[ He can't help the small spark of satisfaction as she crumbles to her knees, the glass tumbling from her grip and disappearing among the shadows. This suits her a lot better, doesn't it? Weak. As she is. Brow furrowing slowly, gradually, he tightens his grip just a fraction. Around them, some people are staring whilst most turn away because there's a party in here, isn't there, and how could someone so insignificant, so weak and small and immaterial ruin other people's fun?
Breathing shallowly, he pulls her to her feet, hard enough to make the bones in her wrist crunch in his grip. She's not as scrawny as he'd first assumed but he'll always be stronger than her, it's a simple fact of life, a nasty little existential joke that he doesn't care whether or not she truly understands. Brute force always wins. You just need to have enough of it.
And compared to her, he certainly does. ]
Shut up and come along.
[ It comes out close to a growl. Without further ado, he starts towards the counter. Pulls her along in his wake. It was not, after all, a suggestion. ]
[ Her natural reaction should be to yell, to shout, to scream so someone will intervene, but Alexa knows she's on her own at In&Out, fuck, she's on her own at Rosebud as well. She's got no-one. No-one but herself. Timm's out back, doing his dark, dirty deeds and anyway, she's not one to rely on anyone else to come save her, is she?
No-one certainly does. She swallows thickly as she gets to her feet, her legs shaky pillars of bone and flesh, and looks around at the crowd where most have already turned away and the few who haven't do as her gaze passes over their faces.
The tears stop as suddenly as they started squeezing out the corners of her eyes. It's an empty, worthless sort of feeling, being this insignificant and this disliked. Normally Alexa doesn't care what people think about her, she doesn't ache to be in any of the available cliques, the lined-up boxes, but as Girard drags her towards the bar, she feels like a piece of trash on its way to the waste bin. Only men can make you feel so unimportant, like you're not worth the air you're breathing, like you're a fucking thing. Not even the Lipstick Brigade from Rosebud can make her go all void and dumb.
Fucking psychos, all of them. This guy especially. She turns her head to glance up at him, it's not a real look and she hates herself for it. Instead it's a stolen glimpse, sideways and indirect. Alexa Hase is currently doing her best not to provoke him.
Her. Alexa. The master provocateur. Look what he's reduced her to, the fucking scumbag. ]
[ He drags her all the way to the counter, throwing her roughly against one of the bar stools without caring whether or not she actually manages to catch herself in time to avoid getting her knee smashed. Survival is a question of mind and mentality and this girl? She clearly doesn't measure up. Why she's even getting herself mixed up down here in the first place, he can only guess. The girls next door probably don't want her, either.
His grip doesn't loosen, not even as he signals for the bartender, running his hand through his hair on the tail of the gesture. Beneath his palm, the beer-stained hair strands flatten easily against the back of his head and all he can think about is how greasy his scalp's going to be. Beer. The smell. His look darkens as he finally glances sideways at her, enough to catch her trying not to look at him too obviously.
Learning her place, as it were.
The bartender pauses by them. He gives the girl a cursory glance and little more; he's smart enough to notice that the crisis is over and done with. ]
Get her another one on me. [ He speaks loudly enough to make himself heard above the music, some 90s dance beat that he recognises from somewhere, sometime. It's not important. What does matter, however, is the few curious people still listening in around them. ] I knocked her over, it's my mistake.
[ With that, he glances at her again with a slight smile, like he hasn't just been on the verge of smashing her face in. ]
Next time, be more careful.
[ He lets go without waiting for her reply - not expecting one, either - and stalks away from the bar. If Marcel isn't already done, in a few minutes he most definitely will be. ]
[ She smashes into the bar stool with the leg that isn't already thumping from pain, but his presence makes her keep quiet rather than yelping in discomfort. He's still gripping her by the arm and it fucking hurts, like, it hurts enough that she's seriously concerned whether she's broken something or bruised a bone or some shit. Noticing how he tries to fix his hair and managing too easily not to leer - because she's fucking scared, okay, shut up - Alexa listens to him lie through his teeth about having knocked her over, about it being his mistake, because he doesn't actually mean that for a second. The way he's crushing her arm tells her that much. She doesn't say anything. She keeps quiet and compliant and it's like any other kind of assault on women, they'll think it's her own fault for not fighting back. Shit, she fought back and that's what provoked him to this point, right? Get your fucking explanations straight, violence advocates...
He looks at her, then. He looks at her and he smiles and Alexa can feel goose bumps breaking out on her arms, a shiver running down her spine. She feels powerless. Opposite him, she's got no voice, no strength, no fucking nothing. He's taken it all from her, he knows it and he's enjoying the fuck out of it, fucking psychopath. Next time, be more careful, Mr Foreign Minister says and lets go, leaving her to hurt, her arm hanging limply by her side while the bartender puts a full glass of beer on the counter in front of her. She stares at it, rather than following Girard with her eyes.
She knows. He'll get away with this. Because he's in a position of power, because he's white and privileged and, most importantly, because he's a man who's taken her voice and her worth with him.
In the end, the beer remains untouched. It's like a kind of evidence. Proof of all her weaknesses at once. She seats herself on the bar stool that has given her multiple bruises at this point. She sits down and she waits, hugging her arm to her chest half-heartedly. When all comes down to it, all the self-care in the world doesn't change shit about what happened tonight. ]
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no subject
Breathing shallowly, he pulls her to her feet, hard enough to make the bones in her wrist crunch in his grip. She's not as scrawny as he'd first assumed but he'll always be stronger than her, it's a simple fact of life, a nasty little existential joke that he doesn't care whether or not she truly understands. Brute force always wins. You just need to have enough of it.
And compared to her, he certainly does. ]
Shut up and come along.
[ It comes out close to a growl. Without further ado, he starts towards the counter. Pulls her along in his wake. It was not, after all, a suggestion. ]
no subject
No-one certainly does. She swallows thickly as she gets to her feet, her legs shaky pillars of bone and flesh, and looks around at the crowd where most have already turned away and the few who haven't do as her gaze passes over their faces.
The tears stop as suddenly as they started squeezing out the corners of her eyes. It's an empty, worthless sort of feeling, being this insignificant and this disliked. Normally Alexa doesn't care what people think about her, she doesn't ache to be in any of the available cliques, the lined-up boxes, but as Girard drags her towards the bar, she feels like a piece of trash on its way to the waste bin. Only men can make you feel so unimportant, like you're not worth the air you're breathing, like you're a fucking thing. Not even the Lipstick Brigade from Rosebud can make her go all void and dumb.
Fucking psychos, all of them. This guy especially. She turns her head to glance up at him, it's not a real look and she hates herself for it. Instead it's a stolen glimpse, sideways and indirect. Alexa Hase is currently doing her best not to provoke him.
Her. Alexa. The master provocateur. Look what he's reduced her to, the fucking scumbag. ]
no subject
His grip doesn't loosen, not even as he signals for the bartender, running his hand through his hair on the tail of the gesture. Beneath his palm, the beer-stained hair strands flatten easily against the back of his head and all he can think about is how greasy his scalp's going to be. Beer. The smell. His look darkens as he finally glances sideways at her, enough to catch her trying not to look at him too obviously.
Learning her place, as it were.
The bartender pauses by them. He gives the girl a cursory glance and little more; he's smart enough to notice that the crisis is over and done with. ]
Get her another one on me. [ He speaks loudly enough to make himself heard above the music, some 90s dance beat that he recognises from somewhere, sometime. It's not important. What does matter, however, is the few curious people still listening in around them. ] I knocked her over, it's my mistake.
[ With that, he glances at her again with a slight smile, like he hasn't just been on the verge of smashing her face in. ]
Next time, be more careful.
[ He lets go without waiting for her reply - not expecting one, either - and stalks away from the bar. If Marcel isn't already done, in a few minutes he most definitely will be. ]
no subject
He looks at her, then. He looks at her and he smiles and Alexa can feel goose bumps breaking out on her arms, a shiver running down her spine. She feels powerless. Opposite him, she's got no voice, no strength, no fucking nothing. He's taken it all from her, he knows it and he's enjoying the fuck out of it, fucking psychopath. Next time, be more careful, Mr Foreign Minister says and lets go, leaving her to hurt, her arm hanging limply by her side while the bartender puts a full glass of beer on the counter in front of her. She stares at it, rather than following Girard with her eyes.
She knows. He'll get away with this. Because he's in a position of power, because he's white and privileged and, most importantly, because he's a man who's taken her voice and her worth with him.
In the end, the beer remains untouched. It's like a kind of evidence. Proof of all her weaknesses at once. She seats herself on the bar stool that has given her multiple bruises at this point. She sits down and she waits, hugging her arm to her chest half-heartedly. When all comes down to it, all the self-care in the world doesn't change shit about what happened tonight. ]