brilliant_ideas (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brilliant_ideas) wrote2012-02-25 04:45 pm
brilliant_ideas) wrote2012-02-25 04:45 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Story: 'I Can't Move Faster.'
Summary: Angie cleans up.
Notes and Warnings: Takes place in April 2006. Angie is 19.
Angie was probably a little too violent when he checked the restroom stalls to see if he was alone. Most of the stall doors hit the opposite walls and then bounced right back into place, but it did the job and he was pissed, so who fucking cared. Once he knew he was alone, he jammed the door shut with paper towels and started running the water at the tiny bathroom sink so it would heat up.
One good thing about not being able to shave (not that he gave a good goddamn anyway) was it made it a lot easier to pass off as a guy, so it always made this part of the day (or every other day or whenever he got a chance to) a bit quicker. Even if it was some form of bathing, he couldn't relax with it, which was just what he needed when he was pissed, to be jumpy. Fuck, the last thing he needed after his day was to be caught hobo bathing in a gas station bathroom. Having to actually fucking do it was bad enough.
He stripped off his shirt when the water started to warm up and got a handful of soap from the dispenser, scrubbing it over his chest and arms. He dug his fingernails in after a minute to get the top layer of grime off, and ignored the throbbing in his jaw and the fact that the inside of his cheek was still bleeding. The punch had hurt, but he'd had plenty fucking worse before. Hell, he would again and that wasn't a guess.
After wiping his upper half clean with damp paper towels, he double checked the door to make sure it was still closed before he took off the rest of his clothes and started to scrub everything else. He put his jeans back on as soon as he could, feeling a bit safer once he had, and bent over the sink to wash his hair. It took a bit of scrubbing to get more suds than dirt in his hair, and a bit more time after that to get the soap out. The water was running cold by the time Angie finished, and he squeezed as much water out of his hair as he could, both with his hands and paper towels, before slicking it back and getting dressed again.
At least his hair was clean now. The nearly towheaded blond was a far cry from the dirty dishwater color it had been when he walked into the restroom, which was good. If the jackass from earlier reported having his wallet stolen, he'd be describing some dude with brown-ish hair, not blond, and the bruise could be explained away by other things.
Just for the hell of it, Angie poked at the bruise forming on his cheek. He let himself wince, just a bit, and finished getting dressed.
Summary: Angie cleans up.
Notes and Warnings: Takes place in April 2006. Angie is 19.
Angie was probably a little too violent when he checked the restroom stalls to see if he was alone. Most of the stall doors hit the opposite walls and then bounced right back into place, but it did the job and he was pissed, so who fucking cared. Once he knew he was alone, he jammed the door shut with paper towels and started running the water at the tiny bathroom sink so it would heat up.
One good thing about not being able to shave (not that he gave a good goddamn anyway) was it made it a lot easier to pass off as a guy, so it always made this part of the day (or every other day or whenever he got a chance to) a bit quicker. Even if it was some form of bathing, he couldn't relax with it, which was just what he needed when he was pissed, to be jumpy. Fuck, the last thing he needed after his day was to be caught hobo bathing in a gas station bathroom. Having to actually fucking do it was bad enough.
He stripped off his shirt when the water started to warm up and got a handful of soap from the dispenser, scrubbing it over his chest and arms. He dug his fingernails in after a minute to get the top layer of grime off, and ignored the throbbing in his jaw and the fact that the inside of his cheek was still bleeding. The punch had hurt, but he'd had plenty fucking worse before. Hell, he would again and that wasn't a guess.
After wiping his upper half clean with damp paper towels, he double checked the door to make sure it was still closed before he took off the rest of his clothes and started to scrub everything else. He put his jeans back on as soon as he could, feeling a bit safer once he had, and bent over the sink to wash his hair. It took a bit of scrubbing to get more suds than dirt in his hair, and a bit more time after that to get the soap out. The water was running cold by the time Angie finished, and he squeezed as much water out of his hair as he could, both with his hands and paper towels, before slicking it back and getting dressed again.
At least his hair was clean now. The nearly towheaded blond was a far cry from the dirty dishwater color it had been when he walked into the restroom, which was good. If the jackass from earlier reported having his wallet stolen, he'd be describing some dude with brown-ish hair, not blond, and the bruise could be explained away by other things.
Just for the hell of it, Angie poked at the bruise forming on his cheek. He let himself wince, just a bit, and finished getting dressed.