#if you like tlou I SWEAR you will like prospect

[actual-changeling]

"Oh, fuck, sorry."

The connector drops with a shattering clang loud enough to echo through their pod, the glass valve inside springing apart on impact and showering her feet in a rain of splinters. In hindsight, working with bare feet is an obvious health hazard, but the sun their current station is orbiting is bringing their cooling systems to their limits, and she'd rather risk a few cuts than overheat. Still, her hands are sweaty, and while this is not the only part that has slipped from her palms so far, it is the first to break.

Cee barely feels the sting of a dozen bloody pinpricks across her skin, too busy sucking in a much needed breath after the last one got stuck in her throat long enough to make her dizzy. She steadies herself against the wall, eyelids fluttering as panic crashes over her in waves, a feeling not as old as she would like it to be, and the internal mantra of not him, not him, not him fades in the light of a new situation. It's not that she is a clumsy person, the opposite, really, yet every small mistake, every slip of hand, every broken glass, or every smoking soldering point had been followed by a gut-wrenching sigh of deep-seated annoyance at best and a bone-chilling surge of words at worst.

Her mind is wandering before she can stop it, memories flickering by like stars, only more horrifying and less beautiful while burning just as bright, and with her vision darkening, the sudden weight of a hand on her shoulder makes her flinch. Glass crunches beneath her soles when her body sways in an attempt to move away, sending pain straight up her leg. The fall she was about to take was only stopped by the very same hand wrapping around her arm.

The collision with Ezra's chest knocks the air out of her as a bitter mixture of anxiety and relief fills her mouth, shame burrowing its way through her skin.

"Sorry, I- sorry."

Catching her breath, her head finds its way to its usual resting place, and she closes her eyes to bury her face fully in his neck.

"Sorry," she mumbles again, her words muffled by his skin, and she isn't even sure what exactly she is apologizing for - dropping the connector or once again flinching away from him.

His arm slips around her back with practiced ease, the pressure of his palm rubbing circles between her shoulder blades not only comforting but gently urging her lungs to relax.

"Nothing to be sorry for, little bird. I should have asked first, I simply meant to prevent you from further injury - not that I was very successful."

The pain fades as tears sting in her eyes instead, and she clamps her jaw shut and grits her teeth to keep them from falling, willing her brain to just shut up. Ezra, she reminds herself, Ezra, not him. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra, his name looping and bouncing around her head, erasing the panic obstructing its path, and she doesn't realize her fingers are clinging to the back of his shirt until her knuckles ache. Cee swallows another bout of tears when he presses a soft kiss to her temple, not loosening his hold but tugging her away from the mess on the floor.

"Come on, birdie, let me fix you up."

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Cee, you know I gotta send a boy to Shiv’s Apocalypse Salon, and I would love to know what she’d do with…Maxwell Lord!

(Is the bleach blond gone? Is it still king? How does he want it now? How would Frankie react to him? The world needs to know!)

LJ! Thank you for sending Max in to the salon! I honestly don’t know what this is, I guess it can only be described as a crack fic 😂 The best lines in this drabble were written by you, so thank you 😉

Shiv's salon: Max Lord

430 words | warnings: crack fic, swearing, TLOU AU, don’t take this too seriously it’s all in good fun 😂

'Fuck right off.'

The man who introduced himself as Max Lord flashes his teeth in an insufferably wide grin (who has teeth this white anymore in a world like this?) and turns to Frankie. 'Is that how she usually talks to customers?'

You roll your eyes. 'We're in a fucking apocalypse, I'm not dyeing your hair. You get a great cut but that’s it.' You jerk a thumb in Frankie's direction. 'Ask the other guy.'

With a shrug, Frankie confirms, 'Yeah, she wouldn’t dye mine either and that was before all this.'

Undeterred, Max presses on, running what looks like a manicured hand (seriously, what the actual fuck) through his too long but neatly side-parted fringe. 'I'll pay you. Handsomely.'

'How much?'

Your eyes widen at the pack of ration cards the man produces from the inside pocket of his suspiciously clean jacket. Even Frankie perks up - it will set you up for months.

You sniff suspiciously. 'Why are you paying me this much? You want me to do weird sex shit to you while I dye your hair or something?'

You're not sure who looks more horrified by the suggestion - Frankie or Max. The latter shakes head adamantly. 'No! Look, I hear you're the best in the QZ. Will you do it or not?'

You narrow your eyes skeptically. 'Seriously, who the fuck are you?'

Max sighs, putting his hands up as if in surrender. 'Alright, I wanted to keep this all low-key, but since you asked.'

Taking a deep breath, Max seems to put on a whole new persona, as if shrugging on a coat. You have to jump backwards to avoid the index finger that he points aggressively in your face, two rows of tidy teeth on full display in a megawatts grin. 'Life is good - but it can be better.'

Five seconds of perfect, expectant silence stretches on as you turn slowly to meet Frankie's equally puzzled gaze as Max holds his position.

Then you shrug. This is hardly the weirdest encounter you've had since the world ended and mushrooms started eating people. Might as well make a tidy sum out of it.

You nod towards the single styling station in the corner, which you insisted Frankie load onto his truck the night everything went to shit.

Suddenly, your fingers tingle at the prospect of bleach and hair dye. Something stirs in your chest - something long forgotten -

Is it - joy?

The swivel chair squeaks as Max settles into it and it takes you right back. To your salon. Before all this.

You grin at his reflection. ‘Alright then. Let’s get you prettied up, shall we?’