Standard disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, just the story.
Note: A first person OC, but she and I have little in common.
I admit it: I’m a people-watcher.
It gets me into trouble sometimes. I’ve been known to miss my bus stop because I’ve been wrapped up in overheard conversations. I’ve walked into newspaper dispensers and racked bicycles because I’ve gotten fixated on some person across the street — more often because they’re look interesting than because they’re astoundingly good looking — though I’m as susceptible to a stone hottie as the next girl.
Worst of all, I get caught staring at scary-looking dudes who could beat me to a pulp, too fascinated by their arguments to notice they’ve noticed me back until they ask what the fuck I’m looking at. Luckily they usually accept my stammered apologies. I guess for most of them, beating up little Asian girls for goggling at them would go against their macho self image. (The time I got caught staring by some scary-looking little Asian girls, I ran.)
Point is, this wouldn’t be the first time my nosiness got me into trouble. It just might be the time that gets me killed.
I saw him first, at the bar. Good-looking, but so are a lot of guys that come in here. I guess you’d call me a regular. I come here a couple times a week with my girlfriends. I’m here by lonesome, tonight. Not that I’m a lush or anything. I like to dance, and people-watch, and this is a good place to do both.
He kinda straddled that line between hot and scary-looking. One of those guys you’re not sure whether you wanna fuck him, or run like hell. There’s something setting your instincts on alert, anyway.
I saw him see me as his gaze swept the floor. Caught staring, again. I wasn’t sure if I expected him to wink or glare, but I got neither. Acknowledgment, but not a flicker of interest. I knew I looked good. I was almost disappointed, except I could sense he wasn’t looking like that, for a partner for a dance or a hookup. It was like he was looking for — trouble? Here? Not likely. This isn’t a club frequented by gangsters or gangstas; more young professionals and clerical staff like me, blowing off steam after long a week at the office. I watched his eyes move on until he finished his scan of the room, then turned away to keep dancing.
When I turned back a minute later, he’d been joined by a woman — blonde, nearly as tiny as me, and by the gestures, seriously pissed off. Enough so to have him backed against the bar like he was scared of her. His face, though, was stunned, almost adoring, the opposite of its previous disinterest.
This was the equivalent of flinging catnip in front of my tabby. I pretty much had to get closer to try to hear what was going on. I made a beeline towards the bar behind him on the pretext of getting a drink. “You came back, and you didn’t tell me?”
That ruled out the normal opposite sex bar-fight scenarios: cheating lovers or angry exes. It’s usually one or the other. Came back from where? Only now the blonde was getting sniffly, and the guy was looking helpless. Next thing I know, they were headed towards the side door, and I couldn’t tell who was pulling or pushing who.
I followed — fresh air is good, right?
I had to hang back once I was outside, of course; no bar to sidle up next to them. Unable to hear more than the occasional heated word — did she say “vampire”? Nah, that couldn’t be right — I took the time to study them, instead.
They didn’t seem like a likely pair. She was the kind of done up that looks really natural but takes hours to achieve. I recognized her boots from window-shopping the boutiques I can’t afford two weeks ago. Her hair had the kind of movement I’d kill for.
Meanwhile, he dressed like he was just waiting for a color darker than black to come along, and he clearly had zero regard for how most men were wearing their jeans these days. He’d made a truly unfortunate helmet out of his bleached hair, and his boots were muddy and scuffed.
How had these two gotten involved?
How would these two have even met?
I was stunned to see the blonde girl punch the guy in the solar plexus. Hard, too, from the way he stumbled back, doubled over. The guy put a hand to his nose and seemed by his smile to be cracking a joke, but then the woman had both her hands on her face and the sniffles of before looked like they’d returned with reinforcements.
Oh, dude, you fucked up. Fix it!
Dude was apparently not that bright, because it was taking him awhile to figure out what to do. He hesitated, raked a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and then gingerly stepped towards the blonde and wrapped her in his arms. He seemed relieved that she pulled a hand free only to deliver sulky girl-punches to his upper arm, instead of the hammer she’d belted him with before. The furious tenor of their conversation subsided, as she grumbled complaints at him and he seemed to agree with each of them in turn.
Then she’s looking up at him, and he’s looking down at her, and just when their faces are getting really close and I’m inwardly aw-ing over a happy ending, something grabs me around the neck.
And stomping on its foot isn’t doing anything, and I’m thinking, shit, Heong, you’re gonna die, cuz there’s no way I can scream loud enough to get help, and I’m choking and scrabbling at what seems like an armor-plated arm and through vision going blurry I see a dark and a light shape moving up fast and then —
I’m flat on my back on the ground and Little Blondie is snapping some huge lizard-goat-man thing’s neck and Large Blondie (well — Medium Blondie, dude’s not tall) is holding a hand out and asking if I’m alright.
“What,” I wheeze, “the fuck. Was that?”
“Dreghnall,” they say, in unison. Like that word fucking means something.
“Demon,” the woman adds.
I take the guy’s hand, and he helps me up, but his attention’s already on Little Blonde. They’re exchanging surprised, cautious looks, like they didn’t expect the other to know that. I brace myself on my knees and huff like a winded runner and stare at the ‘Dreghnall’ out of the corner of my eye, while they exchange sentence fragments about who knew what and why they were each there and generally make like they’re cranky at each other for existing again.
“AUGH!”, I scream, because the situation seems to call for it. It shuts them up, too. “I just got attacked by a demon,” I point out. They look around uncomfortably, like they were hoping I’d just ignore that bit. “And you two were about to kiss.” Full-on deer in headlights, now. “So I’m going to go back inside and get really, really drunk, and you two are going to pick up where you left off.”
Now they’re staring at me, and I have really had enough of this patio and alleyway until the fourth of ever, so I swerve around and head to the bar like I said I would.
I do look back over my shoulder once I’m in the door, though. Guy is looking down, studiously; c’mon, dude, don’t chicken out now! You two just killed Goatzilla!
Girl is smiling, though; guess killing that thing put her a good mood.
And then she’s kissing him like she’s daring him to argue with her about it.
Dude? Apparently not as dumb as all that.
Originally posted at https://seasonal-spuffy.dreamwidth.org/825299.html