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Sep. 12th, 2012 04:52 pmIt takes Molly a lot longer to get back to her apartment than it should, though it isn't as if she's paying much attention to the time. Even knowing she ought to be returning to work, it's difficult to care about much of anything when she aches like this, when it's all she can do not to start crying on the middle of the goddamn sidewalk. Russell didn't hit her anywhere but her face, but she thinks she can feel it through every inch of her body, or maybe that's just exhaustion, adrenaline and panic giving way to a weariness she hasn't felt since the last time things went to shit around here and she thought she was going to die. This time, it's worse than that. The whole city falling apart, crawling with creatures clearly inhuman, that was frightening in its own right, and she knows she cut it close that night she went running to the church. It's different, though, when it isn't some monster going after her, but one of her closest friends, terrifying on a much deeper level. It isn't just that he held a gun to her head and threatened to shoot, that she thinks he'd have made good on it, too, judging by the way he so easily shot a stranger. It's the fact that he could have done any of this to her at all, something in him gone wrong, inexplicably twisted.
On top of that, it's one more brush with death that she doesn't want, more shaken by it after the fact than she was in the moment. At the time, it made sense to persist, to cling to the hope that the person she knew was still there somewhere. Now, though, as hurt as this and having just seen someone get a bullet in his shoulder, she can't escape the fact that she was this close to losing this, the one chance she has. She should have run as soon as he threw the brick in the first fucking place. She got lucky, for the second time, a strange turn of fortune that's followed her here, even if she never got it back home.
When she finally does get there, after nearly dropping her keys as she fumbled them out of her purse, the first thing she does is go to a mirror, needing to see the extent of the damage done. At the time, it didn't occur to her that he'd leave marks, but the looks of strangers as she walked back gave her enough of an idea of how bad she looks. That doesn't make it any less startling when she finally gets a look at herself, one eye swollen half-shut, lines on her jaw from his fingers, skin broken where he hit her with the butt of his gun.
It's not for her appearance that, when she sits, all but collapsing, on her couch, she starts to cry.
By the time there's a knock on her door, she's pulled herself together some, eyes still red but not from fresh tears. She's called out of work, too, said she'd come down sick and that she would work from her laptop here. She doesn't want to risk catching what it looks like is going around. More than that, she doesn't want anyone to see her like this, which is why she goes to the door warily, still carrying a Ziploc bag of ice in one hand. She considers not opening it, just pretending that she isn't there, but she's not sure it would work. Instead, she just stays half behind the door as she pulls it open, hair obscuring the rest of her face. She can't hide forever. She'll still feel better when she can cover her bruises with makeup. "Hey," she says, smiling about as much as she can at the sight of Cersei, though it's barely visible. "Come on in."
On top of that, it's one more brush with death that she doesn't want, more shaken by it after the fact than she was in the moment. At the time, it made sense to persist, to cling to the hope that the person she knew was still there somewhere. Now, though, as hurt as this and having just seen someone get a bullet in his shoulder, she can't escape the fact that she was this close to losing this, the one chance she has. She should have run as soon as he threw the brick in the first fucking place. She got lucky, for the second time, a strange turn of fortune that's followed her here, even if she never got it back home.
When she finally does get there, after nearly dropping her keys as she fumbled them out of her purse, the first thing she does is go to a mirror, needing to see the extent of the damage done. At the time, it didn't occur to her that he'd leave marks, but the looks of strangers as she walked back gave her enough of an idea of how bad she looks. That doesn't make it any less startling when she finally gets a look at herself, one eye swollen half-shut, lines on her jaw from his fingers, skin broken where he hit her with the butt of his gun.
It's not for her appearance that, when she sits, all but collapsing, on her couch, she starts to cry.
By the time there's a knock on her door, she's pulled herself together some, eyes still red but not from fresh tears. She's called out of work, too, said she'd come down sick and that she would work from her laptop here. She doesn't want to risk catching what it looks like is going around. More than that, she doesn't want anyone to see her like this, which is why she goes to the door warily, still carrying a Ziploc bag of ice in one hand. She considers not opening it, just pretending that she isn't there, but she's not sure it would work. Instead, she just stays half behind the door as she pulls it open, hair obscuring the rest of her face. She can't hide forever. She'll still feel better when she can cover her bruises with makeup. "Hey," she says, smiling about as much as she can at the sight of Cersei, though it's barely visible. "Come on in."
