Sandstorm {Discontinued}{Rewritten}

23. Arguments and Comfort

Warning: Reference to sexual abuse and brief description of rape in the third scene. Viewer discretion advised

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Deserey stormed into her room with a huff. She would have slammed the door behind her if it hadn’t been a sliding bulkhead. On her nightstand she spotted her sketch book, but she didn’t think she was in the mood for art. Her irritation would just make the hobby frustrating and unbearable.

“Sandy.” Even if she hadn’t recognized his gruff voice, Dez would have known it was Mick. He was the only one who used that stupid nickname.

She turned, a strand of hair flinging around in her face. “What?” she said, a little harsher than she’d intended. “Your turn to babysit?” Angrily, Dez yanked the curl out of her face, hissing in annoyance when it fell back in her eyes a moment later.

Mick didn’t answer her question. He just folded his arms over his chest, glaring at her like she was his worst enemy. There was a fire in his eyes, burning with rage. (Cheesy way to describe it, yes, but an accurate one.) It was like looking into the depths of Hell itself, flames flickering violently, darkness swallowing her whole, drowning her and snuffing out what little will to live she had. For a moment, Deserey stopped struggling with her hair, a shudder running down her spine.

Over the last few days, traveling with him and the others on the time ship, she had somehow forgotten both he and Snart were heartless criminals who had no issues with killing people for the fun of it. She’d forgotten all the news reports – as small of an amount as it was – she’d seen, how violent and utterly psychotic Heatwave could be. And maybe, for one small second, she feared for her life. Because it really did look like he might try to strangle her.

Instead, he said, “Lose the attitude with Snart.”

Deserey quickly looked away from him, her heart thumping in her chest. That was all he wanted? To lecture her about her goddamn attitude? Seriously?! She pushed her hair out of her face again, trying not to focus on how frightening he was and instead on the curl and how annoying her hair was, (seriously why was it being such a pain in the fucking ass today?) and hoping he hadn’t seen the panic in her eyes.

“Fuck off,” she told him, which was probably the wrong thing to say. His glare intensified. Dez tried to resist the urge to flinch, but she thought she had failed miserably at that. (She couldn’t really remember. Maybe not.)

Mick took a step closer, his glare not easing up one bit, and suddenly, like a car's gear shift abruptly being switched, Deserey flashed back to her time as a street kid.

She remembered this one time in particular. The day had marked the first of three years that Dez would have lived as a street rat. This guy had jumped her in an alley. She’d been looking for scraps to build an art piece, but in the process she had found a watch made of solid gold. She had thought that maybe she could have sold it, gotten some money and moved out of that hell hole of a town she’d been in. But the guy had appeared from no where. (He’d probably been up on one of the fire escape platforms and jumped down when he spotted her.)

He’d been about the same size and height Mick was. She’d been able to defend herself, then – despite being several inches shorter than the guy and no where near his size – by squaring up to the punk and showing off her own mean glare. (She didn’t save the watch, though.) But back then she had also had a lot more ferocity.