Kimmy Schmidt

Lee isn't sure when it happened, but he's starting caring more about how he looks.

Being in Darrow has helped him realize some things, and he thinks that maybe he tried to distract from his features. Spending his formative years at truck stops and roadside diners trying to hitchhike from one place to another did a lot of damage in a lot of ways. He was always too pretty, and it was to his detriment. It put more eyes on him, and drew more attention.

It made people think that they were entitled to a piece of him, for some reason. After a few particularly bad experiences, Lee started chopping and dying his hair. He got a tattoo gun and scribbled on himself in permanent ink. At the time, he thought that he was just expressing himself, but he sees it differently now. He was trying to ward off predators. Which is kind of ironic, all things considered.

He doesn't have to think like that so much anymore. He doesn't have to put himself in so many seedy places with unsavory people who might try to grab at him because he's shiny and new. He has a life here, and a routine. He's almost loath to admit it in case it gets snatched away from him, but he thinks that he might almost be happy.

At some point, he stopped chopping at his hair with whatever scissors he could find, instead letting his curly hair grow down to his chin and paying to have it cut for the first time in his life. It was a terrible experience, really, letting a stranger hold scissors so close to his neck, but he liked how it looked when he was done. He still dyes it, but now it's deliberate streaks mixed in with his natural hair rather than a mess of bleach. Right now, they're violet.

Lee walks by a tattoo shop doing a flash sale, pausing to look down at his hands. His fingers are covered in doodles, and he sort of regrets that now. He likes having tattoos, but he does wish they were nicer to look at. He'd do better now, he thinks. With time and practice.

There isn't much of a line, so he stops to study the flash sheet. There's one of a death's head moth surrounded by dark blue flowers, and it sort of speaks to him, so he steps into the shop. A few hours later, the stupid scrawled text he did on his upper arm one night has been covered up, and he feels sort of buzzy and relaxed after hours of being stabbed repeatedly by a needle.

The artist is a nice older guy, and by the time Lee leaves he's agreed to buy some old equipment off of him-- a tattoo gun, some inks, and a few practice skins, with vague talk of a future apprenticeship if Lee finds himself up to the task. It's probably just all talk, but Lee finds that he likes the idea very much.

Eventually he steps back out into the sun with his arm properly cleaned and bandaged, which is probably a first for any of his tattoos. Lee shifts the bag containing his renewed hobby to his other hand, twisting his arm so he can try to get a good look at the ink under the sunlight.

It's pretty, he realizes. And he likes that it's pretty. For maybe the first time in his life, he wants to be looked at. He turns and looks at his reflection in the tinted window of the shop, and he smiles.

It's sort of terrifying, all the hope he feels lately, but he hopes it never ends.


[Catch Lee feeling himself on the sidewalk! The tattoo is pretty big, taking up a good chunk of his shoulder and the top of his bicep, and is clearly visible under his shirt. He's in a good mood, which is a rarity, so it's an excellent time for him to make new friends.]