Charlie's Flat
Chrysanthe glanced down at it, and grimaced faintly. She glanced back up at Charlie. He’d taken his waistcoat off – and his shoes and socks, one of which was sort of strewn about in the middle of the floor. Chrysanthe hoped rather devoutly he did not plan to take off his shirt, or that at least he should give her some warning before doing so, or perhaps to change in the bathroom or something. It was, of course, his flat, and Chrysanthe resolved not to make a fuss if his manners were less than perfect.
“Charlie,” Chrysanthe repeated. It wasn’t as if it were an unusual or foreign name; it wasn’t as if she were trying to make sure of her pronunciation, as she had done so often in Gior. She didn’t know why she’d said it, really. She nodded, looking about as uncertain as he did, as if she wasn’t in the least sure the request had been wise. She had made it somewhat spur of the moment, which was never a very good way of doing things. Well, Chrysanthe thought, striving to be fair: rarely.
It’s not like I think we’re friends, Chrysanthe felt the absurd urge to say aloud. I know we’re not; don’t think otherwise. It just seemed strange to sleep on a man’s couch while he called me Ms. Palmifer. That’s all. She glanced down at the bucket again; Chrysanthe very much hoped she would not need it.
“Could I – uh – have some water, please?” Chrysanthe asked after a moment. Her mouth felt rather odd and dry; her lips were a bit sensitive still, she realized, which was – really rather embarrassing. Actually, the whole night was really rather embarrassing, including the part where she was about to sleep on the couch of a man she barely knew.
Chrysanthe looked down at her hands, loosely balled in her lap. She didn’t quite like to think back on it, but she couldn’t seem to avoid it. She’d had a rather awful date, once which she’d quite looked forward to it, and she’d left rather abruptly instead of trying to make the best of it. She’d followed a strange man to a stranger bar; she’d danced with humans and wicks, and she’d gone out into the alleyway with a witch like a –
Chrysanthe felt something very tight in her chest. She loosened her hands, a little; she reached up, feeling the wisps of hair about her head. She patted at them, entirely ineffectually, and tried to tuck some of them into the woven braid around her head; it did not take much better. She smoothed her hand over them once more, and settled it down in her lap, giving up her efforts.
The worst part, Chrysanthe thought, was that it really had been fun.
Chrysanthe was still looking down, she realized. She glanced up again, and managed a pale sort of half smile in Ewing’s general direction. Her stomach churned a bit worse, and she closed her eyes, feeling a bit of dampness at the edge of them. No, Chrysanthe thought, no. She would not be sick, and she would not cry either. She took a deep, steadying breath, and when she opened her eyes once more they were clear, and not in the least red.