fair/unfair

24.

♪ i have questions - camila cabello

•••

Reid doesn't breathe. He's not sure he can. Not sure if even Grace can-she's frozen solid on his windowsill, still and quiet synonyms with arms and legs. Her chest doesn't rise and fall with her breath, her eyes don't dart across the room.

Neither of them say a word. Not sure if they can.

Mal shifts in his sleep, hand brushing lazily across the sheets, hands in search of, sliding across fading warmth. Grace flinches.

Reid opens his mouth but the few words he had were panicked, desperate, scratched from the lining of his throat, carved from his lungs-now there's nothing.

So, he does the only thing he can do, the one thing to bring him back to at least some semblance of normalcy. He takes a shower. Scrubs sins from his body, the smell of sex and puke and booze, stands in scalding hot water until it runs cold and his skin runs red. He brushes his teeth three times, once for the vomit, twice for the lies. Rinses the taste of Mal from his mouth, like somehow that'll make him less guilty.

Mostly, he avoids.

After, when he spits out his anxiety with mouthwash, he wraps a shaking hand around his bathroom door and opens it slowly. Like it'll delay the inevitable. He wonders what the inevitable is.

Grace would tell everybody. He'd be nothing. That's his inevitable.

He slips out. Mal is still asleep. Grace isn't in his room-his eyes flick to the window, which is shut and latched. He's considering climbing back in bed when he hears a creak in the floorboards from downstairs. The sound of old wood carries across the house; it wears a path into the foundation and then travels back.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he steels himself and then steps downstairs. His stomach lurches and he doesn't know if it's illness or the fact that Grace knows (Grace knows Grace knows Grace knows)-he's not sure which one is the better option.

She's pacing across his living room when he hits the bottom step, wearing a hole into the floor. The floor creaks. Her head snaps up.

"How fucking dare you." Gravel grates her tone. Her fists are clenched at her side. "How fucking dare you."

He stiffens. "Grace-"

"No, where the hell do you get off? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Irritation licks at his knuckles. He flexes his hand. "If you have a problem with me, just say it," he utters lifelessly. "Save the theatrics for Jackson."

Grace barks out a laugh. "Oh, this is rich. This is great. This is-this is-" she sputters, holding so much anger in the palm of her hands, she's unable to grasp for words. "You're such a little bitch, Reid Patton. Here I was feeling sorry for your dumbass-"

"I didn't ask for you to feel sorry for me," Reid shoots hotly.

"-and you're here, what, fucking a fox?" She laughs suddenly, a thought clinging to her mind. Her voice lowers dangerously. "Is this how you got your invitation to the party? You got on your pretty, bruised knees-"

"Watch what the fuck you're saying, Gracie," he snaps. His head throbs at the judgement in her voice. "I'm not in the mood."

"Fuck you, Reid. Fuck you. Acting so hurt because Jax and I are into each other, because you can't stand being second best, can't stand not having everyone love you-"