Note: Let's get down to business. This craziness is spontaneous, and even I don't know where it's going. SHIT GONNA DOWN, BOY.
Edit: Hahaha, oh my God, this chapter is so characteristic of their relationship, it's not even funny.
Wait, it is funny. I didn't mean it to be, but I find the whole first part of this fucking hilarious.
Second Edit: So I haven't updated in a while because my roommate turned twenty-one on the 21st (yay!) and then I just turned twenty-one on the 26th (double-yay!) and then my best friend turned twenty-one yesterday (triple-yay!) and I've been all ridiculous and preoccupied with this story I've wanted to write forevah.
So I'm like "Jesus Christ, Kiski, you can't write yet ANOTHER Kaiba/OC fiction, that would make you some kind of ridiculous I don't even have a word for." And then my brain was all like:
"Why do you have to write a new piece of fiction? She doesn't even have a name yet."
And I went "Well, hey, I want to write this, so how do I write it without being ridiculous?"
And my brain went "You have a perfectly good OC already."
And I was like "Pssh, brain, you so crazy, how on earth would Jennifer Nauswell fit into- oh shit damns."
And then I realized that I've been inadvertently leading this story into that one since chapter three.
So, uh, if you'll miss Jennifer when she's gone: Don't. Bitch ain't goin' nowheres… well, figuratively.
Holy shit, I've been struck dead by the fanfiction sequel pandemic.
Summary: An actually good version of the traditional 'One week at my house, one week at yours' jive assignment. Why? Because it was his fault in the first place. KaibaxOC (Be warned: They're not going to be playing nice.)
Warning: Probable sensuality, innuendos, and sexual tension. Oh, and psychopathic hatred.
Edit: And crudity. Lots and lots of crudity.
Disclaimer: I didn't kill Gozaburo. Kazuki Takahashi did.
You're So Spoiled!
"You need to sit."
Jennifer Nauswell was having none of that.
He considered himself very lucky that she was so light, and therefore easily restrained.
With the characteristic tenacity he'd come to expect from her, she was chomping at the bit to be out in search of her dealer. What he couldn't understand was why.
What he understood was that she had purchased sleeping pills and had received a different, more potent kind of tranquilizer, most often used in recreationally in clubs or in higher dosages as a date rape drug. Someone had attempted to enter her home and failed. He assumed that this was her dealer, and that the second use had been his intention.
He could understand her anger. What he was having difficulty comprehending was her hateful determination to deal with the situation herself when he could lift her easily off of the floor and effectively prevent her mobilization.
He had to adjust his hold again as she squirmed and tried to pull out his knees with her questing feet. He tossed her on her bed. "Sit down, Nauswell."
She glowered at him, and stood. She started pacing.
They'd been repeating this pattern since she'd awoken. Soon, she'd make a break for the door.
He grabbed her before she could think about it. "For a prodigy, you're certainly predictable," he growled, exasperated. He tossed her on the bed again. "Sit."
She finally stayed, looking at him from under mussed dark hair with an expression of blank consideration. He stared back at her until she looked away. He ran a hand over his face, and reached out and grabbed her again as she tried to dart by.
He pulled her close to him, and forced her face upwards. "I have a brother who is five years younger than me, Nauswell. Do you honestly think I've never had to do this before?"
She looked embarrassed and disgruntled. "I'm not a fourteen year old boy."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "If you ate more, you would look less like one." He threw her on the bed again. "Stay."
She was sitting with her legs off of the edge of the bed, watching him. He glowered at her. She stuck out her tongue with an expressive look of petulance. He noticed with alarm that it looked almost bloodless. 'Anemia.' She started to shift forward, off of the bed. He stepped towards her, already stretched patience dissolving.
"If I have to stop you on more time," he snarled, "I will tie you to that bed with my belt. Do you understand me?"
She looked a little awestruck. "Did you actually just say that?"
He pinched his nose, and shoved her further back into the bed with a hand. She raised an eyebrow at him, and pushed his hand away with a finger.
"It's somewhat rude to touch a lady's chest without her permission, Kaiba," she teased.
He raised both eyebrows. "Yours is nothing I haven't seen or touched before," he said dryly.
She became abruptly silent and began to curl down and into herself, like a somewhat unwashed and wild-haired snail. He took the opportunity to reach into the bathroom for her cloth.
He sent a quick look back, to make sure she hadn't used the opportunity to dash again. She had not. She was still sitting with her face pressed into her knees.
He pushed a hand between them to pull her face out. She squirmed. He pressed the cloth against her face impatiently. "Hold still or clean yourself up. You look horrible."
She mewled and smacked the cloth away, trying to dive back into her fetal state. He grabbed her calf and pulled.
Her face went scarlet. She was holding still, but her eyes were looking everywhere but at him.
He knew why. He used the opportunity to wipe her face and hands before tossing the cloth in the kitchen sink.
"That doesn't go there," she muttered suddenly. She was still avoiding looking at his face.
He placed a hand on her thigh experimentally. The reaction was instantaneous. She slapped it, and then him. He dodged her hand narrowly, feeling the tip of her index finger just nick the bridge of his nose. 'A different subject, then.'
He eyed the kitchen, determined to see something into her stomach before she starved to death in his presence. She didn't react or resist when he cleared away her unused and browning diced vegetables from the counter.
He sighed a little at her reticence.
"Tell me why you won't go to the police on this," he asked from the fridge. Most of the things he had brought home had kept well. She barely stirred, except to smile crookedly.
"He's not just a pusher."
A stir of unease poked thorns in his stomach. 'Is she sleeping with him?' He didn't like the idea of sharing that particular territory.
He heard her swallow, saw her lick her lips. "I'm pretty sure he's running girls for the slave trade. Tourists. Mostly white girls. I saw one passed out on his couch on Monday. I just thought she was fucking him. Now… I don't know."
Kaiba stopped to watch her. She had a strange, distant expression.
"He's been upping my dosages since I got here. Normal downers at first, like I had at home, but stronger and stronger stuff along the way. Prescription. The kind you can't just get in an afternoon with a doctor." She glanced at him and stopped smiling, looking down. "I thought he was going to try me on Rohypnol. I was waiting for him to do that before I did anything about it." She tucked her legs up again and winced. He wondered if he'd left bruises on her. "For him to give me Ketamine pills, and in such a large dosage…" she laughed a little to herself. "He must have figured that if he couldn't pick me up and they hadn't killed me outright, I'd kill myself with a drug interaction."
She looked suddenly, inescapably betrayed. She was grinding her teeth again. "I knew he was a piece of shit, but I didn't think he'd try to kill me."
She was quiet for long enough. "A drug interaction?"
Jennifer laughed a little. She was combing out her hair with her fingers. "Yeah. It probably wouldn't have been so bad, but…" a little, guilty-sounding sigh. "I took the first one Monday night. When I woke up it was dark. I thought, maybe, he'd given me something weak, that had only gotten halfway through the night. I took another one, woke up and the clock said mid-afternoon. I felt weak, dehydrated, but pretty okay. I just figured it was because I'd layered them after two weeks gone straight." She was examining her torn-up fingers. "It didn't even occur to me that it wasn't Tuesday. I thought I'd slept through school." She balled her fist, digging her nails into her palm. "If they'd just been sleeping pills, I probably wouldn't have had an attack. But Ketamine stays in the system longer. It also reacts with alcohol." She looked at him with one side of her mouth held out in an unhappy sneer. "Badly."
She sighed, looking away again. "And then you came in."
"And then I came in." He shut the fridge. He'd settled on orange juice. He didn't want to chance her throwing up any solids he fed her. He dumped out her glass on the coaster out and refilled it. "So why aren't you going to the police?"
She laughed again. "Can't prove anything. Besides, the son of a bitch almost killed me. If he'd gotten in here, he would've run me out with the rest of them. He's always complaining that foreign girls are too fat, so…" She gestured broadly to her skinny thighs. "If someone fucked off with Mokuba, would you call the police?"
He gave her a flat look, but tried to resist being sour. He reminded himself that there was no way she could know that it had happened before. Multiple times. "My brother is more capable of looking after himself than you are."
She stuck out her tongue again, took a grateful gulp of the juice, winced a little. He wondered if her throat was raw. "Remind me why that means that I should call the police. Atsuko is probably halfway to Okinawa by now, anyway. They won't go that far on account of one little not-quite-foreign, not-quite-local girl of very little significance."
"The police are less likely to get themselves killed by a bit dealer."
She gave him a narrow-eyed, crooked-mouthed look of absolute dry amusement. "Good for them." She put the empty cup on the floor and rolled it with her foot. "Kaiba, my family is terrified of me, and would rather I never came home. I brought my best friend, my only friend, to Japan three years ago, when I was first applying for overseas study. While I was at work, she was brutally raped in our apartment by someone looking for me." She leaned forward with a look of inexpressive confidence. "She killed herself. Jumped off of the balcony. She didn't die until she reached the hospital; they told me her spine had doubled up- literally, folded like origami-" she made a flat folding motion with her hand "without breaking. It was the shock that killed her." She was rolling the cup with her toes. "Essentially- I have no family, I have no friends. I'm going grey, I'm addicted to depressants, I have crippling insomnia, I forget to eat with the constancy of an fasting monk and all of the little children at my Japanese high school are now convinced that I'm an American Ninja. The closest person to me hates me so much that he came to check on me, just to make sure I hadn't killed myself and ruined his fun. My dealer just staged an unsuccessful and halfhearted kidnapping with a dangerously high chance of killing me. Even he doesn't really want me. Remind me: Why shouldn't I get myself killed over a petty grudge?"
He knew he was staring at her, but a tiny, almost unnoticeable collection of tears had collected on her lower lashes. They were glittering in the light that filtered in from between the blinds.
"I don't hate you."
It was all he could think to say.
She rolled the cup too fast and far forward, and it clattered along out of reach until the weight of the handle stopped it. "Clarify to me in which situation the desire to humiliate is a result of deep affection." It was a bitter snarl, but she wasn't looking at him. "Even I'm not that maladjusted." She reached for the cup with her toes. He noticed she'd taken off the last of her chipped coral nailpolish. "Beg for me," she muttered. He could tell she was imitating him.
"Some of us… can't stand to be the only one begging."
He wasn't sure if it was the dead quiet that followed that compelled him to say it, only that it had left his mouth and sinuses feeling as raw and empty as if he'd coughed out the thick and viscous remnants of an infection. He couldn't look at her. It was impossible. He could feel her staring at him.
She punched him in the kneecap with a limp fist and dropped her hands into her lap. "Vous trichez toujours dans ce jeu. Why do you always do this?" Her voice was soft, but he could hear her grinding her teeth. "Every time I'm about to blow up at you, you just casually reach over and cut the wick with your fingers and now I can't be angry but I want to be and I don't know what to say to that, and well, Jesus, um…" she was covering her face and peeking at the floor through her fingers. She had started muttering in another language, too low for him to make out.
He didn't know what to do. He hadn't meant to say it, to lay out anything so clearly, but he had bumped his elbow against the caviar dish and thrown all of his cards on the table without having a clue what game they were playing anymore.
She chuckled suddenly. He looked down to see her looking at him with a lost expression of resigned bemusement, cheek in hand.
"We are, by far, the oddest pair."
(You're So Spoiled!)
From the length and depth of their confusion, Kaiba suspected that their classmates were planning mass ritual suicide. Over the span of a week, they had continued to panic over an unconfirmed turn of events.
They still fought about things, usually with the same intensity as before, but their arguments almost always ended the same way; with Kaiba cancelling an afternoon appointment and Jennifer scrambling to find her underwear.
They didn't talk about it, despite the constant questions on the subject. It was too awkward; somewhat taboo. Mokuba was the most difficult to shut up.
The black-haired teen was lurking in the kitchen again. His face had acquired a permanent fixture- smugness. Jennifer threw another spoon at him.
"I wish you wouldn't do that, Nauswell," he told her. "We're running out of clean spoons."
He hadn't decided if he enjoyed or dreaded when her face lit up with a variety of dirty-minded mischief that he assumed wasn't suitable for his brother's young ears. She began to prance eagerly around the island, which was always a tell-tale sign that she was going to start baiting him. 'Oh no.'
Mokuba saw it as well. He leaned forward, obviously eager to witness the same filthy humour Jennifer saw fit to spew every time the opportunity presented itself. It only increased in inappropriateness on a level of how angry he became with her.
At this point, he had all but given up.
"Spoons? Dirty spoons?" She was speaking in English again. He started to see where she was wandering off to. He snatched at her as she pranced by. "Clean spoons in the spooning for the dirty spoons- I don't think I can be of provision to any clean spoons, honestly, Mister Kaiba." She sent him a sidelong look over her shoulder. Mokuba was laughing again. "Dirty spooning has always been my trade of choice, if you'll forgive the term." She was chewing her lip a little, hovering in the edge of his reach. He waited patiently. "You know what they say and it's so true: Spooning leads to for- wagh!"
She was heavier on his lap now that he'd been feeding her consistently, but she was still too light to make a struggle significant. "Regardless of your personal bias against or for spoons, Nauswell, washing the same ten spoons every day of the week is wearing on the housekeeping."
She squirmed, looking back at him. He adjusted his grip. "Spoon-washing sounds like a difficult proposition. How do you dry between them when they nest tog-"
He was starting to wonder if nonconsensually gagging his sexual companion would constitute domestic violence or sexual harassment. As it was, he spent a lot of time with his hand over her mouth.
She giggled and kissed his palm lightly.
He looked down at her, a little surprised.
Tiny moments of spontaneous affection were rare between them. They touched almost constantly, pseudo-casually, brushes on the shoulders and the back, but never anything that couldn't be misconstrued as exactly what it wasn't.
After a moment of consideration, he decided that he had enjoyed it, and pulled her further into his lap.
Mokuba was looking smug again.
Jennifer threw another spoon at him.
She threw up her hands.
"It was the same spoon!"
(You're So Spoiled!)
She was jonesing again.
It was her word. Every time she started to shake, when the nausea and the swings into unreality became too bad for her to act normal, she would tell him that she was jonesing.
He didn't need to know what the word meant to know what it really meant. It meant that they would either fight or talk. He preferred it when they talked. When they fought, she didn't like him touching her.
He didn't like not being able to touch her. It unsettled him. Being able to touch her gave him a sense of her permanence. Otherwise, her birdlike frame and dark hair seemed fine enough to slip through an open window.
He didn't like that.
She was shuddering again, and suddenly swore, groaning. He held her arms to her sides, a little grateful.
Excessive swearing usually meant that it was a talking night.
"I usually want to punch you for being too determined to help me, you know," she told him. He laughed. She tried to smile, but she was sweating. "I always thought quitting was supposed to be hard but wonderful in the end; for me, all it means is withdrawal, week after week after week, and no sleep. Never sleep. Except…" There was the little giggle.
He cracked a smile. He couldn't help it. When she'd decided to quit, she'd told him that it was too much effort to find another dealer. He'd laughed then, too. She was funny, sometimes, when she was jonesing. She also talked too much, but she'd always talked too much. After a month and a half, he was used to that.
She'd wandered off into unreality again. He wondered what she saw there.
He let her talk.
"I always wonder what it would be like to call my family for no reason. Just… to talk. I think my mother would check herself into a psychiatric ward." She giggled a little, again. The skin on her arms was clammy. "I wonder sometimes… why I don't look like her." She looked up at him. "Blue eyes, like yours, you know. Black hair." Her light, warm green eyes were glassy. They looked catlike and reflective in the early evening light. She kept forgetting to touch up her roots. There was more than two inches, thick chunks of white showing. "She never went grey. I wonder why?"
Her fingers ghosted up, pulling at his hair, and stopped. She looked suddenly piqued, absolutely alive with interest. "What are your parents like?"
He sighed, and knocked her fingers away.
She was always too inquisitive, even when she was stable.
"I'm an orphan."
She stopped for a second, briefly shocked back into clammy stability. She looked at him with something that was wavering between bewilderment and wonder. "Really?"
He quelled his annoyance, pushed her down onto her side on the bed. "Yes."
She stared up at him from the pillow in vague and incredulous awe. "Your parents owned this place?"
Question, questions, questions, ones he couldn't believe she'd never asked before but he'd always been grateful for.
"No. My stepfather."
"Where is he?"
She was curious, honestly, openly curious, fearless of hurting him, which was one of the reasons he liked her so much, but the questions were still frankly awkward. He struggled to meet her inquisitive gaze.
She frowned. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He wasn't a good man."
A flicker of something wandered across her nose, like a fly had landed on her. She struggled to sit up. He pushed her back down and rested his hand on her waist. She was always warm there.
Her inquisitiveness had become somewhat nervous. "What happened?"
The big question. He laughed. He couldn't help it.
"I don't know."
She sat up. Her face was full of questions, overflowing onto the bedspread.
He lifted a hand to stop her. "He was killed. It is common knowledge that I did it."
She waited. It was a measured pause. She was still vague, still clammy, but obvious nervous and entranced. "Did you?"
The ultimate question.
It killed him to say it.
"I don't know."
He looked out of the window at the trees. It was a question he tried not to think about, tried not to pursue. He had already gone that route, trying to discover who had stolen the last victory he had wanted, but every clue had turned into sand. The person was a nobody, ultimately forgettable, with no good reason to push a vindictive corporate giant out of a window. A person who had vanished without a trace seconds after, taking nothing, leaving the office without using the door.
It was maddening.
He looked back down at her.
"Have you ever pushed someone out of a window?" he asked, feeling a breeze of her whimsical madness.
Her eyes were huge. "I fell out of a window once."
He just couldn't help it.
(You're So Spoiled!)
He wasn't surprised to find her gone in the morning. She usually went home to get things before school; even on weekends. Sober, she was prone to forgetting things. She had said it was 'the plight of the prodigy'.
He believed her.
He ate breakfast with his still irrepressibly smug brother. His public virtual reality console was nearly flawless for its release. Jennifer had finally agreed to let him handle Atsuko, and under his pressure, the police had a strong lead- ironically, in Okinawa.
He was having a good day.
By lunchtime, he began to be slightly concerned. For once, she hadn't left her underwear under his bed.
By dinner, he was alarmed.
At six-fifteen, he arrived at her apartment. The doorknob was still scuffed, but no more scuffed than before. The lock was still the same. He opened it.
The futon was gone. So was the coffee table.
There were no mugs or half-chopped vegetables on the counter.
The apartment was empty.
Jennifer Nauswell was gone.
(You're So Spoiled!)
Note: Aaand… drumroll… that is the last chapter of YSS! But don't kill me! Please- I promised more, and there will be more. Keep an eye out for No Evidence Available. I'll do my best to make you shit your pants with joy, I swear to God!