AN: Set several years after a slightly twisted version of canon. Implied Psychoshipping… or not.

Parapraxis

The voices of the disillusioned, the resentful and the bitter never stop. Despite thousands of years of changing hands and the relic itself changing too, this is a truth that stays the same. For the Sennen Ring, this is an assurance that there will be a continued source of borrowed life; that there will be an abundance of the sustenance that will keep it in the mortal world.

But the more ancient it became, the harder the task of finding a resilient host. And whatever they boasted about themselves, most people could not stand to bear something that had absorbed so much evil. It was too draining, too stressful, too heavy.

It had been speculated that the Items were guided by destiny; that hosts were not chosen by random. But maybe the Ring had outlived destiny because it certainly didn't hear that voice anymore.

Like the seeds of a flower blown about by the wind, it would move from one person to another by chance. Most of the time, it would land on barren ground. But once it finds fertile soil, it would make something different of the host entirely.

At this time of night, those lined-up would normally be shivering. The scantily-dressed girls, especially, would be huddled together in the groups they came with or hopping from one high-heeled foot to another while attempting to sneak in a smoke before they're admitted in. But tonight is particularly warm, which meant it would be boiling inside.

He waits with the rest of them. While most people (guy or girl) who show up solo draw uncomfortable amounts of attention to themselves, he blends into the jagged shadows of the brick wall, practically unnoticed.

Pointless chatter and the distinct scent of marijuana hover around him. The line moves painfully slow and he has to watch his step because of all the crap on the ground. He wonders why he even bothers. Once you've been to one club, you've been to them all. There are about two things you could do: dance and drink. And if you didn't like either, you'd be bored and somehow broke at the same time.

A group of three girls and one guy head straight for the front of the line. They exchange some bills with the bouncer and the red divider is unclasped for them.

Half an hour later, he finds himself where they were, staring up at the familiar face of the six-foot-eight, three hundred plus pound man.

"Red tuque!" They slap hands, "Been awhile, man! Good luck!"

He mumbles his usual greeting, not giving much thought to what the bouncer thinks he does as he heads inside. And he doesn't get why the man tries so hard because he never tips anyways.

As the Ring lies safely beneath three layers of clothes, two more men with small flashlights check his pockets and the inside of his jacket.

The music catches him even before the heat does. The girl in the booth takes his coat and cover fee with a poorly veiled look of distain. She'd always had a habit of staring at the tuque like it was some dirty pet meant to be left outside.

Already there is broken glass on the ground. The booming music makes his insides jump as he sleuths his way through the tangle of people to the front of the bar. He has to yell to and repeat himself a few times before the frazzled girl behind the counter gets it right. What he orders goes down like acid and makes a good dent in his wallet but he orders another and another and another until he has to stop and figure out if whatever was playing was a bad remix or if his brain decided to check out early.

Eventually he's shoved out of the way but it's hard to tell who it was. So he ventures into the dance floor, slipping between the tightly-packed bodies with better stealth than he'd had before the eight shots. His chest clinks as he rubs it, feeling hot, and he checks his back pocket to make sure his wallet is still there.

The neon lights snatches some purple before blinking away. And it's a nice purple, he thinks, before wading deeper still, his feet crunching the glass stuck to the ground. He brushes past shampooed hair, swaying curves and soft skin. Tapered fingers catch his arm and he halts, losing sight of the purple.

"That colour, is it natural?" Her eyes are bloodshot, visibly, even in the dim light. But her voice is steady, perhaps a result of conscious control. She means his hair.

"Which part?" He presses his mouth to her ear, "The grey or the brown?"

"The white." But that's all she could say as a friend pulls her away and they melt into the crowd; disappear completely.

He blinks hard to ward off the dizziness and is suddenly angry at himself for losing it so soon. Every direction looks the same and the sweaty heat was getting suffocating. The bodies manoeuvre him this way and that until he's lost. But something tells him that he'll know where the front door is no matter where he's shoved in this hazy place.

Somehow, he's guided back to her again. The sleek, metallic purple of her skirt brings back memories that prick the back of his head.

"Thought you'd be too old for this sorta thing by now."

Her confused look makes him doubt his own clarity for a moment but then she forces a smile and offers a 'Hey!'

And maybe it was the lighting or the seven shots he's had but boy had she aged.

"Aren't you hot in that?" She means his tuque, and maybe the layers too.

"Very," he says and rolls up his sleeves.

It was impossible to really talk without pressing close to each other. There are creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and not the kind from smiling too much either. Her hair smells distinctly of sand, which wasn't at all masked by the shadow of liquor in her breath. An odd line runs across her right temple and it's hard to say whether it's a strand of hair or a vein.

"God, Rex, you smell like you've been through a gutter!" She says. Her laughter has a gravelly ting to it that he swears wasn't there all those years ago.

"Clearly you've never had 151."

"No," she stumbles forward as a string of girls holding hands squeeze past her, "I mean, you smell like you just came out of a pit in the ground."

"If your boobs weren't in my face, I'd say the same to you."

She sweeps her dusty purple eyes over him, "You'll always be that thorn under my fingernail, won't you?"

He adjusts his shirt so that it doesn't feel like the Ring is poking him so hard. He hated being reminded of the fact that he'd done someone else a favour, even though it had been for the service of his own end. He wouldn't have piggy-backed that psycho during Battle City if he'd known more; if that psycho had told him everything up front. Though he would have done the same if he'd been in that psycho's shoes.

The nine shots are probably starting to take a toll because he no longer cares that he hates this person and could just walk away. Mai may have been a manipulative bitch but whatever damage this person does from within her wouldn't be as bad as what happened with that psycho.

"I don't care and I don't make any effort to be." Not anymore, anyways.

He finds it amusing that she can dance well, even though she'd always looked like the type to frequent these places. She's beautiful in a plastic kind of way.

His forehead is drenched and he's compelled to take the tuque off. Instead, he just runs a hand underneath it to wipe away whatever's there. He wouldn't be Rex without that tuque after all. "You could've gone wherever you wanted, why are you still here?" he asks.

The DJ announces someone's birthday and the crowd around them erupt in shouts and clapping. He's annoyed but she revels in it, "Why not? I got time to kill. And you?"

He smiles smugly, "I'm needed here."

"Not how I would put it," she scoffs, "Don't tell me someone like you needs reassurance for why you stick around."

He starts to giggle uncontrollably. This coming from her; it was too funny. Mai's miffed and she jabs him a few times, demanding an explanation. But he just keeps laughing until he could barely recognize his own voice. Oh what those ten shots were probably doing…

"Just admit it. After all this time, you stick around because of me."

He stops. "W-what?"

She stands up straight, her face looking a little less crazy, "Don't pretend. You were joined at the hip with that Weevil kid."

It would have been a lot less stuffy at the bar. What he wouldn't give for that twelfth shot right now, "Things've changed."

"That's why you still wear that ugly tuque, right?"

The Ring pricks him again, "This coming from someone who's head is stuck in the past."

He almost regrets his words when she flinches hard, but she only falters for a split second before she's on her toes again. It was almost as if he'd imagined it, "I'm not denying anything. So," she shrugs, "fucked up shit happened in the past. It shapes us and makes us better people."

"It would've sounded philosophical if you didn't slur it out."

"Your breath smells like skunk droppings."

"I'm amazed you haven't tricked me into buying you a drink yet."

"I'm amazed you think I think you have the money."

He's convinced it's not her talking but that person. There was, after all, no evidence against it. Right?"

But damn was he reminded of why he'd been drawn to this woman in the first place. She kept things fun and didn't bend backwards to take other people's crap. She was like a multi-pileup car accident or a train-wreck. Sure you'd hate it but you just can't tear your eyes away once you've gotten a glimpse.

Or maybe the bitch reminded him of his own sins.

The crowd starts to thin as girls take to the couches to rest their aching feet. Some people head for the doors for a smoking break while others decide that they're were down for the night. Even the DJ was getting hoarse.

But they, both of them, all of them, were known to outlast most people. He'd have to refuel soon, so to speak, as booze didn't usually stay in his system for long. Almost the complete opposite was the case a few years ago.

His white hair would probably be all greasy by morning from the stupid hat. "You'd think with everyone not wanting you around, you'd just disappear from the hate vibes."

Her laughter is downright gross, "Obviously you weren't paying attention."

"Fine then," he conceded. "But of all places, why here? With this woman?"

And there was that sand smell again, "Like I said, I've got time to kill."

So it was eternity for the both of them then. Great. He may have ousted this person before, but there had been a bias involved. Now, he didn't care either way.

Maybe it was because the bastard reminded him too much of himself.

-End-

Parapraxis: a slip of the tongue or pen, forgetfulness, misplacement of objects, or other error thought to reveal unconscious wishes or attitudes. Also known as a Freudian Slip.

I'm going to say this has one foot in AU because it sort of goes against my understanding of canon and the headcanons I have for these characters.