I'm Beautifully Tragic {Wes}

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Shit was not kosher, not in the slightest. Angel had disappeared apparently. Or at least Tramp assumed she did. Days upon days had been passing, but not only was there no Angel--there was no Wes either. With a bit of a talk with Xander, it was brought to Tramp's attention that something was extremely wrong. Yet, she stayed out of it. Maybe Angel and Wes had had a fight, or Angel went home to visit with her family. However, each call--each text that Tramp sent to both her friends went unanswered. And that was just not okay, whatsoever.

Sure, Xander could have just let her into the dorm, and she could have asked for a key, but she hadn't completely thought it through. Xander was out with Nahnie, and Tramp was sitting alone in her dorm, staring at the wall. No, it wasn't okay. Shoving her feet into one of her favorite pair of shoes, she left her dorm and went to the stairwell that led to Paradise. The stairwell was abandonded, but it seemed like it use to be a storage room for custodians. With much digging and shoving around, Tramp found exactly what she was looking for and she left the area and went back to the dorms. However, she made her way across the breezeway to go to the boy's dorms. As she went up the stairs and down the hallway, the teenage girl earned a few strange looks.

That wasn't always new, though. Tramp was usually getting looks for what she wore; which today happened to be a shirt that was doubling as a dress(as usual), fishnets, and heels. But that wasn't what was earning her looks today. What was earning her looks, and making people move out of the way was the fact she was swinging an hold crowbar in her hands like it were a cane. She stopped infront of Xander and Wes' dorm, and looked at the side of the door, blowing a bubble from the pink gum in her mouth. Wes wasn't opening the door, Xander had mentioned. Fine.

Moving up to the door, Tramp wedged the end of the crowbar in the doorjamb, and pulled on it. She waited for the crack of the door, loosening the jamb. With a loud clang, she dropped the crowbar and kicked at the weak spot next to the handle, listening to the lock pop out of place. Sure--they'd have to repair the door after her destruction. And sure--several boys had come out of their room to see what the rucus was about. But Tramp was on a mission; she hadn't even bothered to flip off the eyes on her before she stepped into the room. She pushed the door open, and let it slam behind her. What---why were the curtains pulled? Her hand went to her hip, her other hand reaching out to flick on the light. "Okay. What the hell is wrong with you now? Xander's told me you have barely moved from this spot." With the tap of her heels she moved in closer to the bed, her face set in a scowl, and she crossed her arms across her chest, staring at Wes' back.

OUTFIT

[WESTON BRODERICK]

She was coming back.

That was what he’d told himself for the first few hours. She’d gotten distracted as Angel always did, but she was coming back. She wouldn’t just leave him. Not after they’d loved each other with more than mere words. She always came back.

She hadn’t come back.

He’d called. He’d looked. He’d gone to her dorm and found it far emptier than the last time he’d been, and not just because no one was sitting in it. He’d gone back to his and found his phone dead. When he’d charged it, it had been empty, too. Not a single missed alert. There was, though—there had been plenty. There had to have been, or he’d have known what she was doing, and he’d have stopped her. Alerts. Warnings. He’d missed them all.

And of course, it had to be something he’d done. Hadn’t done. Would have done.

So, Wes, being unable to find her and unable to sleep and unable to do much anything but try not to throw up the contents of his decidedly empty stomach, had collapsed. Not literally, perhaps, although he might as well have. He hadn’t moved for days. A shower here and there, but nothing helped. He was still in bed, not even bothering to call himself out sick for school, despite that being what he most definitely was. Sick. Twisted. Lying atop the crinkled covers with his knees brought up as close to his chest as the jeans would allow, he’d stared at the wall for hours. Then days. When Xander tried talking to him, he rolled over and shut his eyes, pretending to be deep in the sleep that never came. When his roommate wanted to open the windows, Wes not-so-kindly told him to fuck off. His voice was as cracked as his lips. Those were as parched as his eyes, which were swollen red and puffy from tears he hadn’t bothered trying not to shed.

Were his mother here, she’d probably call him overdramatic. Tell him to sit up and do something, because life wasn’t going to put itself on hold for him, or for her. He was glad she wasn’t, because he’d tell her where she could stick her horrible words, too, and he hated the look on her face when he snapped. She thought he couldn’t remember how she’d been when his dad had left. Truthfully, most days he pretended his father had never existed. Now, though, staring at the posters on the wall and the pillow on his bed and the emptiness that settled and filled the room when Xander left and still hung around even when he was inside, Wes could think of next to nothing else. He remembered the feeling. He knew it well; the sickly nauseating knot in his stomach that now, at age sixteen, seemed infinitely tighter than it had when he’d heard his mother hang up the phone with Him for the last time.

Wes heard the door. It was loud. Still, his face was utterly impassive as it swung forward on its hinges. His eyes didn’t look up from the spot where they’d been staring on the carpeted floor, didn’t give Tramp any notice other than to hold his breath slightly when the sound of her heels made their way across the ground. He turned. Before she could see his face, or the nasty, swollen redness that were his eyes, he turned his back to her and curled up further, swallowing his dry, scratch throat. She couldn’t see him. He wouldn’t let her, and he certainly wouldn’t speak. Silently, he pulled the thin fleece blanket higher up around his bare torso, and stared at the wall in front of him.

She’d leave, too. All he had to do was wait.


Wes's side of the room

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Tramp walked in just in time to see Wes roll over and give her his back. She walked across the floor for a moment, and settled on Xander's bed, siting on the edge of it and looked across the way at Wes. "I'm pretty sure that I asked you a question." She grabbed Xander's pillow and threw it at Wes' back. Her brows knitted as the pillow hit the lifeless boy, and she crossed her arm. What the hell was going on? Tramp slid off of Xander's bed, and wandered across the room, picking certain things up, looking around. What the hell was making Wes act like this, anyway? What could be so devstating to Wes that he wouldn't get out of bed, and that he'd be as crabby as Xander had told her.

It was a picture on the dresser that gave her her first clue. A picture of Wes and Angel.

Angel.

Who had disappeared much like Wes did. Only Tramp found Wes...she hadn't found Angel yet.

Of course, that could be it though. Tramp wanted to punch herself in the face, and she set the picture back down on the dresser. "So, I haven't seen Angel around." She said casually, tucking her arms behind her bed. "Maybe she's hangin' around Paradise; she likes playing games. You know how she can be." Tramp sat on the edge of Wes' bed and shoved at his shoulder. "C'mon, get your shoes on. Let's check, and if she's not there, we'll smoke one out then start hitting all the places she hides in." Unfortunately, Tramp was underestimating the way that Wes was feeling. She couldn't entirely comprehend the gravity of it; the people she cared about hadn't yet walked out on her. Angel had...but Tramp didn't know that Angel was indeed gone.

The blonde stood up again, and grabbed at Wes' blanket, and gave it a sharp tug. "Let's go. C'mon, up and at 'em Weston Broderick. Stop being such a fuckin' emo." Tramp tugged again. Yes, he was being overdramatic. For at least what Tramp knew. But above all of that, Tramp was worried. Scared even. Wes wasn't acting normal; he was typically a little quieter, a little more withdrawn. But he was not...this. And whatever this was, it was doing a good job at actually making her a little bit scared.

OUTFIT

[WESTON BRODERICK]

She’d be better off just leaving. He could tell her this. It would probably be easy enough—he might not even have to turn over—but the idea didn’t suit him. In fact, it only made Wes draw his knees just a tiny bit closer to his chest, blink his puffy, swollen eyes at the wall one more time, and wish both that Xander had kept his goddamn mouth shut and that he could pretend this was not Tramp speaking to him, but someone else. Someone with dark hair and dark skin and spiced-pecan colored eyes. Someone who’d lay down next to him and wake him up, even though he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

Weston Samuel Broderick had never dreamt in all his life.
The one night he’d come close, it’d slipped through his fingers like sand.

Wes did not so much as flinch when the pillow hit him, letting it bounce off his back and land on the floor with a soft, feathery thud just as though it’d never made contact with him at all. He squeezed his eyes shut as the sound of Tramp’s heels clicked across the room, held his breath when he heard her rustle around with something on the dresser.

Just leave. Go away. Get out. Go find Xander. Go have fun. Just LEAVE.

He bit down tightly on the inside of his cheek as she continued speaking, his subconscious message apparently not received. She shoved his shoulder and he bounced right back to the same position, tilting his head a bit further away from her although he remained in all other ways unresponsive. It was as though she was talking to a statue. Something inanimate and frozen. Cold. Hot and chilled all at once and sick, ever so sick despite is innate lack of humanity.

Of course he knew how Angel could be. He’d lived with “how she could be” for the past eleven years. If he’d known where to look—if he hadn’t looked already—did she honestly think he’d just be lying here? He’d be out. Searching. Calling. Crawling. Whatever the hell it took, if he could manage to find an ounce of belief that she was even anywhere to be found. If he knew it wasn’t him she’d left. Because who else would it be, honestly?

“ Stop being such a fuckin' emo."
Tramp’s words did nothing to improve his mood. Although he flinched as she pulled the blanket off him—a remarkable sign of life, given his near comatose state of the past few days—Wes did nothing to indicate he’d heard her words, let alone had any desire to obey. He simply stared at the wall for a few more seconds. When she didn’t leave the bed, however, he was forced to try different methods.

Rolling slowly (slowly because although time had passed, his chest still hurt to put pressure on) onto his stomach, Wes drew the smashed pillow his head had been resting on out from underneath him and yanked it hard over his ears, burying his head in the mattress before she’d get a chance to see just how awfully he’d obviously been crying.

“Fuck off.”

The words, although firm by Wes’s standards, left his lips as though scratched on sandpaper, muffled by the pillow over him and sheets underneath. Not that he was attempting to smother himself or anything. That would have been far too simple. He just didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to look at Tramp, Xander, or anyone. Didn’t want to move, or even to breathe. Slowly, his right hand left the pillow and began reaching blindly behind him for the blanket, yanking it back up over his pale, skinny back as far as he could before returning it to its position of creating a makeshift shelter. He pressed his forehead hard into the mattress , breathed his own hot, sticky breath as he lay trapped beneath the pillow with his nose just centimeters above the sheets, and waited once more. Fifteen seconds. Just fifteen seconds, and she’d be gone. He could wait that long.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Fifteen seconds came and went, almost painfully slow while Tramp watched what happened like it was some bad movie. This had bad movie written all over it. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, and it took more than those fifteen meek seconds for her to sort through them all. Tramp was brawn, not brains. That wasn’t to say she was stupid, she just wasn’t quite as clever as her friends were. In fact, her brain gave her the answer, her mind just refused to accept it. When he didn’t spring out of bed with the idea of trying to look for Angel, her brain presented the idea that Angel was gone. Very, very gone. She tried to reason that they maybe had a fight, and simply weren’t speaking. But Angel and Wes didn’t fight to this point, and there was the undeniable truth that Angel had not appeared at any point in the past week or so.

Watching Wes hide beneath his pillow, and pull his blanket over his head only solidified this, and Tramp let out a short breath. Not a sigh, not a groan. Just a breath like she received a shock, which she had. Angel was gone. It felt like a punch right in her chest, and watching her adopted brother react this way only fueled that pain and anger. Wes and Angel were like...peanut butter and jelly. Cheese and macaroni. Fish and chips. They went together, they belonged together. Even if they didn’t act like it, they were true. If someone asked Tramp about true love, she’d laugh in their faced and call them idiots, but in her mind she would think of Wes and Angel. You couldn’t get any more true than that.

Her weight again graced the bed while she crawled onto it, worming her way between Wes and the wall. Her shoes slid off her feet with a gentle thud—she was no barbarian, shoes didn’t go on the bed—and slowly crawled in. She lowered herself carefully, and turned to face Wes, who was still hiding beneath the pillow. She didn’t cuddle up to him; even with Xander, she wasn’t much of a cuddler. But right at this moment, she wanted to be close to someone. Tramp pushed higher up in the bed, and lifted the corner of the pillow to hide her head beneath it with Wes, still managing to keep her distance, and yet be terribly close at the same time. “Is she gone?” It was obvious, but the tone in her voice didn’t sound like Tramp at all. It was quiet, small. Sad. She didn’t sound like the tough broad that she acted like. Her scratchy, husky voice that was so much like her cousin’s sounded weak. “What happened?” She asked with that same voice.

Tramp was doing her best to ignore the sting in her eyes; she wasn’t going to cry. Not until she found out what was wrong, but Wes’ attitude was scaring her more and more. Scaring her more than pissing her off, and if there was one thing Tramp hated—it was being scared. Xander saw glimpses of emotion, Angel and Rose never did. It was something she kept buried deep down, but she somehow felt safe enough with Wes that those emotions came to her a little bit easier. They were not the affectionate sort by any stretch of the imagination, but he seemed to understand her on a strange sort of level that was entirely Wes. Like she didn’t have to speak to be understood; perhaps knowing that he knew her on that level was what drove her to pick on him the most, even cause play fights like a bunch of rambunctious pups. To solidify the fact that she was tough, strong, and didn’t need to be understood. And yet, there she was. Not feeling at all tough, and not feeling at all strong.

OUTFIT

[WESTON BRODERICK]

He waited. Pillow clamped tight over his ears, dry, chapped lips pursed hard over one another, his breath was held, caught somewhere between his lungs and throat. He waited. She didn’t move, and he didn’t either. He waited.

He waited when he felt her shift positions on the bed, felt a weight that wasn’t Angel’s and never would be, and still, he held his breath. Such things could only be done for so long, however, and he inhaled a little when she pulled herself up closer to him. He was grateful she didn’t come close. It would have only hurt. Not so much the skin, scabbed as it was, but his chest, and the gnawing feeling beneath it, deep in his twisted gut. He hadn’t eaten more than a granola bar in two days, hadn’t so much as picked up a saltine cracker, no matter how many times he attempted to smoke his misery away. That was the thing, though—it’d been Angel’s idea to smoke in the first place. He never would have done it without her.

There were a lot of things he’d never have done without her.
Leaving was one of them.

He could feel Tramp close to him, could taste just how badly he wanted her to leave, to get up and forget she’d ever seen him like this, to forget they’d ever been friends at all. But then, perhaps he didn’t quite want that. It was nice. Maybe. Just a little, and barely at all, with the weight of everything else he felt so tightly pressing down on him, to have someone he cared about so much know that he was hurting. She had to know. Anyone with a brain would. And then there was that break in her voice—little, but he noticed it, could feel her breathing close to his ear, the little slice of dim light poking out from behind her head as she stuck her face beneath this makeshift shelter.

For a moment, he waited some more. For her to back away, for someone to say the words for him, for Angel to come bursting through the door claiming she’d been kidding all along—anything, really, that meant he didn’t have to acknowledge it aloud.

So he didn’t. When Wes was finished waiting a half minute later, he nodded.
Yes, she was gone.

Pulling his head back out from under the pillow, he turned again to his side, this time facing the opposite wall that held Xander’s bed in order to keep from looking at Tramp. Without really paying attention to what he was doing, he reached his hand out over the edge, feeling around for something, anything to cover his scarred, scabbed, shriveled torso. She could see his eyes, if she caught a glimpse, but she wasn’t catching sight of this.

When his hand had successfully grasped a (worn, crinkled, hardly clean) t-shirt, Wes pulled the thing over his torso expertly without having to sit up more than an inch.

Breathing even and slow, Wes stared at his roommate’s side of their quarters for another few seconds before answering in the same scratchy whisper as before. “I donno. Nothing, really…”

Nothing and everything.

His voice held a strange sort of plea to it when he continued in the same soft tone, somehow suggesting his next request wasn’t entirely truthful. “Look…can you just go?”

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Tramp pulled her head back from beneath the pillow, watching Wes give her his back, and pull on his shirt. She sighed, and rolled onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows while she stared at the ceiling. What the hell would make Angel leave without Wes? Without saying anything to her friends? Tramp forced herself to sit up, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, and shook her head, while her arms wrapped around her legs. "No, I can't." Her lips scrunched to the side, and she rested her chin on top of her knees, and looked sideways at him. "You look like shit, Wes." She took in a deep breath, and let it out calmly, and slowly.

"Where's your cellphone? I'm going to order something because you need to eat." Tramp let go of her legs, and scooted off the bed. Tramp wandered about the room, stepping over clothes and papers, rummaging around for a cellphone until she found it charging in the corner. "I'm not leaving here until you get something in your stomach, and you get a shower. You look like hell." She turned her back to him, dialing a number by heart into the phone, while she listened and waited.

"Two lunch specials. Uh huh, Ripley Gwynn......right, Baum Academy. Room A4. Wonton Soup. One order of fried dumplings, and two orders of sweet and sour chicken?....one with House Fried Rice, the other with Chow Mein....two cokes, please. Yep, same card....okay, thanks." Tramp hung up the phone, and set it back down, plugging it back into the charger. "Okay, so you have about twenty, twent-five minutes before lunch gets here. That gives you twenty, twenty-five to get a shower if you want to clean up before you eat." Tramp leaned over, started picking things up off the ground. She started with the books and papers, starting to organize them into neat piles.

That's when she decided the clothes were probably the best way to start. She hated doing this--she had enough of it with her little sisters. But Wes wasn't acting any better; the twins were currently more capable than he was. The blonde grabbed the hamper, and started picking up clothes, giving them little sniffs. The ones taht smelled dirty were tossed in the hamper, the ones that were passable for clean got tossed on Xander's bed. All the while, her face was blank, unexpressive. She didn't react to the smells of the clothes, or anything else, though it was just as much for her, as it was for Wes. It gave her something to do, without having to focus. "I really, really don't want to have to drag you into the showers myself, but so help me God, Weston Broderick, I will do it." Tramp pointed at him with a single finger, before tossing the shirt in her hand into the hamper. Her voice was a different sort of stern--not the harsh, brash tone she used with someone who didn't get out of her way.

It was the tone that she used on her younger family members. Because that's exactly what Wes was acting like. A little brother, instead of a friend. Her level of worry for him had gone through the roof, which immediately turned her into Big-Sister mode. "I'm not leaving you here to fucking rot. Angel may be your most important friend, but she's not your only friend. You're making the rest of us worry, so pull yourself together just a little bit."

OUTFIT

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Jesus. Was it really so difficult? All she had to do was stand up, take a few steps towards the door, turn the knob, and walk out. She could be gone in fifteen seconds, and that was if she took her sweet time. It would be easy. Much easier than sitting here and watching him, talking to someone who had no intention of cooperating. Surely, she wasn’t stupid.

He was well aware what he looked like. He hadn’t showered in two days and had been in the same clothes for just as long; just the jeans, really, as the shirt still irritated the skin on his chest some, and he didn’t like thinking about it. It was none of her fucking business whether or not he looked presentable, just as it was none of her fucking business whether or not he wanted to eat something, or even if he had in the past day or so. And he had. A little. An outrageously meager amount that totaled to about five glasses of water and a heartily sized granola bar. But he wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t even thirsty after he smoked, and that was really saying something. He didn’t want to move. What he did want—what he wanted more than anything right now besides the obvious—was for Tramp to get out of his site, out of is room, and leave him in peace like he’d wanted to be.

He sat up very slowly as the sounds of her rummaging about the room became too deafening to ignore. Eyes narrowed against both the slight amount of sun peeking in through the blinds and her actions, he stayed quiet as he scooted himself up closer to the headboard, although the glare he wore was unmistakable. She had no right. None at all. It was his business, how he handled this, and she could go leave and never come back for all he cared, if it meant Angel might have the slightest chance of returning. And it didn’t. He knew it didn’t, but it also didn’t stop him from getting mad.

“What’s your fucking problem?” he snapped suddenly in a decidedly un-Weston like manner. Snatching the pillow up from where it lay on the bed, he threw it sharply at her face, not caring so much whether it hit her as that she got the message. “Can’t you just leave?” his voice was tense, bordering on something Wes never was with Angel near: anger. “I didn’t fucking ask you to come over here. If I’d wanted company, or food, or a shower, I would’ve gotten them myself, thanks. And stop messing with my clothes, dammit!” he barked, voice sharp and louder than he typically allowed himself as he watched her begin to sort through the mound on the floor.

As though the outburst (for it was an outburst, at least by Wes’s standards, and quite the outrageous one at that) had exhausted him extensively, he flopped back onto the bed, face down. For a moment, he fumbled around for the pillow to pull over his head once more, but the search was unsuccessful. Remembering its whereabouts on the ground at Tramp’s feet, he groaned loudly and spoke, blatantly ignoring every threat she’d just thrown his way with a very loud, greatly muffled, “GET. OUT.”

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

Tramp glanced up in surprise when Wes snapped, only to be greeted with a pillow right to her face. It dropped to the ground immediately afterwards, and her hands covered her face for a moment. Everyone underestimated how much pillow could actually hurt when thrown with enough force. Her eyes watered from the simple contact of the pillow slamming into her nose, all the while Wes’ verbal abuse was relentless, and while she sniffled to ease the pain out of her nose, she allowed Wes to finish his little tantrum. However, the pain in her nose subsided, but the watering in her eyes didn’t. Uh oh.

In just a few long strides, Tramp was in front of Wes, grasping him roughly by the front of his shirt, “No, you dipwad. My fucking boyfriend asked me to come in here and check in you, because he’s worried about you too. We’re all fucking worried about you, but I’m the only one apparently with enough balls to deal with your little fucking temper tantrum.” Tramp heaved, attempting to drag Wes to his feet. She blinked several times, trying to blink back the tears, and the sting of her makeup running into her eyes. She was supposed to be a brick wall, the tough one, the brawn—and Wes’ uncharacteristic outburst had sent her into tears. Thank god she wasn’t sobbing. At least not yet. If Wes managed to make her sob, all hell would break loose. She couldn’t remember the last time she actually sobbed.

“You’re just going to sit in your bed and waste the fuck away, guess what pipsqueak,” Tramp raised to her tip-toes, and yanked the scrawny boy down to her level, so she could pierce him right in the face with her dark green eyes, “I’m not letting my brother turn into some fucking skeleton.” She turned, however, her grasp on his shirt was tight. Tight enough that her knuckles turned white, and she twisted the fabric in her hands, so it wouldn’t be too easy for him to break free from her grip. Her strides again were short, quick, and uneven, just to make sure Wes didn’t have enough balance to shrug out of the shirt. Her fishnet encased leg kicked out, the bathroom door swinging open, while she dragged him in. “I’m doing this for your own good.” With that, she shoved him into the tub, and quickly turned the shower on, onto Wes. It resulted in herself getting a little wet, while she stared down at him.

“You’re going to shower, all by yourself, and wear nice clean clothes. Because you are not going to like it if I have to come in here and bathe you like a fucking child."

[/b] Her black nail pointed at him, while her own messy hair clung to her face. She managed to stay directly out of the stream, but she was close enough that the spray off of Wes and the walls were getting her a little damp. She stepped out of the tub, shuddering like a wet cat. Stupid water. “I mean it, Wes. I’m not fucking playing around with your ass anymore.” The door slammed behind Tramp, and she gathered a clean pair of jeans, a shirt, and a pair of boxers off of the pile she tossed on Xander’s bed, then walked into the bathroom, and placed the clothes on the closed toilet seat, once again leaving the bathroom with a loud slam.

Tramp sunk down on the edge of Xander’s bed, and let out a low breath. Her boney hands pushed the damp hair out of her face, and she quickly swept up the untamable pieces into a messy half-up, half-down pony-tail to keep them away from her face. While she waited for Wes to finish showering, she continued to clean the mess that was their room. And Weston be damned, Tramp was making the most horrible sounds. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her pale skin had gone blotchy. And there were a few times she had to grab tissues off Xander’s bedside counter to blow her nose and wipe her face. Her cleaning spree was interrupted by the door, which she answered to take the food, and lay it out on the tiny little table near the TV. And the entire time she lied out the food, and busied herself with cleaning—she kept crying. And kept sobbing. Stupid Weston, making her cry. Stupid Angel leaving to make Wes like this which lead to Wes making her cry. Stupid Angel leaving to make Wes act like this which lead to Xander asking Tramp to take care of it which lead to Wes making her cry.

[/blockquote]

OUTFIT

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Before Wes could so much as think about protesting, he found himself jerked roughly out of his curled, safe position and forced upright. Movements and reactions sluggish after so many days spent sitting still in darkness, he didn’t bother doing any more than glaring at Tramp while she spat at him.

“It’s not a temper tantrum—” he half grumbled, half snarled as she pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. Having not expected the sudden motion, Wes stumbled slightly before he began to right himself, only to find his balance kicked out from under him once more when she jerked his face down towards hers. “I’m not—” he protested vainly as her grip on his shirt tightened, and even went so far as to grab her wrist with one hand and tug, though that too did no good. He was tired. So tired. Bone weary, and he’d done it to himself, he knew, but it ached all the same. She was right. He hated that she was right. He wasn’t doing anyone any good by sitting around all day—no one but himself, that was. And even then, it was wasn’t like he’d been sleeping. He hadn’t been able to. Physically, and in a way different from the past insomnia-plagued years of his life.

He shrugged, squirmed, and grumbled several horribly nasty insults on the way to the bathroom, but none of them did any good. Tramp’s grip was ruthless, and he found himself tripping more often than standing upright. When she shoved him into the tub, Wes let loose a loud string of more obscenities, directed not so much at Tramp as the situation in general, and in particular the sharp pain in his back that had come from tumbling down into his current position.

“SHIT! FUCKING—WHAT THE HELL’S YOUR PROBLEM?!” he scrambled quickly to the corner of the tub, glaring vehemently. In a matter of seconds, he’d managed to become reduced to the state of a very wet, very cold dog. Still, he was also very awake. More awake than he’d been recently, anyhow. “It’s fucking freezing—” his teeth chattered slightly as he wrapped his arms around himself in defense against the spray. Chances were, he could make a break for it. Hop out of the tub, push Tramp and straight up sprint. Kick her shins if she tried to drag him back. But there was something in her voice that made him rethink that plan. So instead he sat there in the corner of the bathtub, teeth chattering, arms shivering, and let the spray fall down on his still-clothed body until she left the room.

He stood up slowly, yanking the curtain over to shield himself as he peeled off his now sopping garments and tossed them outside the shower. He was fast, and kept the water cold because as much as it stung his skin and made him shiver, he couldn’t help but admit it felt good. When he’d finished, dried himself off well enough and changed into the offering Tramp had left behind, Wes exited the bathroom slowly.

“Happy n-now?” he was shivering, yes, and his lips had a slight bluish tinge to them even as he rubbed his arms ferociously, but he was also awake and alert, and surely that had to count for something. Halfway through opening his mouth to berate her for the torture he’d just endured, Wes stopped. Tramp. She was…but she didn’t. She didn’t ever. Hell, he’d almost thought her incapable.

“Fuck…” Wes groaned under his breath, his own swollen, red eyes itching at the sight of his friend. A little louder, a little more desperately, he spoke as he walked over to her. “Tramp, come on, don’t do that…” Because honestly, he didn’t know if he had any tears left to cry himself.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

God, when was the last time she really cried? Sure, she cried in laughter—that was different. She had teared up a couple times, and even did that silent-crying bit when Wes punched her in the face. But she didn’t remember the last time she did that gross, hysterical sobbing that she seemed to be doing now, instead of trying to get food into her stomach. Air seemed to escape her just as fast as it was coming in, and she felt a dull ache begin behind her brows. Her shoulders shook, and every time she managed to swallow down a few breaths of air—the sobs just started up again. If anything, they got louder when Wes came out of the bathroom, as if the sight of him made it worse. In a way, it did. She couldn’t see him through the blur of her tears, but the knowledge that he was witnessing her finally breaking down was enough to make her mad and make her cry harder.

“Don’t what?! Give a shit?” She spat out, her voice taking that throaty shout beneath her tears. She angrily rubbed at her eyes with her palms, smearing her mascara and eyeliner across her face, stinging her own eyes with the stupid cosmetic. Liars, they said it was supposed to be waterproof. “We’re all worried about you, and you don’t even give a shit because none of us are Angel.” Tramp gasped for air, her entire body trembling like she was cold, but she ended up coughing out more tears, and rubbing at her face again while she heaved. For the first time, Tramp seemed to be frail. Just another, delicate teenage girl. Not the tough, fearless brawn of their little rag-tag group. “We miss her too, you aren’t the only one! And it’s not just Angel any-anymore. You have us.”

Leaning over, she viciously yanked several poor tissues out of their safe little box, and wipes at her eyes and nose with them, “But that can’t be enough for you can it? You have to go all melodramatic. It’s hard enough on us lo-losing Angel. But---but losing Angel and you?! That’s not fair!” She put as much emphasis into her words as she could without full out shrieking at him, but she ended up slumping back down at her seat on the floor, and pulled her fishnet clad knees up to her chest and pressed her face into her legs, while her wet hair clung to her shoulders. She was overwhelmed, and the water from the shower that had got on her managed to make her feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, drowning and soaked by her own tears.

Was this what she was now? A melodramatic teenager like Wes? No, she was Motha’ Fuckin’ Tramp Gwynn, and she did not do feels. Unfortunately, she pulled her face back, only to use a few more innocent tissues oh her swollen eyes, and nose. Her entire face felt swollen; her pale skin was blotched with huge red spots from the forse, her nose was red, and completely stuffed. Eyes swollen, lips swollen, and an over-all defeated look on her face while she stared down into the tissues that were smeared with her make-up. She sniffed loudly, though it did nothing to clear up her sinus, and she sighed, and breathed a little too quickly through her mouth. There were more tears coming, she could feel them. She would be fine if she could hold them off. Not think about Wes having seen it. Not think about the fact Angel was gone, and that Wes had lost his mind. Unfortunately, that was exactly where her mind went. And she could feel her face start to crumble again. Brows knitting together, lips turning down while trembling. Crying. Sucked.

OUTFIT