fic: in the dead of night (weeds)
yuletide ficathon: delgaserasca requested silas' journey this season, and andy and nancy's relationship.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: One night in Nebraska.
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATIONS: Silas, Nancy/Andy
SOUNDTRACK: "Blackbird" (The Beatles)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
WORDS: 617
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2010.
* * * * *
In the Dead of Night by anr
* * * * *
Silas remembers watching his father drive. Remembers the way Dad had slouched in the drivers seat, his elbow on the door and his fingers curved loosely around the wheel, eyes flicking from the horizon to the speedometer and back again. The Beatles on the radio, take these broken wings and learn to fly.
"Your mom's a bitch, Si."
Like this is news. Silas takes a hit off his joint, holding it across the space between the front seats for Andy.
"Mean it, dude." Andy fills his lungs, breathing out a cloud of smoke. "She's a grade-A she dog. A doggess. A malicious, unpleasant, selfish female of the feminine variety."
Rolling his eyes, Silas slouches further into the passenger seat, kicking his feet up onto the dash. "Still refusing to blow you, huh?"
"A thousand miles and still fucking counting." Andy hits the steering wheel with the base of his palm. "Bitch."
Two thousand, seven hundred and thirty-nine; he is counting.
*
They stop for gas some time after midnight, Mom telling him to fill 'er up as she heads into the station. Silas leans against the side of the camper and watches Andy follow her.
There's movement in the van; Shane sticks his head out the door. "We stopped?"
"You're dreaming," says Silas, not bothering to look at him. Andy and Mom are wandering through the aisles inside, throwing bags of Dorritos at each other. "God Mobile's going sixty, seventy miles an hour. Hold on -- corner's coming up."
"Cunt-face," says Shane, pulling back inside. Silas can hear him stomping back to the sofa he's called dibs on for the night, and hopes like hell he doesn't wake up Stevie. Or Doug.
"Prick-breath," mutters Silas.
The pump clicks off.
*
Mom drives for awhile, Andy sitting on the floor between their seats, his back to the centre console. Every mile or two, he feeds her a corn chip.
"Silas," Mom says, overtaking a truck. "Head back and get some sleep, sweetie. You can take the bed."
Silas stares out the window and ignores her, more out of habit than any current animosity. He'll pass on the mattress offer -- they may or may not be fucking, but that bed's got mom-n-uncle-dirt ground all over it regardless.
"Nance," says Andy. He places another corn chip in her mouth and she bites his fingers. He grins.
"Andy," says Mom.
"Nance," says Andy again, apparently just because.
Fucking retards, thinks Silas. Their conversations have hit a new skyscraper level of fucked up these days; sometimes he doubts even they know what they're talking about.
Silas closes his eyes and think about his best crop ever; the colour of the leaves, the weight of the buds, the heat of the lamps, the smell of fresh, clean dirt. He misses those days.
*
He switches off with Mom in the hour before dawn, her and Andy disappearing into the bedroom. He doesn't know whether he'd prefer them to be sleeping or fucking in there, but he avoids all the potholes he sees anyway. If he keeps them awake, he'll have to listen to them; if he gives them a ride, he'll have to listen to them.
Behind him, Doug farts in his sleep and Stevie whimpers. Shane kicks the back of the bench seat.
Slipping a joint out of his pocket, Silas lights up and flicks on the radio, fingers easy on the steering wheel and the road leading all the way to the horizon. He slouches.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise, he thinks.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: One night in Nebraska.
RATING: R
CLASSIFICATIONS: Silas, Nancy/Andy
SOUNDTRACK: "Blackbird" (The Beatles)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
WORDS: 617
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; December 2010.
* * * * *
In the Dead of Night by anr
* * * * *
Silas remembers watching his father drive. Remembers the way Dad had slouched in the drivers seat, his elbow on the door and his fingers curved loosely around the wheel, eyes flicking from the horizon to the speedometer and back again. The Beatles on the radio, take these broken wings and learn to fly.
"Your mom's a bitch, Si."
Like this is news. Silas takes a hit off his joint, holding it across the space between the front seats for Andy.
"Mean it, dude." Andy fills his lungs, breathing out a cloud of smoke. "She's a grade-A she dog. A doggess. A malicious, unpleasant, selfish female of the feminine variety."
Rolling his eyes, Silas slouches further into the passenger seat, kicking his feet up onto the dash. "Still refusing to blow you, huh?"
"A thousand miles and still fucking counting." Andy hits the steering wheel with the base of his palm. "Bitch."
Two thousand, seven hundred and thirty-nine; he is counting.
*
They stop for gas some time after midnight, Mom telling him to fill 'er up as she heads into the station. Silas leans against the side of the camper and watches Andy follow her.
There's movement in the van; Shane sticks his head out the door. "We stopped?"
"You're dreaming," says Silas, not bothering to look at him. Andy and Mom are wandering through the aisles inside, throwing bags of Dorritos at each other. "God Mobile's going sixty, seventy miles an hour. Hold on -- corner's coming up."
"Cunt-face," says Shane, pulling back inside. Silas can hear him stomping back to the sofa he's called dibs on for the night, and hopes like hell he doesn't wake up Stevie. Or Doug.
"Prick-breath," mutters Silas.
The pump clicks off.
*
Mom drives for awhile, Andy sitting on the floor between their seats, his back to the centre console. Every mile or two, he feeds her a corn chip.
"Silas," Mom says, overtaking a truck. "Head back and get some sleep, sweetie. You can take the bed."
Silas stares out the window and ignores her, more out of habit than any current animosity. He'll pass on the mattress offer -- they may or may not be fucking, but that bed's got mom-n-uncle-dirt ground all over it regardless.
"Nance," says Andy. He places another corn chip in her mouth and she bites his fingers. He grins.
"Andy," says Mom.
"Nance," says Andy again, apparently just because.
Fucking retards, thinks Silas. Their conversations have hit a new skyscraper level of fucked up these days; sometimes he doubts even they know what they're talking about.
Silas closes his eyes and think about his best crop ever; the colour of the leaves, the weight of the buds, the heat of the lamps, the smell of fresh, clean dirt. He misses those days.
*
He switches off with Mom in the hour before dawn, her and Andy disappearing into the bedroom. He doesn't know whether he'd prefer them to be sleeping or fucking in there, but he avoids all the potholes he sees anyway. If he keeps them awake, he'll have to listen to them; if he gives them a ride, he'll have to listen to them.
Behind him, Doug farts in his sleep and Stevie whimpers. Shane kicks the back of the bench seat.
Slipping a joint out of his pocket, Silas lights up and flicks on the radio, fingers easy on the steering wheel and the road leading all the way to the horizon. He slouches.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise, he thinks.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*