Flashfic!
A conversation in fanficrants led me to being egged on to write some hunter!fic. This is total flashfic, I wrote it in about half an hour. Don't judge me.
Untitled
Characters: OFM, OMC
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: none, I guess.
Wordcount: 698
For awhile after the Roadhouse burned, Jen wasn't sure where to go. She'd drive around, hunting, and then, before she'd know it, she'd find herself heading back towards Nebraska, back to where the Roadhouse used to be. It had been thirteen years since she'd first stepped inside its doors, fifteen since she'd salted and burned Chris' bones.
Sometimes she couldn't remember what his face even looked like. Other times, it was like she'd just seen him the day before. His laugh, fresh in her mind.
She hoped he could forgive her.
Jen drove the same car she'd had when she'd left home for college - a nondescript tan 1992 Toyota Corolla. It wasn't the sort of things hunters usually drove - they tended to prefer trucks, or sometimes flashier old muscle cars. But it still worked and she couldn't think of a good reason to trade it in. She was inconspicuous. She liked it that way. It made her job easier. No one expected a nice white girl in an old Toyota to have an arsenal just lying around.
It was in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois that Jen ran into George Chavez. She'd met him at the Roadhouse a few times. A big, quiet guy, black and Puerto Rican, spoke with some kind of Brooklyn accent that she had trouble following. His mom had been killed by spirit.
They'd come for the same thing - something was killing girls in the dorms at the University of Illinois, drowning them as they slept. Their roommates woke to find them pale and wet and hours dead, lungs full of water.
Jen hadn't worked with a partner very often before. She wasn't against it, exactly, but it was hard to know who to trust. Hunters, as a rule, weren't the most stable group of people. But George seemed like a good guy, he knew what he was doing, and he didn't talk down to her because she was a woman. So they divvied up the work, with George going to the library and Jen doing the fake cop thing, talking to the roommates. They figured the girls would be more likely to open up to a woman.
The case wasn't that difficult to pin down. It was a vengeful spirit, a student who had drowned in the 1980s, killing girls who swam for exercise down at the pool.
Jen had to admit that George was a great help with the grave desecration part.
“Why do you do this?” he asked her later, in an all-night diner on the Urbana side. She'd kind of wanted a beer, but George had said he was was starving to death and needed food before alcohol. The diner was full of drunken students, eating masses of fried foods after a night out drinking.
“Why does anyone do this?” she said rhetorically. She took a bite of her two am scrambled eggs, wished for some salsa to put on them.
George sighed, pressed his big hands down on the table.
“Why does it always have to be like this?” he asked.
“Like what? Conversing entirely in questions?”
He laughed.
“Seriously, why do we have to dance around like this? We...not just you and me, hunters, all of us, we could do more if we weren't so...”
“...closed-off?”
He nodded.
“Because we're a closed-off group of people. We live our lives hiding what we do from everyone. And it's not easy to just open up all of a sudden, just because we meet someone else who does the same thing.” She took a sip of her orange juice. “It's just how things are. You don't become a hunter to make friends.”
A wave of exhaustion hit her and she was glad they hadn't gone to a bar after all. One beer and she'd have been falling asleep. She already had a motel room lined up, and a shower and bed was sounding awfully good right about now. She threw down a ten and got up, stretching her legs.
“It was good working with you, George. You take care of yourself, okay?”
The bell on the door rang as she walked out.
Untitled
Characters: OFM, OMC
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: none, I guess.
Wordcount: 698
For awhile after the Roadhouse burned, Jen wasn't sure where to go. She'd drive around, hunting, and then, before she'd know it, she'd find herself heading back towards Nebraska, back to where the Roadhouse used to be. It had been thirteen years since she'd first stepped inside its doors, fifteen since she'd salted and burned Chris' bones.
Sometimes she couldn't remember what his face even looked like. Other times, it was like she'd just seen him the day before. His laugh, fresh in her mind.
She hoped he could forgive her.
Jen drove the same car she'd had when she'd left home for college - a nondescript tan 1992 Toyota Corolla. It wasn't the sort of things hunters usually drove - they tended to prefer trucks, or sometimes flashier old muscle cars. But it still worked and she couldn't think of a good reason to trade it in. She was inconspicuous. She liked it that way. It made her job easier. No one expected a nice white girl in an old Toyota to have an arsenal just lying around.
It was in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois that Jen ran into George Chavez. She'd met him at the Roadhouse a few times. A big, quiet guy, black and Puerto Rican, spoke with some kind of Brooklyn accent that she had trouble following. His mom had been killed by spirit.
They'd come for the same thing - something was killing girls in the dorms at the University of Illinois, drowning them as they slept. Their roommates woke to find them pale and wet and hours dead, lungs full of water.
Jen hadn't worked with a partner very often before. She wasn't against it, exactly, but it was hard to know who to trust. Hunters, as a rule, weren't the most stable group of people. But George seemed like a good guy, he knew what he was doing, and he didn't talk down to her because she was a woman. So they divvied up the work, with George going to the library and Jen doing the fake cop thing, talking to the roommates. They figured the girls would be more likely to open up to a woman.
The case wasn't that difficult to pin down. It was a vengeful spirit, a student who had drowned in the 1980s, killing girls who swam for exercise down at the pool.
Jen had to admit that George was a great help with the grave desecration part.
“Why do you do this?” he asked her later, in an all-night diner on the Urbana side. She'd kind of wanted a beer, but George had said he was was starving to death and needed food before alcohol. The diner was full of drunken students, eating masses of fried foods after a night out drinking.
“Why does anyone do this?” she said rhetorically. She took a bite of her two am scrambled eggs, wished for some salsa to put on them.
George sighed, pressed his big hands down on the table.
“Why does it always have to be like this?” he asked.
“Like what? Conversing entirely in questions?”
He laughed.
“Seriously, why do we have to dance around like this? We...not just you and me, hunters, all of us, we could do more if we weren't so...”
“...closed-off?”
He nodded.
“Because we're a closed-off group of people. We live our lives hiding what we do from everyone. And it's not easy to just open up all of a sudden, just because we meet someone else who does the same thing.” She took a sip of her orange juice. “It's just how things are. You don't become a hunter to make friends.”
A wave of exhaustion hit her and she was glad they hadn't gone to a bar after all. One beer and she'd have been falling asleep. She already had a motel room lined up, and a shower and bed was sounding awfully good right about now. She threw down a ten and got up, stretching her legs.
“It was good working with you, George. You take care of yourself, okay?”
The bell on the door rang as she walked out.