Hit Me, I Dare You {Wes}

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

For the umpteenth time this month, Tramp found herself at the Alleyway. It had become one of her many favorite places--her first one was the roof of Rose's apartment, the second was the roof at school Angel, Wes, and herself often hung out at--the place she dubbed Paradise. The Alleyway was her third. She'd come to watch the fights, or have a drink, or participate in one of the fights. She was never carded, which was nice. The music had a darker tone, and wasn't that poppy bullshit that seemed to be blaring all over the place.

The club smelled like sweat, blood, alcohol, and smoke. It smelled dirty, it felt grungy, but it also felt like home away from home. Staff members were beginning to know her by name, and when she went up for a fight, there were almost never any bets placed. It was becoming common knowledge that Tramp almost never won--she'd get a few good swings in. But either she'd be laid out, or forfeit. It was more of a stress relief for her, and wasn’t anything new. She was passing off the bruises, scratches, and bloody lips, but her new family was becoming increasingly concerned about her. Some teachers had even pulled her aside, asking if there was a boyfriend beating down on her. Even that new teacher, David something or other.

Most of the girls seemed totally enthralled by the new, young teacher. Sure, he was alright in that weird, weedy sort of way. He reminded her a bit of a mouse though, and he seemed to over-think things. And maybe she was imagining it, but his eyes seemed to lock onto certain assets of particular girls in the class. More than likely, she was being paranoid. But she was seeing less and less of Angel lately, due to different excuses. And Rose was busy with Guillermo, and something was up with those two. She felt like everyone was keeping secrets from her, and shutting her out all over again.

That thought, in turn made her hurt. And when she got hurt, she got mad. She knew how to deal with anger much better than sadness. Sadness wasn’t her forte, and she didn’t like the empty, despair, lonely feeling it brought along. Anger, though. Anger was warm, it was tangible, like spicy candy on her tongue. It was something she could feel in her veins, and unlike sadness—anger made her stronger. Made her faster. She knew the drill, when she was on the small box on the side of the fighting ring. All jewelry, or weapons were to be taken off. Bare knuckle only.

That meant her bracelets, and various rings came off her fingers. She didn’t like not having her rings on. One was a claw that incased her entire ring finger on her left hand, the other was a metal ring that fit the bend of the index finger on her right hand. And the knuckleduster that wrapped her middle and ring finger of the right hand. Tramp lifted her shirt to expose her stomach, pulling four band-aids out of her pocket, and taped them over the barbells that were anchored into her hips. She dropped into a crouch afterwards, and laced up her boots extra tight on her calves, and lifted her arms to show she had no metal on her body. All was good, all was perfect. She smiled, and walked up the couple of steps into the fight ring, and stretched her arms above her head, and behind, doing a few quick stretches while she waited for her opponent to step into the ring and begin the match.

Tags: Scout / Wes / Olley / Tramp
Notes: Dude. Is there a character of yours that I don't have a thread with? For real though.
Outfit:Yay Morrison!

[WESTON BRODERICK]

What the hell was he thinking? Wes didn't fight any more than Angel wore pants. This was easily the most ridiculous thing he'd ever done, and his best friend wasn't even here with him, egging him on. Then again, it could all easily have been traced back to her, anyhow; it was because of Angel he was here in the first place. Because of her, he'd felt the overwhelming desire to punch something so hard it gushed like a geyser. Because of her and her inability to listen.

All the signs were there--they had been since the first day of school, dammit. Wes didn't miss things like that. He didn't "blown things out of proportion" or "complicate reality" or "overthink things" the way she obviously thought he was. The fact of the matter was simple; their Psychology teacher was a nasty, sick fuck of a man who had his eyes on Angel, and God only knew when it would be more than just those.

They'd argued about it, obviously. Wes hadn't really expected her to believe him right away (who would want to?), but a bit of thought on the matter would have been nice. He wasn't usually wrong about stuff like this, and when it involved Angel...well, he couldn't afford to be. But she hadn't believe him--at least, she'd done one hell of a job of pretending she didn't--and so he'd left quite a bit angrier than he'd came, looking for anywhere to unleash his anger at his best friend that wasn't in her general vicinity.

The truth of the matter was that he hadn't really intended to end up in the Alleyway; it wasn't really his scene. But he'd been in one of his walking moods--the kind where everything sort of slipped away into a half-awake-half-asleep state and his feet simply carried him where they liked--and it was usually against Wes's better judgement to walk away from wherever said moods took him. Besides, the Alleyway was just about the most obvious part of town he could think of to release his churning anger at the world.

Having never been in in a fight here before, Wes found himself unsure of exactly what was supposed to happen once he volunteered to go into the ring. He was standing to the side of the ring; an incredibly burly, probably Hulk-spawned man glared down at him with a nasty, wolfish snarl curled across his lips."Well, whatta ya waitin' for? Take off the goddamn bracelets, pretty boy," the monster of a man growled, and Wes gulped. What the hell was he doing? This was practically suicide.

It'd teach her to listen though, wouldn't it, if I end up pounded to a pulp... Wes couldn't help but find himself thinking as he removed the twine from around his wrist. With a strange mix of spitefulness and guilt, Wes removed his necklace from underneath his shirt; it gave him an undeniable sort of rush, as if he were disobeying God himself--which was ridiculous, because it was only because of a promise to himself that he never took the thing off in the first place.

Once he'd been deemed fit to fight fairly, Wes took a deep breath, stretching his arms behind his back as he stepped out into the ring. He was going to end up with a broken jaw. He knew it, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, that in walking out into the ring he was somehow sealing his doom, just as sure as he knew what was going on with that sick fuck that always had his eyes on Angel's legs and twice as positive as he was that once he made someone bleed, he'd feel better too. For a moment, the only sound Wes knew was the pounding of blood in his ears as he looked up from the spot on the ground where he'd been staring at straight into the eyes of--

Fuck. This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not now. Of all the nights he could've possibly felt pissed enough to come down here, this would be the one she'd come to as well. This fight, too. It was too uncanny to be a trick. He couldn't help it; he groaned. Wes's shoulders slumped slightly, and for a brief moment he considered calling out right then and there--there was no way in Hell he was hitting any girl, let alone Tramp. She was his friend, for Christ's sake. Angel's friend, too. Wes curled his hands into fists at his side, but it was clear he wasn't about to throw anything her way. His feet remained firmly planted in the same position as he shook his head slowly, slightly; as if she didn't already know him well enough to be sure he wouldn't do this. Still, there was something keeping him in the ring. Something inside him that desperately needed to punch something alive, something that he could pretend would make a difference if it bled.


ooc: He's so quiet...all the time...and yet, still ranty...sorry it's so long baha O.o
crappy outfit is crappy

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Tramp cracked her knuckles carefully. There was nothing worse than trying to punch someone, and then your knuckles crack. Giving you that split second of hesitation, wondering if you just broke your fingers on their face. After that was done, she was ready for her opponent. She rolled her shoulders back, and focused on the person coming up the steps. But she didn’t want to see it, or rather---her mind wasn’t allowing her to recognize the person in front of her.

He was pretty, really pretty. With dark hair that fell into his eyes and around his face. Cheekbones that any model would kill for, and eyes that seemed to be tired. His mouth was almost kissable, and his eyes seemed to have an almond shape to them. The boy looked exotic, while remaining completely casual. Of course, she also knew that she couldn’t swing on that pretty face, for one of many reasons. One, it was Wes. The other third that made their group whole, the quiet storm that seemed to always be around. Two, Angel would fucking kill her. Tramp was new, Wes was a childhood best friend. And she was almost certain her darker skinned friend would not be pleased with her at all if she swung on him.

Something seemed off though. It wasn’t just the way he held his body that showed he didn’t want to hit her, the slump of his shoulders. The way he looked utterly defeated, before the bell even rang. None of that; what was off was the way that his body language was screaming that he didn’t want to fight her—and yet, his feet didn’t move once. Like he wanted to be here, like he wanted to fight. And Tramp was certain she wouldn’t be swinging back. Call it a hunch, but Tramp needed to be hit, just as badly as Wes needed to be hitting something. And with her being the punching bag, she could be sure that Wes wouldn’t get too injured.

But she’d have to provoke him. Because he was shaking his head. She relaxed her own stance, and moved in a few steps closer. Her face got that strange expression on it, where she didn’t look like a hardass. Where she looked genuinely sweet, but again. A rouse. Her red lips pulled down slightly, “What’s wrong Wes?” She asked, and tilted her head, “Lost your backbone? Angel not here? What, she carries your balls in a bag on her hip, is that it?” She murmured, the corner of her lips tugging into a small smirk that was almost cruel.

It made her a little sad, that she was going to egg on a friend and do everything in her power to make him swing. She listened to the sound of the bell on the side of the ring, signaling the fight had begun. But even the crowd watching could tell something was amiss. Hush fell over the spectators near the ring. Tramp moved in a little closer, her bare fingers gently hooking around his shirt, grasping him, pulling herself closer. She wanted to trap him, make him feel uncomfortable, shove her away, make him irritated. “Where’s Angel?” She asked, that honey-sweetness in her voice, while she looked up at him. She was close enough to kiss him, not that she’d try. Wes was off limits, but with Angel’s increasing disappearance from the group, Tramp was quickly losing her temper with her friend, and the loss of temper, was often a loss of judgement on her own part.

“Let me guess, she found another toy to play with. Poor little Wes, out in the rain to rust. Who’s the guy?” Of course it was mostly speculation, fueled by her own anger. She needed Wes to get mad, because she needed it just as badly as he did. A few people were calling to break the young folks up, there was even a rumble of laughter when someone cracked a joke about Tramp’s hormones, saying that she had other things on her mind, rather than fighting him.

Tramp pulled her head back, looking straight into Wes’ with her pale green ones. They were void, empty. Almost like no one was home, “No, I’d never fuck him. He’s just the lackey, the group’s plaything. Isn’t that right, Wessy?” The blonde asked curiously. She wasn’t making sense to the crowd, but her words seemed more directed to Wes, than anything else. “Only there for Angel to play with when she gets bored of whoever else. So, let’s hear it. Who’s the lucky guy getting into her pants?”

[/blockquote]

[WESTON BRODERICK]

This was exactly why he didn't talk about things with people. With Angel. Because if discussion ended in a fight and the fight ended in him angry, then chances were he'd end up doing something even dumber than if he'd stuck it through with her in the first place. Would he never learn?

As the words left Tramp's lips, Wes's jaw clenched. It was a subtle movement--more of a twitch than anything--but noticeable nonetheless. She was lying, of course. Wes knew it. Trying to get a reaction out of him, and by God if she kept this up she was going to be good at it. He narrowed his eyes as the blonde took a step closer, silently willing himself to stand still, not to let her know she was touching on the most sensitive nerve he had. Which was impossible, seeing as anyone who had ever spent more than two minutes with Wes and Angel knew exactly how to hit him below the belt.

Eyes his eyes appearing stoney and far-off, Wes somehow managed to glare daggers the size of kitchen knives out his eyes as Tramp took yet another step forward. He didn't break eye contact as her fingers curled their way around his shirt, didn't pause to catch a glance at the now almost-silent crowd. When she spoke Angel's name again, he swallowed, subconsciously pulling away from her the slightest bit, obviously not liking just how close she was. Nobody got that close. Nobody but Angel. His gaze dropped once to the ground, back up and boring into Tramp's in a flash of a second.

"Shut up." The words were barely a whisper, but as with all things Wes chose to say aloud, they carried weight. She was getting closer to that open wound. He could feel the pieces of glass that were her words twisting inside it, churning the emotions he'd come her to get rid of. And then the worst thought came: Did she know too? Was Angel the only one in denial about it all? He wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. Wes's brain was on tunnel-vision mode; he heard nothing, saw nothing that wasn't Tramp and the images she was putting inside his head with a few simple questions. Angel with Him. Him with his nasty, perverted paws on her, rough where Wes could never dream of being. His voice the last time He'd given her detention. The looks He'd given the both of them; to Angel, almost hungry--to Wes, smug.

"...The group's plaything..."
His body tensed further, knukles beginning to look a bit white as he tightened them over his palms.

"So, let’s hear it. Who’s the lucky guy getting into her pants?"
Instantly, something darker flashed across the emptiness in his eyes. Wes clenched his jaw tighter, released his hands from their death grip on mid air and placed them on each of Tramp's shoulders. "I said shut the fuck up," Wes hissed as he shoved. Not hard enough to knock her to the ground or be grounds to start anything, but to get her away. Anything to get her away, out of his sight, out of his mind.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Tramp had gotten very good at reading people. She had to be, to have lived with her mother. The times when she wanted to avoid a fight, she had learned to pick up on the smallest ticks and twitches. And when she wanted one, she knew how to read those same ticks and twitches, to know she was hitting the right nerves. She was aware of the way he glared at her, and the way his fists clenched. She kept going, even when he had told her to shut up.

There was a momentary fear when something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone in a second. Something was bugging him, and she wanted to help him. But she, again, was new, and wouldn’t be surprised if Wes shut her out. She was the outsider, and she didn’t expect Angel’s best friend to pour his heart out to her. But anger, anger she understood. How when you chewed on it, it was just harder and harder to keep sane—and when you finally let it go, how much better it felt. Tramp tensed under his hands, before she stumbled back when he pushed her. It caused her own anger to spike, and her muscles burned with the urge to swing. But today wasn’t her day, Wes had just made it his.

Without missing a beat, she caught herself and bounced right back, moving in close to Wes again, as though she were a rubber band. Corner him; nothing like causing a fight or flight, than cornering someone. “What’s wrong Wes, she like his dick better than yours?” Tramp purred, with a sickly sweet honey to her voice. She even gigged, letting it roll out of her throat. She leaned in again, her body brushing his. “Or maybe she just likes him better than you. I mean, I can see how she’d finally get bored with you. Nothing special there.” She rolled her eyes, while shrugging her shoulders. If he ran after the fight, she’d have to track him down and tell him the truth. It made her feel sick, that she was talking to Wes this way. He didn’t deserve it, and he seemed to hurt just as much as her. And he was the second person she’d ever really considered a friend, next to Angel.

“That’s gotta be it. She got bored of you, right?” She reached out, and let her finger trail along his chest, taking her eyes away from his face to look where her finger was. It was easy to play off as part of the rouse, but she didn’t like having to look Wes in the eye—not with that look he had. Like he absolutely hated her—it made her feel even more alone. Her finger trailed a little bit lower on his stomach, “Come on, tell sweet widdle Ripley wassamatter.” She cooed at him, using baby talk, to further talk down to him. Like she wasn’t concerned, like he was just a child. “I coulda seen it coming, actually. I know the way you look at her,” Tramp’s red lips curled, her teeth flashing. Hopefully Wes didn’t know her well enough to be able to tell that when she showed her teeth in a smile—it was often fake. “But she just sees you as something to pass the time away, right? Is that what you’re fed up with? That she just sees you as the cute little pet?” She lifted her eyes at him, and widened them, “Gosh, Wessy. What does it feel like when the girl you like doesn’t give a shit about you?”

[/blockquote]

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Ordinarily, Wes wasn't one for hate. He didn't toss the term around in a feigned casual tone, didn't use the word at all, really, unless his Dad was involved. And even then, he preferred to keep quiet about the whole thing. But this was different. Wes was sure of it. He could feel that sickly churning in his stomach, the tingling in his finger tips as they pressed harder against his palms. And almost as much as he hated the feeling at all, he suddenly hated her--Tramp. Every word coming from her mouth was a poison worse than the knowledge that had brought him here in the first place. Had she been anyone else speaking the same things, he would have thrown a punch long ago. But the fact of the matter was that she was also his friend, and Wes didn't, as a rule of life, harm his friends, even when they stabbed him first.

He watched as Tramp rebounded, jaw tightening further as he fought the urge to shove her back again, harder. Instead, he took his own step backwards; small, not enough to trap himself, but creating just enough space to get away. That was all he needed for now. Get her out of his head. He couldn't help but flinch ever so slightly as she brushed herself against him--not from the touch, of course, but the words that came with it, and the inkling of truth that had to be in them. After all, she'd obviously seen something too. Tramp had to know at least a bit about it all--she and Angel roomed together, for Christs's sakes, and even if Angel refused to believe something was wrong, she might have let something slip somewhere along the line. As much as Wes hated to think about Tramp hearing more about it all than he did, it was a possibility. But better Tramp than Him, he supposed. Even if it lead here.

He glanced down at her finger as it trailed its way across his chest, eyes darker still as he met hers for a split second before she looked down. His skin chilled like ice where she touched it, and he found himself holding his breath, waiting for what knife she'd stab into him next. Her words twisted in the open wounds she'd already dug. Suddenly, without thinking, he slapped away the hand resting on his stomach, not wanting anything to do with her now or ever. Another step backwards and he was at the edge of the ring; there was a rough shove from someone standing behind him coupled by a taunt, and he stumbled forward with only a glance backwards and a glare that locked itself back to Tramp when he was done with the older man.

Her smile was devilish, and it made him tremble; it was slight, a small shudder of anger that passed through his body and disappeared more quickly than it had come. He took one more step towards her, the childish tone in her voice only infuriating him further. If there was one thing Wes couldn't stand almost as much as the insults themselves, it was the way she was saying them; like he was some sort of infant, or small puppy.

"You know that's not--" he practically growled as his eyes narrowed further. Standing this close to her, he couldn't bring himself to swing. Not even as his right hand clenched and unclenched itself at his side, or as it tapped agitatedly against his hip bone. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he shook his head so as not to meet her eyes. Voice quiet but firm, his lips formed a thin line after the words left them. It wasn't the fact that he liked (loved, even, he dared say) Angel he was denying, but the idea that she could possibly not give a shit about him. It was, all things considered, too utterly depressing a fact for him to even attempt bringing himself to think about. Far better to deny what had brought him here than break down an accept it, along with the fact that his best friend was quite possibly never going to listen.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Tramp laughed. As much as it made her feel like she was going to vomit, she laughed. It was fake, it was harsh, and it made her sick. Friends didn’t hurt friends, and right now—Wes was hurting, and she wasn’t making it any better. But she would, and hopefully, just hopefully he’d forgive her for everything she was saying and doing. She rubbed her hand, and made her grin disappear. She furrowed her brows, and pouted her lips, giving him a mock look of hurt, “Owie, you hurt me, Wessy.” She rolled her eyes, and rested her hands on her hips.

“God, really? Is that the best you can do? No wonder you’re still single. Either you’re a total pussy, or Angel’s your beard to hide the fact that you’re gay. Which could explain why she’s not here right now. She’s with the real boyfriend, right?” Tramp nodded, her eyebrow twitching upwards while she once again offered that grin. God, Wes. Just…fucking hit me already. She thought to herself, doing her best to keep it off her face. She wanted this to be over. Wes could be a smartass, and he was quiet. But he didn’t deserve this, not that bad. And she was a hair’s breath away from putting her hands out and just hugging him. Telling him she was just kidding.

She did put her arms out, but for a different reason. She ignored the irritated boos, and heckling, before holding one hand out to the crowd holding up a middle finger, then stepped back in to Wes. Her other hand was weaving through his belt loops, her middle finger sliding in it like a belt, holding his hip. This felt so wrong, Wes was like her brother. Not to mention it was plain as day that Wes cared about Angel. Tramp was half expecting Angel to come running through the crowd, and pummel the shit out of her for being all touchy feely with Wes. But if it helped him feel threatened, cornered, and maybe hopefully, the closeness of her, would push him over the edge. “You really ought to grow up, Wessy-poo.” She continued in the baby talk once more, before her voice went flat, and almost irritated. “Really, give up. If she cared about you, she wouldn’t have bailed on you, right?” Bailed on us, she meant to say. Tramp was about to lose it, herself. Angel was their friend, and this wasn’t entirely about Wes anymore. Both of them had been seeing less, and less of her. So Tramp felt abandoned too. But for her to get her relief, and clear her emotions, she needed what Wes was holding back from her.

“Seriously. Get the fuck over her.” Finally, the worst comment was about to fall off of her tongue. A straight out lie, because she could never think ill of Angel. Worry about her, of course. But all the anger, all the hurt, she pushed into this next lie, and if Wes didn’t fall for that lie, she’d cave. “I think she should’ve been nicknamed Tramp, instead. She’s putting me to shame.” And then the wicked smile, that made her feel so, so very sick.

Dear God, just please take the bait Wes. Before they pull us out of this ring, before I get to apologize. Please, Wes. she begged him mentally, hoping, and wishing he could hear her thoughts.

[/blockquote]

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Her laughter made his insides curl. Along with his fists, they clenched and clenched and quivered, made him want to simultaneously vomit and punch her square in the nose. Naturally, he did neither. He could have done better. In fact, he was imagining doing just that as she taunted him; raising his fist and hitting her right then and there, maybe even knocking her to the ground, because that was what she deserved, not because of who she was, but because of what she was saying. It was who she was that kept his hands at his side.

Wes kept his eyes on Tramp even as she silently addressed the crowd, his gaze that of a cornered cat. It wasn’t the personal insults that were getting to him, of course—because of how quiet he was, Wes had found himself accused of much stranger—but the way she was throwing around his relationship with Angel. Because the more Tramp talked about it, the more the small voice in the back of his head told him there was a possibility of truth in it. He had no way of knowing; the minute he’d left, Angel could have gone running straight to Him.
She wouldn’t.
But she could. And worse, she could want to.

Wes visibly stiffened as Tramp edged herself closer. Breath held tight between his lips, he felt his every muscle go tense as she pressed herself closer, a small, uncomfortable shiver jerking up his spine as her finger hooked its way through his belt loops. His eyes darted back and forth over her face, and he felt his arms go stiff beneath her words as he drew in on himself. Anything to keep away from this. How close they were—he didn’t do this with anyone but Angel, and never had. It made him sicker than the way she was talking to him. “She didn’t,” the words came out hoarse, and empty of the conviction normally filling every word he chose to speak. She had bailed, in a way—but she also just hadn’t understood. She was just being stupid. Angel was known for that. She didn’t bail—not on him. Them. It would be equivalent to the apocalypse, as far as Wes’s world went.

He probably could have taken anything else. Jabs at his apparent loneliness, sexuality—anything, really, except for what she said next. And then that smile. Wes couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to, anymore. “Fucking bitch,” he growled, finding no other words necessary as he pushed Tramp away from him, eyes black as pitch. Then, before he could think about what he was doing (about anything besides what she’d said about Angel, really), he swung. Hard and fast, his fist made contact with her nose, and when he drew back, he felt lighter. Clenching and unclenching his fist (it stung a lot more than he’d thought it would), he watched her, somehow both grateful and disgusted that it was her he’d gotten the chance to hit. He didn’t swing again, though, despite the anger rippling in him, and instead found himself positively elated by just the one swing; it was addictive, a charge running through his entire being.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

For a moment, Tramp didn't think he'd actually do it. He seemed tense, like he'd rather run than hit her. But next think she knew, she rocked backwards on her boots and fell straight on her ass, the crowd cheering. Blood blossomed on Tramp's face where his fist made contact with her nose, and tears sprung to her eyes. With the pain radiating in her face, she was almost certain he had broken her nose. Using the back of her hand, she wiped at the blood coming from it, and spit out the blood that had leaked into her mouth. "Is that all you got? No wonder Angel bailed on you, you hit like a fucking girl." Again she spit at his feet, blood and mucus.

Tramp wanted to stand, but she was also trying to keep her body from shaking. There was a thrill running down her, and the only thing she could feel was the blind edge of pain that was spreading across her face. Suddenly, using that pain to push to her feet, she rushed at Wes, shoving him forcefully. "Come on, you stupid girl. Hit me, hit me you fucking pussy. Angel's gonna want a man, not some idiot girl with a luck punch. DO IT!" She yelled at Wes, giving him a series of smaller, more forceful shoves. Tramp's mind was in a place where she didn't have a single thought, it was all instinct, and emotion. With the energy now coursing through her, she was going to shove and push at Wes until he looked done.

"I be he doesn't hit like that. I'm still going, I'm still up. You'd never be able to protect her, you can't even get my ass down." She continued to shout, the crowd's cheers a roar in her head, but all she could see was Wes. Granted she had no idea who he was, she seemed to be hitting the right nerves on Wes, and she kept harping, and plucking at it. She could still feel, and she didn't want to anymore. Her nose had stopped bleeding and the blood on her face was beginning to dry, making her look like a wild animal. "Do it, hit me. Hit me, hit me." She chanted between shoves, her voice taking a tone that belonged more in a bedroom than in a fight ring. That smile on the edge of insanity, still on her face.

[/blockquote]

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Wes couldn’t help it. He smiled a bit, almost sheepishly, at the sight of the blood spouting from her nose, shaking his hand out as it tingled from the hit. It was a wonderful feeling; he was lighter. Clenching and unclenching his fists, Wes stared down at Tramp, feeling only half-guilty for having punched her in the first place. How could he, after what she’d said about Angel? Jesus. Well, she’d been lucky just one punch had been all she’d gotten. Had she been anyone else…a boy, an adult, anyone but Tramp, really…she would have gotten a hell of a lot worse.
The sudden din of the crowd shrank to nothingness as Wes ran his fingers through his hair, glancing nervously about, trying to ignore the sudden clenching and twisting in his stomach at the thought of it all. Tramp’s voice cut through the air again like a knife, and although it wasn’t nearly as jagged as two seconds ago, it still burned. Stone faced, he glanced down to where she spat, then back up to her face again, then back to the ground. His hands trembled and his palms itched. He could do it again, if he wanted to. Just…punch her right in the nose again. Maybe even break it. He probably could, if he wanted to.

He definitely could. All it’d take was one more swing. Still, his arms raised to his sides as she shoved him, either unwilling to hit her or simply waiting for the right opportunity. Anger continued to boil within him as he took a step backwards with her push, although his stance remained steady. She needed to say all this stuff to him; even though he was more than half sure she meant it, and even though he hated her for it, he knew she needed to. After all, there was no way in hell he was swinging otherwise. Finally, he shoved her back. Rougher than before, it was her words about Angel that seized him again. Then, before she could recover from the shove, he punched her once more—again, harder than before. It felt twice as good.

Wes actually smiled as he took a step backwards, satisfied. It was a strange smile, one that didn’t really belong on his face. As the sound of the crowd’s cheering came back, however, he found it falling. Back to the same, stone cold stare he was so known for—the flat lips, the dark eyes, although they were still darker than usual as he glared at Tramp. After another second or two, Wes licked his chapped lips and raised his right hand to the crowd, gripping Tramp’s bicep rather forcefully with the other. “That’s it. We’re done,” his voice was quiet, but it carried the usual weight. Anticlimactic, he knew, but it hardly mattered. There was no way he was going to throw another one at her. Punches were only going to go so far, after all.

It wasn’t until he’d successfully dragged Tramp out of the crowd and around the corner that he wheeled about to speak to her. Silently grateful for the dim lighting, he was able to look at her face as he spat words in her direction. “What the fuck was that?! Huh? Jesus, Tramp—how the hell do you—it’s none of your—Goddamn you, fucking bitch,” he wasn’t yelling—he never yelled—but he was stammering, and for Wes, who always spoke only what he knew to be certain and stammer-free, that was monumental. He was beyond pissed. Beyond angry or fucking mad as hell, too. Fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, he continued softly, eyes boring into her in a manner he sure as hell hoped hurt her half as much as she’d killed him. “Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Fuck you, Tramp. Get the hell out of here, will you? Now,” his breathing slowed as he ran his fingers through his hair, glancing away from her as he leaned back against the brick wall, eyes closed. He hated her, every single bit of her, every last ratty strand of hair.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

The second punch sent Tramp’s head knocked back again. Luckily, she managed to twist her head at the last second so that the punch collided with the side of her head, rather than her nose again. She wasn’t up to visiting the hospital, and she was pretty sure her cousin would blow a gasket. She felt suddenly dizzy after the second blow, but it was Wes’ grasp on her arm that kept her on her feet. “You’re hurting me.” She mumbled, which was rather funny due to the fact he just clocked her twice. The ref quickly shoved her jacket that contained her rings, smokes, and weed in it into her arm as Wes passed.

His tone sobered her up, and she listened to him. She opened up her jacket, and shrugged it back on, reaching into the pocket and pulling out two cigarettes from the box. She lit them both at the same time, and held one out for Wes. “That was called helping. Tell me you don’t feel better.” Her voice was tight, she hurt. Honestly, she hadn’t believed Wes had it in him. But the hurt helped her, and she looked up at him with sharp green eyes. “Angel’s my best friend, too. Hell, Angel, Xander, and you are the only friends that I do have.” She sucked on the end of her cigarette, gingerly touching her bloody nose, wincing.

She opened her eyes, and moved her hand from her nose and sighed. Reaching out, she grabbed Wes’ shirt, and tugged at him. Taking a cautious step forward, she wrapped one arm around his middle, and gave him a careful squeeze, before looking up at him. “Xander’s something else, if he walked away it would hurt, and but I could get through it. But you and Angel. You guys are my best friends. And it has me worried, and scared that she’s off wherever. I really have no idea where she is, or what’s going on.” She shook her head, her voice strangely soft for her character. She was almost always a bit on the louder side, her tone harsh. Solid as the brick that Wes was leaning on. But for one of the first, rare times, she was letting something down. And for Wes to believe that she didn’t mean her words, she had to let all of her guards down. Letting go of him, she leaned against the wall also, her cigarette coming back to her lips.

“You obviously came here for a fight. I never fight, I just take the beatings. So, it was kind of perfect, you know? And…you didn’t want to hit me. So I tried to say the most hurtful things I could think of. Because it looked like you needed it, and I didn’t want you to pussy out of a fight. Or get paired up with someone who would kick your skinny ass. I didn’t want anyone to hurt you.” She grinned, and glanced up when one of the staff came up. They handed her a cold towel, and a small bag of ice, before nodding at the two of them and walked off. Just as carefully, Tramp slowly began to dab at her mouth and nose, her eyes clenching shut tightly. Tears sprung to her eyes, but she didn’t cry as she attempted to get all the blood off her face. Her entire face was throbbing, so it was hard to feel, and she hoped she was getting the blood off.

“Jesus Christ, Wes. You could have warned me that you’re some super boxer, or something.” She opened her eyes, and blinked several times, her eyes glassy, tears clinging to the edge. She looked up at him, “Did I get it? Is there more? How bad is it? Do I need to go to the hospital, or you think I’ll be okay?” Despite her tone seeming to go back to normal, she looked strangely sad. It wasn't normal for her to be so emotional away from Alfred or Xander--but here she was. Doing her best to focus on the pain, and making bad jokes, and worrying about her face. Just so she didn't cry.

[/blockquote]

[WESTON BRODERICK]

He had half a mind to just chuck the cigarette on the ground; what sort of statement that’d make, he didn’t really have a clue, but something told him it would help immensely. He didn’t do it. After all, if he’d ever needed a smoke, it was now. Instead, he settled more comfortable back against the wall, flat out refusing to look at her, tempting as the faint light from their cigarettes made the idea. Even as she glanced up at him—and he could feel her eyes, she had that sort of demanding stare—he kept his gaze elsewhere, flickering between the exaggerated shadows as she leaned his head back and exhaled.

“Funny way of showing it, that’s all,” he muttered, eyes closed for a brief second. At her touch, however, they shot open once more; momentary panic spread across his face at the feel of someone—someone other than Angel—being so close, and he stiffened beneath her grip. It was a different sort of stiff than in the arena, however. More understanding, maybe; at least when he took the chance to look down and meet her eyes. Rubbing his lips together in that thoughtful sort of way, he sighed as she released him, visibly relieved, although perhaps a bit less than he’d thought he’d be. He bit the corner of his lip then, as was habit after the rubbing, and rolled his head over to look at her, exhaling the smoke a bit of a ways from her face. She wasn’t Angel, so she didn’t get quite as much special treatment. Especially not after what she’d done. There would be no extra expenses in the area of avoiding cigarette smoke as far as Tramp went. Not until he had some answers, at least.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Wes’s voice was still flat. He could understand her, but he couldn’t forgive her. Not just yet. He knew she hadn’t meant it, not really, but still…there was a part of him that firmly believed there was no such thing as making something up entirely. Words had to come from somewhere—especially like the ones she’d used—and they were near-inexcusable. Especially when spoken about Angel. He could be as pissed off at his best friend as he wanted, or as angry at the world about it as he could possibly be, but no one else was allowed. Not one bad word about her. Ever. It was an unspoken rule of friendship with him, and Tramp and damn well walked all over it, and probably would have pissed on it if she could have. Need to fight or not, it was far beyond what he’d ever tolerated before. In fact, the more he thought about it, the guiltier he started to feel.

Shifting again as the staff member approached, Wes watched with pursed lips as Tramp began to dab at her nose, his expression softening a bit with each wince she gave. She wasn’t the same. Tramp wasn’t one to even let tears well up, and yet here they were—Wes couldn’t miss things like that. He had to hand it to her; she was making him believe her more and more with each second, perhaps without even knowing it.

After about a minute of watching her dab uselessly at her bleeding nose, Wes looked at her eyes again. She spoke, and a small smile spread across his lips as he suddenly yanked the rag out of her hand. “Of course there’s more. Honestly, you ever cleaned a bloody nose before?” jerking her chin up with his left hand, Wes dabbed gently at the blood with his right, cigarette balancing between his lips. He moved the rag slowly, trying as best he could not to give her any reason to wince—it was his fault, after all, whether she’d egged him on of not. When the stuff was all good and wiped away, he nodded at the ice, silently instructing her to put it back on the wound. His hand fell from her chin and moved to her shoulder instead, while he waited to properly take a drag of the cancer stick with his right before speaking. “Listen, I’m—I’m sorry,” his hand was firm, holding her in place for his few words, and certainly more protective in a brotherly sort of way than romantic. “You alright?” it was an honest question. And all of Wes’s questions were honest, but it was rare that he saw Tramp in a state like this—in fact, he didn’t think he ever had—and it was more than obvious she wasn’t. Still, he’d never been one for demanding answers when it wasn’t Angel he was talking to.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Wes wasn't the touchy sort, Tramp knew that. The only time they actually touched willingly was when they were wrestling. So she hadn't expected him to hug back, she expected the tension. Hence why she hadn't hung on, but his tone was flat. Unhappy, and still pissed. After all, she could be quite the little liar and hardass. Maybe Wes didn't believe her--maybe he thought it was a bad case of the boy who cried wolf.

She didn't like the feeling of fragility, the about to cry. She felt horrible for the things she said about Angel, and even worse that she had said them to Wes. The blonde was scared for the other piece of their group, and the way that Wes was reacting to Angel missing scared her even more. So when Wes actually touched her face, and helped her get the blood off, the tears sprung to life. The pain, and the irritation, and the general shit that she felt finally came spilling out. She didn't sob though, she just bit down on her lip and let the tears happen.

She replaced the ice on her nose when he had finished, her head turning to the side slightly, blinking through the tears a few times. "Thanks." She mumbled quietly. She wanted to sniffle, but she was almost certain that would hurt much more than the uncomfortable feeling of having a stuffy nose. His hand didn't drop from her shoulder though, and it brought her to look back up at him. "Don't be sorry, I'dve decked you too." She mumbled, moving the ice away to put her cigarette in her mouth and drew in. "But I really am sorry for what I said." She muttered again quietly, using her sleeve to wipe at her face. The flow of her tears had finally slowed down, and she was extremely greatful for it.

"Look at you, giving a shit." Tramp curled the corner of her mouth into a grin, but it faded after a moment. She still wasn't feeling so hot. "I will be, I guess. But if you tell anyone you saw me cry, I'm ripping your nuts off." She was trying to make jokes, trying to go back to that snarky, smart-assed version of herself. But it seemed to fall flat with her pressing the ice to her face, and her eyes puffy. "I need a drink. This ice isn't doing shit." She flung the ice pack over her shoulder, and grabbed Wes' sleeve, and started to pull him towards the bar. "But in all seriousness, where's Angel been? Do you know?" She asked over the voices. She didn't glance back at Wes just yet, because she was still incredibly embarassed that she had cried infront of the one person that she constantly picked on, teased, and attempted to beat up. That was a faus paux to the extreme.

[/blockquote]

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Fuck. Why’d she have to go and cry like that? Wes couldn’t help it; he scowled slightly. Not because he thought her weak, or even out of annoyance. It was simply much easier to stay mad at someone who didn’t look like they were about to shatter into a million pieces, especially when that person was Tramp. Still, he cleaned her up, gentle and polite, because he had to. Besides, it was something to think about besides her words.

He smiled slightly again, although it was a sad sort of smile, when she spoke. A nod of “you’re welcome” and a small shrug was about all the acknowledgement her thank-you received, but to her other words he was more generous. “Well yeah, but…” he trailed off, feeling as though although there was probably more he could have said, she’d get the point well enough. Tramp was good at that sort of thing. Understanding him, when she wasn’t trying to make his life hell. It all worked out in the end, in that clichéd, circle of life sort of way Wes couldn’t help but secretly admire.

Were it not for the fact that she still looked like hell and he’d still been the one to clock her, Wes might have laughed a bit. Maybe even smiled. As it was, he merely shrugged, refusing to acknowledge her pathetic attempt at acting like everything was fine; this was Tramp they were talking about. She was as close to a sister as he had here in New York, if one didn’t count Nahnie, and Wes never really seemed to when making the comparison at times like this. The fact of the matter was simple; he didn’t let family hurt like that. Not when there was anything he might be able to do about it. He followed her to the bar without protest, although with no intent of getting anything but water—she’d know that, of course, even if she pretended she didn’t for the sake of a laugh. They’d been friends for long enough.

Unable to control himself, he stiffened at her question. Instantly, the peeved, tense fog resettled over his face and his jaw tightened. But he couldn’t not answer. Not after what he’d done; she wasn’t stupid, after all, and she was Angel’s friend too. But he couldn’t tell her the truth, either. At least not what he suspected of it. Shrugging, Wes spoke quietly, glancing once down at the ground before back towards the back of her head—or, more accurately, a space just above her shoulder, so that if she happened to turn around he wouldn’t need to look her in the eye. “Well, she’s not with me,” he couldn’t help but state the obvious; an unusual move for him, and one that clearly indicated just how much he despised the subject. “So no, I’ve got no fucking clue. If I did, I wouldn't be here.”

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

"Harsh." Tramp mumbled when she could almost feel Wes shut down. Tramp tapped the bar and called for a screwdriver and a bottle of water. Alcohol would thin her blood and make her bleed more, right now she wanted to clot so she wouldn't be too afraid of starting to bleed again; but Jesus Christ she needed a drink. She finally sniffled to clear her nose, grimaced and winced, then turned to the side to spit the mucus and more blood that dislodged itself. Disgusting. Really, really gross.

When she looked up, her drink was in front of her with a bottle of cold water. She passed it to Wes and drew in a careful breath. He didn't drink, she knew that one. Well...unless Angel was there forcing it down his throat. But Angel was a sore subject at that moment. She ran her finger on the edge of her own glass, and pushed a harsh gust of air past her lips, causing her lips to buzz. And HOLY FUCK, HOW DID THAT MAKE HER NOSE HURT? Tramp took a slow breath in, and brought the glass to her lips and drank something back. "She's your best friend. And you mean to tell me you don't even have a single inkling of what's going on with her?" Tramp's brows knitted together and she looked straight at Wes with those green eyes again. Once more, Tramp was looking at him. But she wasn't just looking, she was watching the way she had in the ring. Looking for the small twitches and ticks that would have told her that he was lying, or telling the truth. Something, anything.

"If you know something, anything, you need to tell me. You and her may be the dynamic duo, but if someone's fucking with her I'll take care of it. She's my friend too. She's more a sister to me than my actual siblings." Tramp grumbled that last bit in her gravelly voice, and took another swig of her drink, then twirled the glass, making the drink swirl. "Want some? I didn't bleed in it yet. Then again, maybe it's good if I bleed in it. They say the blood of a virgin will keep you young." She didn't smile, but the joke was there while she offered the glass to Wes. Tramp had more notches in her belt than Jennifer Lopez, that girl had not been a virgin for a very, very long time.

"What made you come out here, anyway? I haven't seen you here before. And this is kinda..." Ugh. "If you tell Rose, I swear to god I'll paint the wall with your brains. But this is kinda my little getaway. So, I've never actually seen you here before." She bit the inside of her cheek, and then leaned back enough to pull the bandages off the anchors that were set in her hips. "I wouldn't expect you to be in a place like this."

[/blockquote]