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31_days2012-12-09 02:25 pm
insaneladybug.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-12-09 02:25 pm
[December 9th] [The Wild Wild West-related] Denial
Title: Denial
Day/Theme: December 9th - Stayed in me as an epithet
Series: The Wild Wild West (based on The Night of the Poisonous Posey)
Character/Pairing: Little Pinto/Lucrece Posey
Rating: T/PG-13
This is a scene from the upcoming chapter 6 of my current multi-chapter The Night of the Time Travel. Several characters, including these two, have ended up in the present day. This was going to be a stand-alone blurb, but I realized how much more constructive it would be to make it a scene from the fic.
By Lucky_Ladybug
Lucrece stood in her upstairs room at the window, brushing through her thick hair. She was staring at the modern city sprawled before her, but her thoughts were far removed from the buildings and the lights.
She had not had much chance to think on it since it had happened, but it was so surreal and strange that two of her board members were downstairs, alive and well.
She had only reunited with them moments before Dr. Faustina’s machines had malfunctioned and sent them all into the present day. She and Pinto had found each other before long, and then Pinto had captured Coley Rodman, intending to amuse himself by torturing his look-alike if they could not quickly locate the others. And since they had continued to search without success, Pinto had managed to experiment with Rodman and modern inventions for more than a fortnight.
He had made time to be with her, of course. He was a fool, to be in love with her, but he could not seem to help himself. She had long ago told him of the risks and downfalls involved, but it had not made a difference to him. Even though he knew she could someday tire of the entertainment of the relationship, he pursued it anyway.
“Lucrece?”
She jumped a mile and spun around. He was standing in the half-open doorway, not peering in, but just waiting for her to tell him it was alright to enter.
She tried to compose herself. “I thought you were watching the news with Cyril.”
He shrugged. “He got bored when the sports came on and ended up finding the Weather Channel.”
She shut her eyes in exasperation. “And there’s a large fire in the canyons, isn’t there.”
“They’re showing the whole thing.”
“Then he’ll be occupied for the rest of the night. You might as well come in. But not for long; I need to sleep.”
He stepped into the room and stopped by the dresser, leaning on it with one elbow as she raised her brush.
She frowned. For some reason, him being there was giving her an uncomfortable feeling. She had not thought of it in ages, forced herself not to think of it, but something had happened the night he had died in Justice.
She remembered looking out the window in her quarters, towards the icehouse where he had gone to fight West and Gordon. When they had been the ones to emerge, she had known Pinto was dead.
She had prepared to leave immediately afterwards. His death had not affected her as anything other than losing a good man as her second-in-command, and yet she had not been able to explain the prick in her heart when she realized he was gone.
Nor could she explain what had happened as she had stood by her dresser in their hideout. The sensation had been stronger, more powerful, and for a moment she had felt that he was there with her. She had felt a deep sadness and regret that she had never understood. Was it his . . . or hers?
She had refused to believe it could be hers. But she had been so shaken that she had taken a different path out of the room, one that did not lead past the dresser. Now Pinto was standing by this one and dredging up all of those ignored memories.
“Why are you standing there?” she demanded at last, sharper than she had really meant to sound.
Pinto rocked back. “It was the closest piece of furniture,” he blinked. “Where do you want me to stand?”
She shut her eyes and shook her head as she turned away. “Nevermind.”
But Pinto was concerned and confused. And perhaps he remembered the same thing she did, if she had not imagined it all.
He pushed away from the dresser. “The only other time I was by a chest of drawers like this, I didn’t think you knew it.”
She set her jaw, brushing her hair more furiously. “In Justice?”
“That’s right.” He approached her slowly, stopping near where she was. “After you were looking out the window.”
“After I realized you were dead.” Her tone was clipped and dark.
“That was the last thing I wanted.”
“Of course it was. Very few people actually want to die.”
“Lucrece, what’s wrong?”
She refused to face him. When a section of hair became entangled in the brush, she pulled and tugged in desperation and anger to set it free.
“Lucrece . . .” He reached for her, trying to touch her shoulder.
She snapped. “Don’t,” she snarled. She swatted at him with a hand as she stepped away.
He frowned. “I think I’ve got a right to know what I did wrong.” He stayed where he was, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re not acting like yourself, Lucrece.”
She gripped the brush. “The only answer I can give you is that you died.”
“That wasn’t my fault. West and Gordon broke away. I had to go after them.”
“It was your fault.” She slammed the brush on the nightstand beside the bed. “You should have been more careful. You should have watched what you were doing more closely.”
Pinto was silent a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me before that you felt this way?”
She walked away from him, darkly and bitterly smirking to herself. “I’ve told you many times. I’ve screamed it at you. But you were never there to hear it.”
“I wanted to be. I couldn’t leave Justice. Something was holding me there.”
She turned to face him, searching his eyes, trying to make sense of her feelings and her outburst. She had never meant to say it to his face. Yes, somewhere in her heart she had blamed him, had been furious that he had died.
That he had left her.
But of course he had never meant to or wanted to. Why was she being so aggravatingly irrational? He was right; she was not herself.
Again she looked away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She rubbed uncomfortably at her upper arm.
He embraced her from behind. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around.”
This time she leaned into him, closing her eyes. She could feel his heart beating. It wasn’t really important how Dr. Faustina had done it; it was only important that she had done it. Pinto was alive again.
“I know you are,” she said quietly.
“I won’t go by the chest of drawers if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t want you to.” She turned, still leaning into him. “You’re alive. I don’t want to think about your death anymore.” She drew her arms around him, as though she feared letting go, and rested her cheek against his chest.
“. . . Sometimes it almost feels like you could love me,” he remarked.
“But you know better, don’t you?”
He fell silent again. “Yeah,” he said then. “I know better.”
He did not want to risk upsetting her when she was finally calm again. But as he held her close, he could not help wondering why she had become so viciously upset in the first place.
Day/Theme: December 9th - Stayed in me as an epithet
Series: The Wild Wild West (based on The Night of the Poisonous Posey)
Character/Pairing: Little Pinto/Lucrece Posey
Rating: T/PG-13
This is a scene from the upcoming chapter 6 of my current multi-chapter The Night of the Time Travel. Several characters, including these two, have ended up in the present day. This was going to be a stand-alone blurb, but I realized how much more constructive it would be to make it a scene from the fic.
Lucrece stood in her upstairs room at the window, brushing through her thick hair. She was staring at the modern city sprawled before her, but her thoughts were far removed from the buildings and the lights.
She had not had much chance to think on it since it had happened, but it was so surreal and strange that two of her board members were downstairs, alive and well.
She had only reunited with them moments before Dr. Faustina’s machines had malfunctioned and sent them all into the present day. She and Pinto had found each other before long, and then Pinto had captured Coley Rodman, intending to amuse himself by torturing his look-alike if they could not quickly locate the others. And since they had continued to search without success, Pinto had managed to experiment with Rodman and modern inventions for more than a fortnight.
He had made time to be with her, of course. He was a fool, to be in love with her, but he could not seem to help himself. She had long ago told him of the risks and downfalls involved, but it had not made a difference to him. Even though he knew she could someday tire of the entertainment of the relationship, he pursued it anyway.
“Lucrece?”
She jumped a mile and spun around. He was standing in the half-open doorway, not peering in, but just waiting for her to tell him it was alright to enter.
She tried to compose herself. “I thought you were watching the news with Cyril.”
He shrugged. “He got bored when the sports came on and ended up finding the Weather Channel.”
She shut her eyes in exasperation. “And there’s a large fire in the canyons, isn’t there.”
“They’re showing the whole thing.”
“Then he’ll be occupied for the rest of the night. You might as well come in. But not for long; I need to sleep.”
He stepped into the room and stopped by the dresser, leaning on it with one elbow as she raised her brush.
She frowned. For some reason, him being there was giving her an uncomfortable feeling. She had not thought of it in ages, forced herself not to think of it, but something had happened the night he had died in Justice.
She remembered looking out the window in her quarters, towards the icehouse where he had gone to fight West and Gordon. When they had been the ones to emerge, she had known Pinto was dead.
She had prepared to leave immediately afterwards. His death had not affected her as anything other than losing a good man as her second-in-command, and yet she had not been able to explain the prick in her heart when she realized he was gone.
Nor could she explain what had happened as she had stood by her dresser in their hideout. The sensation had been stronger, more powerful, and for a moment she had felt that he was there with her. She had felt a deep sadness and regret that she had never understood. Was it his . . . or hers?
She had refused to believe it could be hers. But she had been so shaken that she had taken a different path out of the room, one that did not lead past the dresser. Now Pinto was standing by this one and dredging up all of those ignored memories.
“Why are you standing there?” she demanded at last, sharper than she had really meant to sound.
Pinto rocked back. “It was the closest piece of furniture,” he blinked. “Where do you want me to stand?”
She shut her eyes and shook her head as she turned away. “Nevermind.”
But Pinto was concerned and confused. And perhaps he remembered the same thing she did, if she had not imagined it all.
He pushed away from the dresser. “The only other time I was by a chest of drawers like this, I didn’t think you knew it.”
She set her jaw, brushing her hair more furiously. “In Justice?”
“That’s right.” He approached her slowly, stopping near where she was. “After you were looking out the window.”
“After I realized you were dead.” Her tone was clipped and dark.
“That was the last thing I wanted.”
“Of course it was. Very few people actually want to die.”
“Lucrece, what’s wrong?”
She refused to face him. When a section of hair became entangled in the brush, she pulled and tugged in desperation and anger to set it free.
“Lucrece . . .” He reached for her, trying to touch her shoulder.
She snapped. “Don’t,” she snarled. She swatted at him with a hand as she stepped away.
He frowned. “I think I’ve got a right to know what I did wrong.” He stayed where he was, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re not acting like yourself, Lucrece.”
She gripped the brush. “The only answer I can give you is that you died.”
“That wasn’t my fault. West and Gordon broke away. I had to go after them.”
“It was your fault.” She slammed the brush on the nightstand beside the bed. “You should have been more careful. You should have watched what you were doing more closely.”
Pinto was silent a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me before that you felt this way?”
She walked away from him, darkly and bitterly smirking to herself. “I’ve told you many times. I’ve screamed it at you. But you were never there to hear it.”
“I wanted to be. I couldn’t leave Justice. Something was holding me there.”
She turned to face him, searching his eyes, trying to make sense of her feelings and her outburst. She had never meant to say it to his face. Yes, somewhere in her heart she had blamed him, had been furious that he had died.
That he had left her.
But of course he had never meant to or wanted to. Why was she being so aggravatingly irrational? He was right; she was not herself.
Again she looked away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She rubbed uncomfortably at her upper arm.
He embraced her from behind. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around.”
This time she leaned into him, closing her eyes. She could feel his heart beating. It wasn’t really important how Dr. Faustina had done it; it was only important that she had done it. Pinto was alive again.
“I know you are,” she said quietly.
“I won’t go by the chest of drawers if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t want you to.” She turned, still leaning into him. “You’re alive. I don’t want to think about your death anymore.” She drew her arms around him, as though she feared letting go, and rested her cheek against his chest.
“. . . Sometimes it almost feels like you could love me,” he remarked.
“But you know better, don’t you?”
He fell silent again. “Yeah,” he said then. “I know better.”
He did not want to risk upsetting her when she was finally calm again. But as he held her close, he could not help wondering why she had become so viciously upset in the first place.