Fury was what she felt as she ripped the cover off of the couch and carried it with her out of the door. She slammed the door behind her and stormed down the stairs. He was nothing less than infuriating ; he made her blood boil just as much as he made her heart break. Considering the ordeal of having him around all morning was enough to make her want to smash out all the windows of his car. The moment where he grabbed and threatened her in the hall had angered and offended her. Watching him nod and doze on her couch had been a harrowing experience; hearing him chuckle every now and then, then having him be silent and still, so silent and so still that she wondered if he was breathing at all. She'd been helpless to do anything about it but totally unable to look away. He was as hopeless and fascinating as a train wreck or a natural disaster; she could hardly bear to take her eyes off of him although what was happening to him terrified her.
As she made her way down the block she sighed, suddenly a bit overwhelmed by the memory of the shock it had been to see him laying there in the alley that morning, moaning on the ground, hurting. She didn't know why she cared as much as she did, she hardly knew Harry at all. But she couldn't deny what she felt for him, not at all like or lust or anything of the kind, what she felt for Harry was much deeper, less tangible, and far more frightening:
She understood him.
She put her couch cover into the washing machine and leaned against it with her head bowed. The few tears that had managed to escape her eyes streaked her face and she quickly wiped them away, there were tiny marks on her sensitive skin where he'd grabbed her wrist earlier, she rolled her eyes and shook her head.
The tears weren't for Harry; they were for what he reminded her of.
She struggled with memories of being alone; cold and hungry and helpless, at the mercy of strangers, she knew that life better than she could totally admit. No one would ever guess by looking at her but it was the truth, a truth she hadn't been forced to contend with in years, memories she had pushed away and left unconsidered and would have gladly continued to ignore, but for the skinny man who kept finding his way into her life.
She sighed and lifted her head before ducking into the restroom of the laundry mat. It was small, dank, and dark until she pulled on the light above her head. She checked her reflection in the mirror, pulled at her cheeks to give them color and ran a hand through her hair to make it look less flat. She saw that she looked tired and worried, weary and stressed out. She rubbed her eyes to try and make them look less forlorn before she tossed her hair and forced a smile onto her face.
It was obvious that Harry Styles needed someone to care for him, but Robyn Wyatt had no intention of being that person; a few hours of it had her locked in a public restroom trying to conjure up a brave face for the world. She had too much to lose to let a homeless drug addict, no matter how charming and handsome he was, disrupt her life. She had resolved to throw him out by the time she made her way back up to her apartment with his sweats and tshirt in her hands.
But then she heard the singing. The amusement in his voice and the way he fumbled for the words as though he could only scarcely remember them, signaling that there was a time when he knew them quite well. She hesitated outside the door, her hand hovering at the knob as he sang. She rested her forehead against the wood and shut her eyes.
Now her resolve had weakened, it collapsed as fully as the roof of the charred and abandoned Carpetright building just down the road from her apartment. She pushed the door open and the song abruptly stopped. She managed to play off her shock at what she saw in the water out of the corner of her eye; the rubber ducky he tried to hide certainly wasn't the most interesting thing in the tub as far as she was concerned. She patted herself on the back for not blushing and made a quip as she laid his things on the toilet seat, she hardly heard his response, she hardly knew what she was doing or what exactly was going on; only now that the blood and dirt were gone from his face and body he looked so clean, and his hair was wet and slicked back and it looked neat for a change, and even with its swelling, cuts and bruises his face was beautiful. He almost looked sweet.
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H. A Harry Styles A.U.Fanfiction
'It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom...