hempfandango (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hempfandango) wrote2006-01-29 10:35 pm
hempfandango) wrote2006-01-29 10:35 pm
Entry tags:
Oh dang, more RvB.
Hey guys, what's going on.
I have good news! Chapter 11 of the BB is finished and being beta'd as I type this. I'll probably post it tomorrow night. It should be over five thousand words, so... hooray for that, I suppose.
And now, onto some other crap I wrote.
Title: Her Name is No One
Pairing: Church/Tex
Rating: R
Author's Note: Inspired by the song "No One" by Trocadero and by the profiles on the season three DVD.
It was some dumb fundraiser. A dance in a gymnasium, sponsored by some charity whose name and purpose I had long forgotten.
My friends dragged me. They were sick of my moping. I had just gone through a rough break-up and had been coping with alcohol and anger, which aren't great for the healing process (but man are they ever fun). I was surprised at how crowded it was, but it was a little town and this was the only excitement they could find on a Friday night.
She was leaning on the bar, demanding a whiskey sour from the intimidated barkeep. I could see why the guy was frightened. It was something about the way she carried herself. Something about the look in her eye. She scowled at everyone, and her friends stood off to the side, looking embarrassed.
That was the first and last time I'd ever see her in a skirt.
That was how we first met.
***
Her name was Alison.
It was an almost immediate attraction. I've always had a thing for crazy bitches. I decided to share my flask with her and she condescended to spend some time with me.
She was here for the same reasons as I was; her now-absent friends dragged her, just as mine had. We sat in the corner, on the floor. Her dress was getting dirty from the dust but she didn't seem to notice.
She told me about her life in this little hole with venom in her voice as she took another swig from the nearly empty flask. At that point I couldn't tell if she was drunk, I hadn't learned how to recognize the signs, but she was getting really violent. She wanted out of that little town, she told me, casting a derisive eye over the crowd. She wanted to see the world. She wanted to make a name for herself.
***
I've always thought about my perfect girl. I always thought she'd be nice and sweet. Honest. Faithful.
I've tried nice girls, but they never lasted long with me. I used to think it was because I couldn't be tamed, but now I know they probably thought I was too damaged.
A girl I thought I loved told me I acted like I had a grudge against the whole world. She was crying. That was the last thing she ever said to me.
I don't remember her name.
***
I once asked Alison if she thought I was damaged. She laughed.
"'Damaged'?" she asked with a sneer I knew well. "Try FUBAR," she said using the military slang she loved so much. "I don't think I've ever met a guy so..." she trailed off, running out of words, but I knew what she meant. I offered to get her a dictionary, anyway.
She told me to fuck off.
***
She was insane. It didn't take me long to figure that out.
Our dates were always strange, but always the same. We'd go to a bar so she could fight, or we'd go to a violent flick so she could all worked up. First girl I ever met who got aroused by guns and explosions, not that you'd hear me complaining.
Her favourite thing was to fight, though. I think, given half the chance, she'd knee the whole damn world in the crotch. We would fight a lot, too.
Never physically. I'd never hit a woman. Although, man, sometimes...
She was petite, a small girl, but that just meant she had more to prove. I've seen her pick fights with guys twice her size and the crazy thing is, I've seen her win.
Maybe it's because the guys would always expect her to fight fair. She never did.
She was a klepto too. On some days she'd get this look, her eyes would dart to everything that wasn't bolted down and her fingers would twitch. I got the feeling she'd steal from the Louvre if she had the chance. She usually just settled for my wallet.
She knew exactly how to wind me up, knew all the buttons to push. The only dance she ever mastered was the one that allowed her to step on my every nerve. Of all the people she fought with, she loved to fight with me the best. We had something special together.
I told her that once, that I thought she was insane. She fucked my brains out that night. She always did, after a fight.
***
She always looked the most beautiful to me after sex. When she was naked and sweaty, and the minimal amount of make-up she put on had long ago rubbed off. I liked her best then.
Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes she would just roll over and fall asleep. She'd always smoke first.
After a few months, I had begun to join her in her little after-sex ritual. It was one of many bad habits I developed with her.
Smoking after sex, what a fucking cliche.
This was one of the few times when neither of us would pick a fight. Maybe we were too tired. She would talk, sometimes. Not often. She'd tell me about her plans for the future, how she was going to leave this little existence behind her. I never told her my plans for the future. She never asked.
On very rare occasions, she'd let me hold her.
***
I wasn't surprised when she told me she wanted to enlist. I'd seen her stare at the promotional posters, or watching people board a bus, boot camp bound. There was some sort of civil war going on, two factions separated by colour. To be honest I didn't know how it started. I still don't, even though I've been fighting in this war for five years now.
What surprised me was when she asked me to sign up with her. She told me later it was because she wanted a ride to the enlistment office. But I wonder if she just wanted me to stay with her.
***
It wasn't raining when she told me it was over, but it felt like it. I don't remember the exact words, that memory had been long ago destroyed by alcohol, but I remember her face, I remember how time slowed to a crawl.
They had seen something in her, she probably said. They're signing her up for a special program, and she was going. She couldn't tell me what the program was, it was all top secret.
"I don't know when I'll see you again," she said. "So it's probably better we end it now." And she looked away.
We didn't fight. I didn't have the strength.
I wanted to marry that girl.
***
She made a name for herself. Tex. Only I saw the humour in it, that little piece of irony. Only Tex would name herself after the state she wanted to escape from her entire life. It was her way of telling the world she was stronger than her roots, but I was the only one who understood the message.
She always felt like she had something to prove. Crazy bitch.
***
Now, she sits down next to me. I'd gotten away from the rest of the group for a moment of peace and quiet. Figures she'd come to ruin it.
But she doesn't say anything. She just sits and stares out at the orange-red sky, watching the sun set. Neither of us speaks for a long time.
"Listen," she says finally, "about that stuff you said on Sidewinder..." she begins.
I ask if she's referring to the statue she owes me. She gives me a look that could fuse steel, an impressive feat for someone who doesn't posses facial features anymore.
We take another long pause. I appreciate how hard this must be for her, but I'm not feeling all that sympathetic. Let her struggle.
"There are some things that I regret too," she says quietly. "Some things I wish I could take back."
And I'm silent. A sarcastic remark rises in my head about all the times she'd cheated on me, but it dies quickly. I nod.
We turn back to the sky, and watch the stars appear, one by one.
***
Despite the artsy/pretentious style this was written in, I like this piece. It was nice to take a break from my usual style and try something new, and write a het fic for once.
Damn, I love Trocadero. I'd like to do one to "Steady Ride (Gun Metal Green)" next. We'll see where that goes.
And yes, I'm aware I change tenses from the rest of the fic to the last scene. That's because Church was thinking about the past and the stuff in the last scene happens in the "present". That makes sense, right?
Hey, why do I keep writing semi-serious stuff for a parody fandom, but parodies for a semi-serious fandom? I think I just like being contrary.
I have good news! Chapter 11 of the BB is finished and being beta'd as I type this. I'll probably post it tomorrow night. It should be over five thousand words, so... hooray for that, I suppose.
And now, onto some other crap I wrote.
Title: Her Name is No One
Pairing: Church/Tex
Rating: R
Author's Note: Inspired by the song "No One" by Trocadero and by the profiles on the season three DVD.
It was some dumb fundraiser. A dance in a gymnasium, sponsored by some charity whose name and purpose I had long forgotten.
My friends dragged me. They were sick of my moping. I had just gone through a rough break-up and had been coping with alcohol and anger, which aren't great for the healing process (but man are they ever fun). I was surprised at how crowded it was, but it was a little town and this was the only excitement they could find on a Friday night.
She was leaning on the bar, demanding a whiskey sour from the intimidated barkeep. I could see why the guy was frightened. It was something about the way she carried herself. Something about the look in her eye. She scowled at everyone, and her friends stood off to the side, looking embarrassed.
That was the first and last time I'd ever see her in a skirt.
That was how we first met.
***
Her name was Alison.
It was an almost immediate attraction. I've always had a thing for crazy bitches. I decided to share my flask with her and she condescended to spend some time with me.
She was here for the same reasons as I was; her now-absent friends dragged her, just as mine had. We sat in the corner, on the floor. Her dress was getting dirty from the dust but she didn't seem to notice.
She told me about her life in this little hole with venom in her voice as she took another swig from the nearly empty flask. At that point I couldn't tell if she was drunk, I hadn't learned how to recognize the signs, but she was getting really violent. She wanted out of that little town, she told me, casting a derisive eye over the crowd. She wanted to see the world. She wanted to make a name for herself.
***
I've always thought about my perfect girl. I always thought she'd be nice and sweet. Honest. Faithful.
I've tried nice girls, but they never lasted long with me. I used to think it was because I couldn't be tamed, but now I know they probably thought I was too damaged.
A girl I thought I loved told me I acted like I had a grudge against the whole world. She was crying. That was the last thing she ever said to me.
I don't remember her name.
***
I once asked Alison if she thought I was damaged. She laughed.
"'Damaged'?" she asked with a sneer I knew well. "Try FUBAR," she said using the military slang she loved so much. "I don't think I've ever met a guy so..." she trailed off, running out of words, but I knew what she meant. I offered to get her a dictionary, anyway.
She told me to fuck off.
***
She was insane. It didn't take me long to figure that out.
Our dates were always strange, but always the same. We'd go to a bar so she could fight, or we'd go to a violent flick so she could all worked up. First girl I ever met who got aroused by guns and explosions, not that you'd hear me complaining.
Her favourite thing was to fight, though. I think, given half the chance, she'd knee the whole damn world in the crotch. We would fight a lot, too.
Never physically. I'd never hit a woman. Although, man, sometimes...
She was petite, a small girl, but that just meant she had more to prove. I've seen her pick fights with guys twice her size and the crazy thing is, I've seen her win.
Maybe it's because the guys would always expect her to fight fair. She never did.
She was a klepto too. On some days she'd get this look, her eyes would dart to everything that wasn't bolted down and her fingers would twitch. I got the feeling she'd steal from the Louvre if she had the chance. She usually just settled for my wallet.
She knew exactly how to wind me up, knew all the buttons to push. The only dance she ever mastered was the one that allowed her to step on my every nerve. Of all the people she fought with, she loved to fight with me the best. We had something special together.
I told her that once, that I thought she was insane. She fucked my brains out that night. She always did, after a fight.
***
She always looked the most beautiful to me after sex. When she was naked and sweaty, and the minimal amount of make-up she put on had long ago rubbed off. I liked her best then.
Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes she would just roll over and fall asleep. She'd always smoke first.
After a few months, I had begun to join her in her little after-sex ritual. It was one of many bad habits I developed with her.
Smoking after sex, what a fucking cliche.
This was one of the few times when neither of us would pick a fight. Maybe we were too tired. She would talk, sometimes. Not often. She'd tell me about her plans for the future, how she was going to leave this little existence behind her. I never told her my plans for the future. She never asked.
On very rare occasions, she'd let me hold her.
***
I wasn't surprised when she told me she wanted to enlist. I'd seen her stare at the promotional posters, or watching people board a bus, boot camp bound. There was some sort of civil war going on, two factions separated by colour. To be honest I didn't know how it started. I still don't, even though I've been fighting in this war for five years now.
What surprised me was when she asked me to sign up with her. She told me later it was because she wanted a ride to the enlistment office. But I wonder if she just wanted me to stay with her.
***
It wasn't raining when she told me it was over, but it felt like it. I don't remember the exact words, that memory had been long ago destroyed by alcohol, but I remember her face, I remember how time slowed to a crawl.
They had seen something in her, she probably said. They're signing her up for a special program, and she was going. She couldn't tell me what the program was, it was all top secret.
"I don't know when I'll see you again," she said. "So it's probably better we end it now." And she looked away.
We didn't fight. I didn't have the strength.
I wanted to marry that girl.
***
She made a name for herself. Tex. Only I saw the humour in it, that little piece of irony. Only Tex would name herself after the state she wanted to escape from her entire life. It was her way of telling the world she was stronger than her roots, but I was the only one who understood the message.
She always felt like she had something to prove. Crazy bitch.
***
Now, she sits down next to me. I'd gotten away from the rest of the group for a moment of peace and quiet. Figures she'd come to ruin it.
But she doesn't say anything. She just sits and stares out at the orange-red sky, watching the sun set. Neither of us speaks for a long time.
"Listen," she says finally, "about that stuff you said on Sidewinder..." she begins.
I ask if she's referring to the statue she owes me. She gives me a look that could fuse steel, an impressive feat for someone who doesn't posses facial features anymore.
We take another long pause. I appreciate how hard this must be for her, but I'm not feeling all that sympathetic. Let her struggle.
"There are some things that I regret too," she says quietly. "Some things I wish I could take back."
And I'm silent. A sarcastic remark rises in my head about all the times she'd cheated on me, but it dies quickly. I nod.
We turn back to the sky, and watch the stars appear, one by one.
***
Despite the artsy/pretentious style this was written in, I like this piece. It was nice to take a break from my usual style and try something new, and write a het fic for once.
Damn, I love Trocadero. I'd like to do one to "Steady Ride (Gun Metal Green)" next. We'll see where that goes.
And yes, I'm aware I change tenses from the rest of the fic to the last scene. That's because Church was thinking about the past and the stuff in the last scene happens in the "present". That makes sense, right?
Hey, why do I keep writing semi-serious stuff for a parody fandom, but parodies for a semi-serious fandom? I think I just like being contrary.