(read at your own risk i write quite the fucked up stuff)
You stand on the sidewalk in front of your destination, arms crossed and visibly fuming as your Uber peels away from the curb behind you with a screech.
You pause to rate your ride five stars and give him a 20% tip. You may be pissed beyond words can say right now, but you're not an asshole.
You shove your phone in the back pocket of your jean shorts, check your linen tote bag to ensure you've got everything you came with keys, wallet, pack of smokes and a lighter.
Then, you make a beeline straight for the double doors of the Hotel.
Historia is at the front desk (as she always is) when you storm through the lobby.
"Hey there, Y/n!" she greets jovially. "... Y/n?" she asks, much more hesitant this time.
You spare her a brief nod. "Hi, Histora."
She mutters something to herself, then, far too quietly for you to hear. It barely registers.
You don't care. You've got exactly two things on your mind a shot of liquid courage at the bar, then straight upstairs to give Yelena a piece of your mind.
Pieck's there when you walk up mixing drinks behind the counter, dazzling as ever in a vintage flapper dress straight out of the 1920s.
"Back so soon?" she asks knowingly, cocking an immaculately-plucked brow down at you as you collapse onto a barstool.
You huff out a sigh, cheeks warm with frustration. "She killed my friend."
Piecks placid expression doesn't change. "Yes, she tends to do that when she's feeling threatened."
"'Threatened'?" you repeat incredulously, anger ballooning in your chest. "You-" You cut yourself off mid-thought before you can really get into it. Pieck doesn't deserve to be on the receiving end of your fury. "Can I get a couple shots of Grey Goose, please? And, uh, just put it on my tab."
She makes a face at that but dutifully sets an empty shot glass before you and turns to go off in search of the bottle.
"You and your vodka..." she trails off, snatching it off the shelf and turning back to you. You watch numbly as she deftly unscrews the cap with flawless French-manicured nails, then pours you a healthy shot. "I'll never understand how you can love something that tastes so putrid."
You shoot her a half-hearted grin, run your finger along the rim of the miniature glass. "It's not about the taste, darlin'," you tell her, effecting an exaggerated Southern inflection that never fails to make her raise a single brow and huff out an amused scoff. This time is no exception. "It's about the way it burns going down."
With that, you throw your head back and down the shot in one go.
You want to slam the empty glass back on the bartop, but you don't. Instead, you place it gently between the pair of you, silently asking for another.
"It was a boy, wasn't it?" Pieck asks with a knowing glint in her eye as she pours you another.
You nod your thanks even as a frown tugs at your lips. "What?"
"The friend of yours," She ventures lazily. "The one she killed." At the blunt reminder, unshed tears burn in your eyes. You neck the second shot. It burns a little less this time going down. "It was a boy, wasn't it?"
You shrug, already feeling a slight fog infusing its way into your overwhelmed brain. "Does it matter?"
Pieck doesn't chuckle, though the glimmer in her eye tells you it's not for lack of wanting. "'Course it matters," she counters in a tone that's almost chiding. "She probably thought he was sweet on you."
