(no subject)
back from the dead... but not for long :(
but i bring a bit of fic, if slightly rushed.
it has some spoiler content for the end of season 11, as peeped on this board. so... be warned.
... IN WHICH JAKE HAS LEFT ABBY...
In a diner, at night.
Where so many of these things start and end, where hordes of anonymous people go to drown their anonymous grief in anonymous, greasy food. It could be Anywhere, USA.
And that is why she likes it.
So he left, so what?
Abby turns her napkin over onto itself, making a smooth triangle of white next to her fork. She wishes she could make it into a swan but knows she cannot.
It wasn't as though she loved him.
She didn't, and that's what made her hate him towards the end, those over-flexed muscles on his upper arms. That's what had started bothering her--stupid, superficial, vapid as it was--and then the ball was in motion. She didn't like his noises, his grunts, his groans. She didn't like his saliva on her neck.
But she liked the routine, liked everything else. Routine, for Abby, was tantamount to Jake himself--more important, if she wanted to be honest which, at the moment, she does. AA had instilled in her, like it or not, a notion of steps, of stability, of one thing begetting another. Of lather, rinse, repeat.
Abby is starting on her second round of cherry Coke when Neela comes in, shivering, from the cold. She has forgotten her jacket. Neela always forgets her jacket. Abby remembers plucking it from its place on the hook, holding it open for her roommate like an expectant parent, watching as Neela dropped her shoulders in self-annoyance and, with the grace of a dancer, ducked into the awaiting sleeves.
Former roomate.
Abby sighs.
Time come and gone.
Neela's eyes are as black as the coffee she orders, sliding in to the booth seat across from her with nary a word.
"That bad?" Abby asks.
Neela looks tired, bleary, saddened. Congratulations; she's a doctor.
"Bad enough," Neela replies.
She pauses.
"I saw you in the window," she says in a strange, small voice, "I thought you might like company. If not, I can..."
"No," Abby says, "stay."
They drink, each to their own caffination, in comradly silence.
In the shared cab home--to Abby's home, it seems, then on to what has become known as the House of Ray--Neela nestles into Abby's shoulder without warning. Abby feels the weight there by degrees, shaping her neck to it. Dark hair melds with hers, Neela's glossed lips relaxing into peace.
For a moment, Abby closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel it too.
but i bring a bit of fic, if slightly rushed.
it has some spoiler content for the end of season 11, as peeped on this board. so... be warned.
... IN WHICH JAKE HAS LEFT ABBY...
In a diner, at night.
Where so many of these things start and end, where hordes of anonymous people go to drown their anonymous grief in anonymous, greasy food. It could be Anywhere, USA.
And that is why she likes it.
So he left, so what?
Abby turns her napkin over onto itself, making a smooth triangle of white next to her fork. She wishes she could make it into a swan but knows she cannot.
It wasn't as though she loved him.
She didn't, and that's what made her hate him towards the end, those over-flexed muscles on his upper arms. That's what had started bothering her--stupid, superficial, vapid as it was--and then the ball was in motion. She didn't like his noises, his grunts, his groans. She didn't like his saliva on her neck.
But she liked the routine, liked everything else. Routine, for Abby, was tantamount to Jake himself--more important, if she wanted to be honest which, at the moment, she does. AA had instilled in her, like it or not, a notion of steps, of stability, of one thing begetting another. Of lather, rinse, repeat.
Abby is starting on her second round of cherry Coke when Neela comes in, shivering, from the cold. She has forgotten her jacket. Neela always forgets her jacket. Abby remembers plucking it from its place on the hook, holding it open for her roommate like an expectant parent, watching as Neela dropped her shoulders in self-annoyance and, with the grace of a dancer, ducked into the awaiting sleeves.
Former roomate.
Abby sighs.
Time come and gone.
Neela's eyes are as black as the coffee she orders, sliding in to the booth seat across from her with nary a word.
"That bad?" Abby asks.
Neela looks tired, bleary, saddened. Congratulations; she's a doctor.
"Bad enough," Neela replies.
She pauses.
"I saw you in the window," she says in a strange, small voice, "I thought you might like company. If not, I can..."
"No," Abby says, "stay."
They drink, each to their own caffination, in comradly silence.
In the shared cab home--to Abby's home, it seems, then on to what has become known as the House of Ray--Neela nestles into Abby's shoulder without warning. Abby feels the weight there by degrees, shaping her neck to it. Dark hair melds with hers, Neela's glossed lips relaxing into peace.
For a moment, Abby closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel it too.