Rachel’s eyes are disturbingly fond as they run up and down Sarah’s body – it’s the closest Rachel has ever been to liking her, and it’s making Sarah uncomfortable.
“You caught me,” she says, hand sliding very slowly towards the pen she can see on the desk, “good job,” and there’s a flicker of disappointment on Rachel’s face.
She can’t seriously be disappointed, Sarah thinks, that Sarah isn’t doing her voice.
There is something viciously satisfying about punching yourself in the face.
Rachel goes down with a hard thump, and Sarah takes the time to kick her in the ribs while she’s down. She never said she fought fair – and she’s being more fair than this, sneaking around with a terrible wig and a leather jacket like that’s ever going to be enough to change who Rachel is.
Rachel’s menstruating for the first time – she looked up information, she knows what to expect. And yet her she is, locked in one of the bathrooms on the upper level with her fist stuffed in her mouth, feeling like her body is tearing itself in two.
She can’t take anything, she can’t ask for help, she can’t let it seem like she doesn’t know how to handle this – so she sits there, hating her own weakness more and more with every pained whimper that comes out of her mouth.
There’s been a nasty fight and Sarah’s pulling a ripped piece of cloth tighter around her bicep – if she gets blood on her bike heads are gonna roll, but the cut itself can wait ‘til later.
“Can you ride,” says a voice from over Sarah’s shoulder; Rachel’s sitting on her own bike, still after all this time looking more like she belongs on some modern-art chair than on a motorbike.
“Always can,” Sarah says, and she sees something like a smile curling at the corner of Rachel’s mouth before they both put on their helmets and go.
Send me characters and a situation and I will write you a three-sentence fic!