Stand Up {A One Direction Fan Fiction}

Chapter 1 - The Girl At The Pub

*Niall's POV*

I clutch the pint of beer in my hand, examining the dimly lot pub. Other than me, there's a rather round man on the other side of the bar, a totally drunk middle aged woman, and a group of older men just talking.

The room is filled with the yells and cheering and slamming of glasses, but I sit alone. My body shivers ever so slightly. Truth be told, it probably wasn't the smartest move to order an ice cold beverage right after I had been walking in a chilly London downpour.

After fifteen minutes of sitting here, I am still soaking wet. Little drops of water still fall from my hair, and all my clothing is still damp. Just the thought makes me shiver again.

The pub only has two large windows, the rest only being brick, and I can see that Mother Nature is angry as ever. The rain violently raps on the glass, as lightning illuminates the sky and thunder shakes the window.

"You okay?" asks the bartender, a woman probably just a bit older than me. She's been totally normal, not mentioning anything about my status as a member of a world famous boy band, though she actually did call me Niall when she asked what I wanted.

I nodded my head, gripping my beer. "Just fine, thanks."

She eyes me apprehensively before walking away to serve the middle aged man. Finally, I take a swig of my beer and wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my purple hoodie.

It feels good to clear my mind like this, though it would probably be better if one of the lads bothered to come with me.

Louis and Harry are, of course, spending a lazy movie night together, as they almost always do on our nights off. Danielle had surprised Liam with a visit, so of course he took her out, not that he would come to a pub anyway. Zayn was very knackered, as always, so he passed up my offer. Josh had chosen to be lazy too. If I could depend on any of them for anything, it would be when I needed them to say far away.

So, here I am, alone.

Pulling my phone from my pocket and wiping it with a napkin, I check my Twitter. Of course, I have tons of mentions, though at the moment I'm too lazy to follow or send out a tweet.  A single word could result in a worldwide trending topic, and no one needs that at the moment.

Instead, I sip my beer, watching the storm raging on.

Outside, I can see a figure rushing through the street, head down, and I watch it as it enters the building. It's a girl, her red hoodie, grey sweatpants, and brown Uggs soaking. Her face is naked in terms of makeup, though her flat, damp hair boasts bright red highlights on the left side of her face.

She approaches the bar, and takes the stool next to me without even looking at me.

"Hey!" the mystery girl yells at the bartender angrily. "I need a pint!"

She rolls her eyes and rests her weight on a hand she has now perched on the counter. The more I examine her, the more interested I am in her: she has flushed cheeks, though she obviously isn't wearing any makeup, her eyelashes are skinny, but long, as they stretch shadows just below her eyes.

Those catch me the most; her dark brown, bloodshot eyes, with bags and dark circles under them.

She's stunning without trying, with tiny imperfections that indicate she's normal, but I can already tell by her clothing she doesn't care for appearance.

She bangs her other hand on the counter, rotating her body to face mine just as I was about to say hello.

Already, I can tell she's the kind that your parents would tell you to stay away from. The kind that your friends call "bad news." The kind that get you hurt.