InsaneJournal

If You Don't Have Anything Nice To Say
Who: Samuel & Charlie, and a brief appearance by Rylee
What: Charlie has a few things she needs to say to Sam. And they aren't very nice.
Where: In the seventh floor hallway
When: After this thread.
Warnings: Lots and lots and lots of swearing.
Notes: Placeholder



Once Rylee’s breath had slowed to the point where she was certain he was sleeping deeply and comfortably, Charlie extracted herself from his embrace. It was tempting to just stay there and fall asleep too, to just forget everything had happened - but now that Rylee was settled and safe, her anger came back hard and fast. It needed something to chew the fuck out of, and at that moment, her mind could only think of one potential receiver for such emotion.

Her footsteps were careful and silent throughout his apartment, each door closed behind her with a reverence as though they would buffer her friend from the impending screaming that was clawing at her throat. Once she was outside of his apartment, though, her usual pace came back full force, each foot hitting the ground with the equivalent of an elephant’s mass. For all her size and stature, Charlie made herself known.

And even if the stomping wasn’t enough (surely it wouldn’t be, not with the small amount of space between Ry’s door and Sam’s) Charlie beat a loud tattoo on Samuel’s door, enough to wake even the dead.

“SAMUEL, YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT, COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW.” Hopefully Rylee was in a really, really deep sleep.

Samuel, as might have been expected, was in an advanced state of undress.

He had come staggering home shortly after Rylee, having paid their amused cab driver significantly more than the drive home had been worth. Samuel was often a generous drunk, though his generosity often took on various facades, sometimes in the form of rounds of drinks bought for strangers, sometimes in numerous lap dances paid for out of his own pocket, but most often in the form of a ravenous brand of lechery leveled at the nearest target. The recipient of tonight’s such attentions would of course be Lia - just as soon as he could set himself somewhat to rights.

The violent pounding at his door had come at some point after his third trip to the kitchen - the first two times he had forgotten his purpose for going there, only on the third recalling he had meant to fetch a glass of water. Gaining the doorway was not a difficult task, but one he felt quite put out by. He fell out of more than neatly exited his apartment, leaning out of the door as he shut it; his weight pulled it closed with a near deafening slam. Shirtless, barefoot, his belt undone and nearly hanging off the hard lines of his hips, he leveled a positively boyish gaze at his less recent drinking buddy.

“Charlie,” he said, greeting her cheerfully. “Will this take long? I’m really busy.”

She gave no outward sign of being thrown off by his appearance, which quite loudly expressed just what he was busy with, instead entirely consumed with her need to blow off some steam at someone.

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?! A STRIP CLUB?! IS THAT YOUR IDEA OF A FUCKING JOKE?” The worst thing about arguing with the petite brunette, currently still garbed in Rylee’s USMC shirt, was her line of thinking, which generally went around in a few circles before doubling back on itself and then meeting up again with step three, or maybe four. Any way around it, she poked a finger into Samuel’s bare chest, not in any sexual meaning, but a much more threatening gesture, if the short woman could come off in such a way toward Samuel.

His brow furrowed, lips curling into an amused little smirk. Green eyes flicked downward, first to the slender finger prodding into his skin, then to the letters emblazoned across her chest. After a moment’s petulant contemplation he leaned into her hand, feeling the short, sharp point of her nail to his flesh. This opportunity was too good to pass up; already his blood quickened from just those few heated words. “Oh put your big girl pants on,” he said, lowering to her a gaze shot through with barely concealed amusement. “It was a strip joint, not a whorehouse. No VIP room, no money under the table. Just a little field trip to teach him how to see tits without blushing like a girl.”

“A little field trip - what, some kind of fucking male bonding session? Then fucking take him to a goddamn museum! That’s the kind of shit he likes, he doesn’t need to fucking have tits waved in his face!” Her voice miraculously lowered, though it was still strained. The hand lowered, both clenching into fists that she fought to keep at her sides. With her, words were always followed by actions; Charlie always found it simpler to do than to say. Words could be underhanded, manipulative, misunderstood. Actions were straightforward and sure. But part of her knew that if she attempted to strike Samuel at this juncture, it wouldn’t end in her favor. Not that such realizations had stopped her before...

“An’ there’s nothin’ fucking wrong with how he is now, anyway - but that’s beside the fucking point! You fucking did this on purpose, I mean, what the fuck has he told you?! You fucking got him drunk, and then what, pointed him at my door?! Oh, it’ll be fuckin’ hilarious, Charlie’ll get a fuckin’ kick outta Rylee drunk off his ass!”

“Fuck the museum,” Samuel said, his own broad hand raising in an irritated but directionless gesture. From the corner of his eye he could see her tight fists, hard hands he knew were trained to do their share damage. But unafraid - for good reason or no - he forged ahead, spoiling for the fight begun even before he’d opened the door. “Spends too much time in ‘em. If museums had classes on how to not be scared of your own cock, then sure, he’d be good to go.

“I’m helping him, and he was grateful for it. You should be, too. Hell, all he fuckin’ talked about all night was you. I didn’t have to ‘point him’ anywhere.” His smile grew sharper, then, bordering on an outright sneer. “And why do you care? Your single, unattached friend went for some liquor and lap dances. Big fuckin’ deal.”

“I care because I fuckin’ know him better than you do,” she growled in response. Of course, this totally jumped over the previous four years where Charlie had had no idea what Rylee had been up to, whether he’d started to make a habit of drinking like a fish and attending strip joints more often than church. Which she was fairly certain wasn’t the case, considering that he still blushed as red as a tomato if she teased him about the simplest things. Nevermind that she enjoyed Rylee’s company the way he was - she enjoyed Samuel’s company, as well, but in a completely different fashion. She had no desire to see Rylee start taking after Samuel, especially not in the ways previously described.

“Obviously better than you do, because you know what he fuckin’ did? He fuckin’ chucked the entire night’s worth of drinking on me because Rylee can’t fuckin’ hold his liquor!! Is that your fuckin’ idea of help?!”

The proper response might have been to apologize, perhaps to empathize in some way, or even to offer to help clean up her flat and set things to rights. A normal person might have at least attempted to look abashed. But of all the many and varied ways to respond to such a confession, Samuel chose the lowest road imaginable. He laughed.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he said, the words falling out among a torrent of unrestrained laughter. He leaned back just to avoid tipping over, further into her seething bubble of personal space, and crossed his arms against his barrel chest. “Jesus Christ. You can lead a horse to water but you sure can’t make it drink, huh.” He laughed again, rolling his eyes, the image of a hapless Rylee green from overindulgence dancing through his head. “Or maybe you can. I guess that doesn’t fit so well here.” He shook his head, looking down to her again, his amusement shining clearly in his eyes. “Anyway. Sorry, Charlie. I was never real good at good deeds.”

“Yeah well your idea of a fuckin’ good deed needs some work,” she snarled, further angered by his response. Even if he had apologized, she still would have continued in her angry rampage. There wasn’t much that could dissuade her at this juncture.

“Not to mention yah don’t need to fucking encourage him, anyway! I don’t give a shit what kind of reputation you might have, but I have a good fuckin’ idea that you’re probably the last person he should be takin’ advice from. About anyone. Period.” She neatly avoided mentioning herself in that explanation, constantly shying away from the idea that Samuel had been helping Rylee prepare to try and pin her down into something she’d obviously done a great deal of work toward not letting happen. And from the way things had gone thus far, there was more than ample evidence that this particular night’s course of action had been a bad idea, at least in Charlie’s mind.

“C’mon now,” he said. “That hurts.” His even tone, still tinged with laughter, gave the lie to his words. “You just know what I did, not what I said. For all you know I said all kinds of sensitive, thoughtful, progressive type shit while we were out. You’re just assuming, just cos of where we were, that nothin’ good was said.” He unfolded his arms long enough to press palm to heart, his brow furrowing in apparent pain. “Cuts me to the bone.” He narrowed his eyes, smiling still as a new thought crossed his mind.

“Y’know, maybe you’re this pissed cos you do want him a little different,” he said. “You say you like this great big innocent puppy dog schtick, but if you did, he wouldn’t be losing his shit every time he thinks about tellin’ you what’s on his mind. So either you’re playin’ a shittier game than I am - cos at least I intend to help the kid - or you really do want him a little harder before you give him another look.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ turn this aroun’ on me - this ain’t about what I’m doin’, this is about you and yer fuckin’ stupid ideas of help. There innit anything he can’t tell me,” she stammered back, a combination of anger and a sudden flush of embarrassment tripping up her words. She was certain that she’d never done anything to encourage Rylee in his self-appointed endeavor to date her - though at the same time, she’d never discouraged him, either. Maybe she’d thought that the lack of encouragement would be discouragement in itself. But mostly, she didn’t care for others poking their noses in where they weren’t wanted, and she most certainly didn’t want anyone’s idea of assistance, however messy the outcome would eventually be, in this particular area of her life. She was perfectly equipped to deal with it on her own.

“I really don’t give a shit if you wanna make friends or whatever you idiots call it, but leave me the fuck out of it, and try to leave him in one fuckin’ piece,” she added, trying to turn the conversation back to what she had originally intended, one hand raising a threatening finger in Samuel’s direction.

“Ye of little faith,” Samuel chided. “He can take care of himself. Even if he does overestimate his liquor tolerance a little.” He glanced only a moment at her upraised hand, too preoccupied by the faint streaks of red now dusting her cheekbones. To Samuel it was all the answer he required, good enough to allow him to come away from this conversation earnestly believing he had done the right thing. Whether she cared to admit it or not, there was surely something there, and Samuel felt a sincere sense of pride in knowing he played a part in drawing it out. Still, though the fight was proving a nice change of pace from his typically mundane existence at Pax, it was clear she would not be swayed to his line of thinking - for the time being, at least. There was small consolation in the fact that Samuel was certain he would one day have ample opportunity to tell her ‘I told you so.’ For now, he merely held up his hands, that needling, boyish grin still plastered on his face, though his voice carried in it some degree of feigned sheepishness.

“Fine. We’ll go out and do our thing, and I’ll quit tryin’ to play matchmaker. Even though I’m damned good at it.” He chuckled. “But if he brings you up, Charlie, I’m not gonna cut him off. I’ll tell him what I think, when he asks, and that’s between him and me. Understood?”

Charlie narrowed her eyes at him, uncertain of the olive branch he was offering. It only offered half of her terms, but if she really thought on it (which she probably wouldn’t) it was better than nothing. The hand and accusing appendage lowered to her side, her arms shifting to cross over her chest. She felt a little cheated, if she were honest, but in all truth she was getting something out of this argument. “Fine. Fine. But if you fuckin’ pull shit like this again, I reserve the right to punch you. That’s the only warnin’ yer gettin’.”

She would have further elaborated on the ways of how she would hurt Samuel but another voice broke into the conversation, pulling Charlie’s gaze away from the man in front of her and back toward the door from which she’d come.

“Lee, I don’t feel so good,” came a near pathetic whisper, Rylee standing in the doorway - rather, leaning against the frame and holding his stomach. Charlie glanced back at Samuel, then at Rylee with a worried expression painted on her face. Whether that was for her own sake of being thwarted in her confrontation with Sam or for Rylee himself was answered in the next few moments when she walked quickly away from the object of her anger toward the ill-looking blond. A few hushed words from her pushed him back into the apartment and she disappeared halfway inside too as though she were watching Rylee move to somewhere. Then she leaned out of the apartment and made a V with her fingers, pointing it at her eyes and then at Sam in a gesture of I’m watching you.

Samuel took that last warning as he had taken all the others: quasi seriously, leavened with a heaping serving of amusement and a dash of concern. He threw an obnoxiously chipper wave to Charlie as the door closed, turning on his heel the moment he heard the bolt thrown. He had appointments to keep, after all, and vital duties that required his attention. Without further ado he returned to his flat, there to straighten himself up and head hastily upstairs.