Chapter Text
The first time he sees her, she's smiling. He doesn't know why that bothers him so much.
A loud chink rings in the air. A flash blurs the smoke and the stars. And for a second, he's found himself in temporary sunlight, and the night doesn't feel all that cold. There's not much there when the scene's settled and it's dark again. She stands their dipped in green, tank draped over a slender frame. Porcelain shoulders recoil into their form, surprised as if to ask what she'd done. Her teeth tell another story, though, flashing themselves, blinding him, more than the camera had managed. They disappear only seconds later under a cover of pale pink lips, but she's still smiling. Smiling. What the hell for?
"Is there any logic in being out this fuckin late, in that?" says a harsh voice he recognizes as his own. It's coarse and rough, and coated in misdirected disdain towards a pretty girl with pretty eyes and maybe even pretty intentions. But, it's simply instinct and he can't help that, so he blows a ring of smoke and watches it dissolve in that midnight air, "And why the fuck're you snapping pictures of strangers?"
She stares at him, and if he had to note one thing about this girl it's got to be those shadowy strands of black that draw wayward lines toward her eyes. Green and framed by a thin line of smoke. A line that's been slowly etched away by watery eyes, or maybe by an aching feeling - needing to sleep, and finding herself on pavement outside a building she'd never noticed. He thinks her mark probably says something like ‘wander’, or adventure. Something completely vapid. Nathan wishes he was like her.
There's a slight quiver to her poise, and it may just be a shiver, but she's not perfectly comfortable, and Nathan doesn't like that. So he shrugs off his jacket, quick to hide the marks on his arms with his sleeves following their loss of cover, and pushes it out toward her. Blinking, she doesn't seem to notice anything suspicious, or perhaps she's chosen not to.
"You could tell me your name and we wouldn't be strangers," and the girl's voice is everything his is not. She says things sweetly and singing, slipping the jacket on over her fragile frame, and her voice damn near kills him. It's feathery, and lithe and, despite his deepest wishes, nearly induces a grin. It doesn't though, and he manages to retain his standoffish facade, shifting his weight further into the brick wall.
"What am I, a fucking story book? Ask any kid around here if you wanna know so bad."
And he thinks she may just be horribly cruel because the girl giggles, rifling a hand through her short black tresses, and god, does the sound drive him absolutely wild. But she doesn't understand a thing she's done, and she flicks her wrist trying to shake out the image she's captured. His eyes draw lines down every facet of the figure standing in front of him. She’s not hiding much skin, a fact that disturbs hims. It might be because it’s so cold outside. It might be because he can’t see any marks.
Nathan knows if it’s the latter, that the girl should be very very scared. She doesn’t know a thing. And maybe that’s why she’s smiling.
"A big deal, are you?" She says. He doesn't speak, and doesn't make any move to look in her direction, admittedly in fear of losing himself completely to this captivating stranger. She doesn't seem to care much, lips perked up to widen that smile, "Is there any advantage in getting it from the secondary source?"
Nathan shakes his head, taking a drag from his cigarette, and a wall now separates him from the pretty girl with a pretty voice and he doesn't feel as distracted. He speaks around his cigarette, enough to pass the smoke, "Nathan. Prescott."’
Her nose twitches slightly. He sees that. Obviously, she's not a fan of smoke. For some reason, he almost wants to distance himself as far as he can from the stick. Avoid association. If only it would please her. But he knows he’ll never leave it behind, because it’s already ingrained in the skin below his ribs. Smoke- the scars says. He knows it can’t be erased.
She seems to overcome her distaste for the action with a sluggish saunter in his direction. He sneers at her stride which is messy and sluggish, and so strangely endearing. She stops, if only for a fraction of a second, in front of him, handing him the picture she had so stealthily captured. And there's that simper. This time he notes that it possesses some sort of humility, before she goes on her way.
He hears her say one thing, though, as her frame dissipates into the scenery, "It's not good. I'm not an artist."
The picture he holds in his hands is unfocused and most certainly flawed. From his artistically trained eye, he can tell she's not much of a photographer. But he finds he quite disagrees with her final statements. No, the picture itself was not great. Yet, he feels like she’s some kind of artist. Perhaps that’s what her mark says.
That’s perfectly uninteresting. He hopes he’s right.