[Log: Ash/Dahlia]
So, first things first: Dahlia weren't no miss.
If first impressions were everything, then the woman sitting in the waiting room was, at a glance, jarring. Broad shoulders, scarred knuckles, and the uneven, lumpy face of a brawler clashed against neutral-milk surroundings. Nothing 'bout her suggested she got along with waiting rooms or, well, waiting, generally. Nah. Looked more like the kinda girl who sought out advice in rings and roadhouses. At the end of fists and at the bottom of a bottle. Not from overstuffed couches and tell me how you feel.
But if she had a real choice in the matter, she wouldn't fucking be here.
Sunk low into a chair she was doing her damndest to disappear into, the woman wore oil-stained jeans and a light hoodie open over a tank, exposing the web of inkwork 'cross her chest and newer, odd scarring cutting through it all near her neck. Dahlia also wore her emotions—some of them, anyway—quite plainly. Hostility, resentment, mistrust, all screaming rather be dead right now. She glowered from 'neath her hood, like a particularly ornery cat from under the bed. One eye was plum-purple 'round the socket.
It went without saying—the guy's charm just bounced off her steely exterior. Didn't budge a single damn muscle. She was so tightly wound, arms folded over herself aggressively, defensively—and so her hands wouldn't shake like they did. All her anxious energy went out through her bobbing leg, instead.
Counselling was, unfortunately, part of the terms her probation officer laid down for her. So she'd gravitated toward group shit, 'cause at least she could show up, get her card stamped, and just zone out through everybody's fucking feelings for an hour. Didn't stop the shrink there from trying to get her to participate or whatever, though. Dude had pulled her aside afterward last time, like he always did. But for whatever reason, that time his questions got real under her skin and, well—let's just say, after that? She weren't getting invited back.
So, here was the choice now: this or break probation. And honestly, prison was starting to look real preferable. At least she knew how to deal with lockup—just survive it.
Right. So—just survive this. Sure. Or die trying, anyway.
Dahlia said nothing. Just gave a flat stare in response. Then pushed off the chair and shoved past the guy, shoulder checking him if he didn't make way fast enough, the scent of of motor oil and chain-smoked cigarettes and, ever so lightly, last night's whiskey left in her wake. Planting herself on the couch, she breathed out and built her defenses back up, putting heavy boots up on the edge of the coffee table so she could get her slump on. From over bent knees, she continued to glare. And glare. And glare.
All she had to do was sit here in uncomfortable silence and keep her fucking mouth shut for the next—fifty-nine minutes and thirty seconds. Right.