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Although it was hard to admit it, ever since she'd run from Tinker, Preacher's life had taken a turn for the worse. Although she knew that if she had stayed, she would've died, sometimes she wondered if that would've been better. Dollface, at least, had come out mostly unscathed. Through sheer luck, he had managed to convince Tinker that an unknown man had helped Preacher escape. That kid could lie to his own mother about his age, she thought idly, and kicked a stone across the street. Everything about her still hurt, from her blackened eye, to her sore shoulder, to every bruise on her body. And there were many bruises. And many cuts. She sighed as her stomach grumbled.

She was back to the beginning, back to living on the streets and sleeping in the smallest unclaimed corners of the filthiest alleys. Pastor Hoen had been able to work her arm back in its socket, at least, but somehow could help no further - Preacher lacked the energy to question him. She had tried, briefly, to take some thieved goods to a fence, only to find that somehow, and walls only knew how, Tinker had made them refuse her service. One eventually had taken it, but for less than 1/4 of the value. She wasn't pretty enough to beg, couldn't sell enough to steal; so Preacher lived out of scrap cans and stolen loaves of bread. Over and over she had cursed anyone she could think of to blame: Saga, Axel, even the easy-going Alec. But most of all she had cursed herself. Eventually, she would be killed or would starve or be thrown in jail. And it would be no one's fault but her own. She shivered then, remembering the things she should not, the things that happened before Tinker had smashed his fist into her shame-filed face.

Preacher spent a lot of her suddenly free time wandering. She was never lost, but she never had anywhere to actually go. Some people might've felt free, might have embraced such a vagabond life. Preacher hated it. It was full of variables without constants: food, shelter, life. The only sure thing was the inevitability of death. She sighed. Her feet were always heavy when she walked now, and, irritably, she spent another stone flying with one foot. It rolled and rolled and rolled... right into a ditch. A ditch that hadn't been there the last time Preacher's weary feet had plodded along this path. Startled, she finally raised her eyes from their perpetual contemplation of the ground. Well, s**t. There, muscles straining as he lifted another shovelful of dirt, was Axel, possibly the one person she wished to see the least.

No, feet, turn around! Go back! But, inexorably, they crept closer to him. As much as she never really wished to see him again, she was drawn. And she needed to show him that he hadn't affected her at all, oh no. She had won in the tavern, technically, maybe. It helped if she thought of it as a battle. And then she was there, standing behind him. And Preacher wasn't exactly sure what to say. Her cheeks flushed a little and she crossed her arms.

"Tch." She clicked her tongue derisively at his broad back. Her fingers tingled. "Finally joinin' us down in tha slums, Mr. High-n-Mighty? I tol' ya my slum was off-limits for ya, ya ken." Preacher desperately searched for an appropriately cheeky tone, tried to stretch her lips in the usual lop-sided grin. But that grin pulled at the cuts at the corner of her mouth and she winced.

She wondered idly how it was that Axel made such back-breaking work look relatively easy. Ok, so he was strong. Whatever. Axel was working hard, muscles surely rippling in a manly way and he was sweaty and she was oh so tempted to make a quip about his smell. But really, wouldn't that just be the pot calling the kettle black? When he spoke, it was clear he wanted her to leave, his voice snappy and harsh and everything she expected of him. It somehow set her at ease. But his question at the end was unexpected, full of disapproval. The words still caused memories she'd rather lose shine fiercely in her eyes.

"Is it really fightin' if you're all trussed up, hands n'... feet..." She shook her head fitfully, almost dog-like, trying to clear away the memory of that horrible pain when her shoulder dislocated, clear the memory of Dollface's scared eyes. Dollface was ok, she reminded herself. She was ok... sort of. She didn't need anyone. Regardless of the pain, she let a scowl twist her face, the corners of her mouth burning. She marched right up to him and poked one thin finger at his muscled chest. To be honest, it was a little annoying that he wasn't particularly squishy.

"I don't need ya false-" prod "-conercern there, friend." She poked him one more for good measure, then paused. "What happened to ya high-falutin' job in tha town anyway? Or did you just lie to impress lil ol' me?" Preacher's lashes fluttered simperingly. and her mouth formed a coquettish 'o'. She knew very well that Axel held no interest in her. And, if he did, it was a distressingly fleeting one. And that meant he liked boys. Hmm.

Preacher made a face at Axel. He didn't rise to her jab, damn him. Did he actually like her? Well, him, technically. How unpleasant. Or was it unpleasant? Her mind flung back and forth between being worried and upset. Clearly, he thought she wasn't good enough for a response even, instead brushing her words aside like buzzing flies. That night in the tavern hung over her like a guillotine, ready to snap off any self-worth she had left. Axel could be into men, would ditch her like a used dishrag- Carefully, she stopped that line of thought. Removing her hands from the broad expanse of his chest, she wrapped her arms around her own waist. She had been more than half-tempted to slide her fingers up his shirt, just to tease, to gauge his reaction. Instead, she shivered even as the sun beat down on them. The fact that he had lost his job molified her a bit, and she made a scornful noise.

"Whatever happened ta yer high ideals and 'just work hard's? The great and good, oh so good Axel lost his job. Now ya diggin' ditches in tha slums." Preacher barked out a short laugh, but he spoke over her. Her face paled at his cruel words. You probably deserved it. Preacher had been beaten before, had lost fights, had let herself lose, had learned to take it like a champ. But that time... sometimes she could still feel that coarse cloth pinning her wrists together. It was one thing to lose and another to never have a chance of winning. It she had needed proof that Axel hated her, it was here, in these viciously words. That hate was not as comforting as she had hoped it would be.

"Y-you don't k-know anythin'. Jus' think I'm s**t, lower than the dog s**t on ya b-boot cuz I'm from here. N-not everybody can l-live-" To her disgust, her voice trembled. Her hands trembled. Suddenly, she flung those traitorous hands out, meeting his sweat-streaked chest. Putting her entire weight into it, she shoved. Unfortunately, her entire weight meant that when he toppled backwards into the ditch, she toppled too. Well, at least she had something to cushion her fall.

Preacher scrambled off of Axel quickly, horrified to realize he was just as warm as before. Her eyes looked at anything but him. The air between them was uncomfortable. She rubbed fitfully at her wrists. "S' not a ********' attack." she mumbled. Forlornly, she raised her eyes to his face. If she'd felt up to it, she would've punched him, right then and there, in his stupid flushed face. Preacher felt drained, and very, very, tired. His exclamation made her stare. Walls, he was damn good at pushing her buttons today.

She sat there in the dirt (a suitable place for her, she mused), and stared at him, narrowing her eyes. The yellow of one eye looked even brighter than normal, thanks to the dark, purplish bruise covering it. Her foot twitched, an instinctual urge to kick the insufferable man. Axel knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about what it was like to be born in the slums and know from day 1 that you would die there and be forgotten.

"Ya know what? ******** you, Axel. P-people like me don't 'get out' of the slums. Ya born here, ya die here, iffin you're a lucky b***h, mebbe someone will shed a few fake tears." She stayed seated, but every line of her body was tense. She was mad, yes, but mainly, she was hurt. No one liked being reminded that they were less than nothing and could never, ever, ever be more. "You wouldn't know a ********' thing bout it, though, witchur fancy ideals and philosophies." She paused, chest heaving. Suddenly, she shot him the ugliest grin she could muster.

"Though mebbe you'll get-a dragged down too. Ya can d-die in the ditch ya made. Mebbe you n' me, since ya like me sooooo much, kin pick a nice filthy alley to jus' kill each other in. Hmph. Ya can pick ya death, n' you're still here?" As far as rants went, it didn't make a whole lot of sense. But she was angry that he was here, in this slum, and still trying to tell her she wasn't trying hard enough, that she couldn't win. She just.... wasn't enough. For him, for anyone.

There it was again... that insidious not-denial of liking her. She narrowed her eyes. If he did like her, it meant he was gay, Which shouldn't be such an oddly heavy thought. If he did like her, Preacher was firmly convinvced it was some sort of strange physical lust. Strange because it was her. There were millions of other holes within the walls if his d**k were really that lonely. Hell, Axel could probably walk up the walls, drill a hole and go for it. "Gay," she muttered darkly. Men like him slummed it down, picking up women (in his case she supposed men) like napkins, disposable napkins. Preacher's mood was getting steadily worse.

"What's with me? What's wit you? You n' your lookin' down on people n' your smug face n'... Yeah, your words were right nasty, but I shoulda expected it from you. All your words n' you're still here. Hmph. I dun believe your apology, ya silver-tongued d**k." Preacher stared warily at his hand, tempted surely to childishly sink her teeth into it. It was a bit odd to admit it, but she found biting him to be satisfying, in a way. More so than punching. "Whatcha gon do, get jobs in tha slums til ya die?" She grabbed the proferred hand, and it didn't surprise her that his fingers were strong and tanned and.... sigh. Immediately, she regretted touching him.

"Yer about a thousand years too early ta be touchin' me again. Hmph."

Preacher watched in an odd kind of mute fascination as Axel's words chased each other out of his mouth. Alright, she could admit it; it was her fault for bringing up that night, that horrible night at the tavern. Preacher still remembered everything about it. Unfortunately. His words shocked her. She didn't want him to actually like her, but to be called 'disgusting'? And he did look down on her, for all his flowery protestations. "You're a ********' liar, ya arse," she muttered at his stupid back.

And, just like that, something in her snapped. If there was one thing Preacher was good at, it was giving as good as she got and more. Even if it wasn't exactly a good idea. Her feet moved lightly, the tiny scuffing sounds masked by Axel's angry not-digging. Everything about the man made her see red, made her either stop thinking or think too much. While she was in no condition for a fight, she craved one, wanted that blissful physicality, that gloriousness of not thinking. And well, if she goaded him into a fight, she would take it. And, she thought fatalistically, she might just let him beat her to bloody pulp. Axel was like some horrible scab she couldn't stop picking at. Axel could hate her all he wanted, but, by walls, he would not ignore her.

Preacher was behind him now, close enough that she felt the heat coming off of his body in waves. Close enough that she could smell his sweat. When she spoke, her voice was a deliberate, throaty whisper. One slender hand slid up under Axel's sweat-and-dirt-streaked shirt, along the curve of his spine.

"Disgusting? Not gay, hm? You seemed to like it well enough at the time... and after." A small part of her brain screamed at her. This was not a good idea, Preacher.

Preacher startled as Axel awkwardly hopped away. He looked much like a newborn duckling who was unsure exactly how feet worked. It was not the reaction she'd been expecting, not exactly the one she'd hoped for. Preacher paused, waiting for an angry outburst that just didn't come. The silence was a little disappointing and a little... embarrassing. At a loss for words, she wiped her hand on her grumpy pants, realizing with disgust that it was covered in Axel's sweat.

But then Axel spoke, and his voice was sad, almost small, and defeated. Just like that, her anger fell, turned into something small and, like an injured animal, curled up in on itself. She realized, reluctantly, that she didn't want to never see him again. Preacher didn't want to see him like this. Their fighting was exhilerating to her, a release of sorts. Even if she hated him, it was a good, clean hate, although it was more than a little conflicted. She frowned and her hand reached, then dropped, limply, at her side. Her mouth firmed.

"Too bad. You're stuck wit me." Preacher wasn't the comforting type, but for now she supposed she could hold off on provoking him too much. Grumpily, she kicked at the shovel between them; the metal rang out dimly in the afternoon sun. Preacher circled around him and hopped up onto the edge of the ditch, plopping her butt down squarely. Axel may have been in a horrendous mood, but so was Preacher, and she had absolutely nothing better to do with her day. Nothing. "Iffin you're digging' a ditch, musta be bad fer ya." She tried to summon up some spirit of commiseratioon, because, really, Preacher didn't't want to go back to her filthy little corner and be alone with her thoughts.

"Least you're not gettin' eaten by titans - yet." She swung her feet a little. Preacher was determined to stop thinking about the tavern, about the kiss, about anything unpleasant. Well, Axel was himself unpleasant, but she really didn't have anyone better to talk with. Nevertheless, her eyes studied his slumped form. Her hate was no fun if it didn't produce the right outcome.