Fic: Good Ship Tomorrow 'verse: John/Chelsea.
you say that's exactly how this grace thing works (i don't believe you)
john/chelsea, pg
John stares at her for a while over the bonfire between them, not really seeing her but instead the idea of her that had just been broken.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asks, searching for her gaze.
She doesn't look up to meet his eyes.
"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were part of the Uprising?"
He shrugs even though she isn't looking at him. Her focus is on the flames; his is still on her face. "I don't know."
"There we have it then. Neither of us know anything." She toes the dirt self-consciously with her worn boots; what was once shiny patent leather when she left home is now dull grey, the soft texture of suede.
He chokes out a harsh laugh, coughing when the wind shifts and he inhales smoke.
"You should--" he coughs again, eyes watering as another gust of wind brings more smoke into his face, "you should go rest with the others. I'll stand watch alone for a while." He expects her to wordlessly turn around and leave like she always would, and it troubles him when she just continues staring at the flames. "Chelsea?" he asks.
She still doesn't look up, continuing to stare at the flames without speaking. The toe of her boot digs its way into the dirt again, unearthing a few dry twigs. She kicks them into the flames and they send up a few self-conscious sparks. "I'm not sure I like who I am anymore."
"Chelsea, you are a wonderful girl."
She glances at him and the expression on his face stops her from looking away. The way he looks at her is so tender, his eyes so honest and open, that something inside her aches. She spends a long, self-indulgent moment hating him for it.
"I'm a pregnant whore. Exactly what about that is wonderful?" Her tone is biting and sarcastic, a throwback to the headstrong, fiery little girl she used to be. John actually winces and she can't help but feel a little proud that she still has it in her.
"You don't want the baby?" He's using every effort he can to not show the shock he feels at that idea now that she is looking at him. "Whenever you talk to Henry about it you both seem so... excited." He shrugs.
She mirrors his shrug, her gaze drifting down to the fire again. "I think Henry is just happy to have another girl around to talk about girl things with." Her left hand comes up to absently rub her growing belly, barely visible as more than a little weight gain even beneath the tight-fitting bodice of her dress. "And I-- I want him, of course I do. Even if I hadn't planned... I just wish he had a different father."
John opens his mouth and closes it again, hesitating to say what he wants to. Chelsea catches the motion out of the corner of her eye.
"Whatever it is just say it. I'm still sitting here after you admitted to being one of the soldiers who destroyed my life so I think it's pretty safe to assume whatever you tell me isn't going to make me run away."
He shakes his head, looking up at the sky and exhaling the words in a rush of breath. "I'll help you raise it if you want."
He keeps his eyes fixed on the stars, waiting. The moment of silence stretches between them, full of everything that she can't say.
"You are a stupid man, John Malone."
His laugh is bright and happy and just a little bit forced. "Care to tell me why?"
"Offering to raise the child of a whore?" Her tone is sarcastic, the biting question intended as a scathing insult. She rolls her eyes and the gesture is a sharp pang in his chest that reminds him just how young she is.
He watches her for a long, quiet minute. The orange firelight reflects off her dark hair, moonlight behind her creating a contrasting silver halo. This is the kind of conversation he hates, where the tension and emotion is so thick it hurts. John has never been good at dealing with emotion.
It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt. The kind that comes with the acceptance of loss, with recognizing the inevitability of it but making the choice to soldier on anyway. It's the hurt that comes with the desire to enjoy life despite resigning to live with the truth.
John isn't used to this feeling. He's not sure he's ever felt it before. He certainly can't put a name towards it.
Ever since he tried to go home after the Uprising and the scope of what he had helped do hit him, he's been running. Fist alone, then on the ship with Henry and the crew. He's always had a distraction to throw himself into, lies to hide his faults and doubts behind.
Now, standing here with this young woman he's come to care so much for, that dull hurt of acceptance blooms in his chest. There isn't anywhere to run, and even the careful lies that have always come so quickly to him dry up before they can leave his tongue.
"I'll help you raise the kid if you want," he says, and then surprising himself: "I love you."
He stares up at the cluster of stars as he waits for her to respond, the hurt sitting heavy between his lungs. He doesn't know where those words came from.
"You really think it's that easy? An empty promise to a lonely girl with no one else around to hear you make it? I know how you work, John."
The disgust in her voice thickens the already heavy air between them.
"It isn't like that, Chelsea. It-- well, it was at first, but it's not anymore. Hasn't been for a long time. I..." He hesitates, brushing his thumb through the stubble on his chin that's almost grown into what could be called a beard, for once at a loss for words. "I admire you."
She snorts derisively. "First it's love, now you admire me. Can't you make up your mind?"
"It can't be both?"
The sincerity behind his words would shock her if Chelsea didn't think she knew him so well. she's heard him be this sincere with so many people in the past that the effect is lost on her. His professions of love would have a better audience in a barmaid he had known for less than an hour. She feels cheated. He had her going and then-- And then.
She shakes her head, glancing through the corner of her eye to watch him watch the stars.
"Save it for someone who will believe you," she says.
Turning around to head back down the little hill, back to where the others are sleeping, she leaves him and his hurt behind.
He doesn't understand why she leaves, why she doesn't believe him. It is the first time he realizes that his way of making things easy for himself might actually just be making things harder.
john/chelsea, pg
John stares at her for a while over the bonfire between them, not really seeing her but instead the idea of her that had just been broken.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally asks, searching for her gaze.
She doesn't look up to meet his eyes.
"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were part of the Uprising?"
He shrugs even though she isn't looking at him. Her focus is on the flames; his is still on her face. "I don't know."
"There we have it then. Neither of us know anything." She toes the dirt self-consciously with her worn boots; what was once shiny patent leather when she left home is now dull grey, the soft texture of suede.
He chokes out a harsh laugh, coughing when the wind shifts and he inhales smoke.
"You should--" he coughs again, eyes watering as another gust of wind brings more smoke into his face, "you should go rest with the others. I'll stand watch alone for a while." He expects her to wordlessly turn around and leave like she always would, and it troubles him when she just continues staring at the flames. "Chelsea?" he asks.
She still doesn't look up, continuing to stare at the flames without speaking. The toe of her boot digs its way into the dirt again, unearthing a few dry twigs. She kicks them into the flames and they send up a few self-conscious sparks. "I'm not sure I like who I am anymore."
"Chelsea, you are a wonderful girl."
She glances at him and the expression on his face stops her from looking away. The way he looks at her is so tender, his eyes so honest and open, that something inside her aches. She spends a long, self-indulgent moment hating him for it.
"I'm a pregnant whore. Exactly what about that is wonderful?" Her tone is biting and sarcastic, a throwback to the headstrong, fiery little girl she used to be. John actually winces and she can't help but feel a little proud that she still has it in her.
"You don't want the baby?" He's using every effort he can to not show the shock he feels at that idea now that she is looking at him. "Whenever you talk to Henry about it you both seem so... excited." He shrugs.
She mirrors his shrug, her gaze drifting down to the fire again. "I think Henry is just happy to have another girl around to talk about girl things with." Her left hand comes up to absently rub her growing belly, barely visible as more than a little weight gain even beneath the tight-fitting bodice of her dress. "And I-- I want him, of course I do. Even if I hadn't planned... I just wish he had a different father."
John opens his mouth and closes it again, hesitating to say what he wants to. Chelsea catches the motion out of the corner of her eye.
"Whatever it is just say it. I'm still sitting here after you admitted to being one of the soldiers who destroyed my life so I think it's pretty safe to assume whatever you tell me isn't going to make me run away."
He shakes his head, looking up at the sky and exhaling the words in a rush of breath. "I'll help you raise it if you want."
He keeps his eyes fixed on the stars, waiting. The moment of silence stretches between them, full of everything that she can't say.
"You are a stupid man, John Malone."
His laugh is bright and happy and just a little bit forced. "Care to tell me why?"
"Offering to raise the child of a whore?" Her tone is sarcastic, the biting question intended as a scathing insult. She rolls her eyes and the gesture is a sharp pang in his chest that reminds him just how young she is.
He watches her for a long, quiet minute. The orange firelight reflects off her dark hair, moonlight behind her creating a contrasting silver halo. This is the kind of conversation he hates, where the tension and emotion is so thick it hurts. John has never been good at dealing with emotion.
It hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt. The kind that comes with the acceptance of loss, with recognizing the inevitability of it but making the choice to soldier on anyway. It's the hurt that comes with the desire to enjoy life despite resigning to live with the truth.
John isn't used to this feeling. He's not sure he's ever felt it before. He certainly can't put a name towards it.
Ever since he tried to go home after the Uprising and the scope of what he had helped do hit him, he's been running. Fist alone, then on the ship with Henry and the crew. He's always had a distraction to throw himself into, lies to hide his faults and doubts behind.
Now, standing here with this young woman he's come to care so much for, that dull hurt of acceptance blooms in his chest. There isn't anywhere to run, and even the careful lies that have always come so quickly to him dry up before they can leave his tongue.
"I'll help you raise the kid if you want," he says, and then surprising himself: "I love you."
He stares up at the cluster of stars as he waits for her to respond, the hurt sitting heavy between his lungs. He doesn't know where those words came from.
"You really think it's that easy? An empty promise to a lonely girl with no one else around to hear you make it? I know how you work, John."
The disgust in her voice thickens the already heavy air between them.
"It isn't like that, Chelsea. It-- well, it was at first, but it's not anymore. Hasn't been for a long time. I..." He hesitates, brushing his thumb through the stubble on his chin that's almost grown into what could be called a beard, for once at a loss for words. "I admire you."
She snorts derisively. "First it's love, now you admire me. Can't you make up your mind?"
"It can't be both?"
The sincerity behind his words would shock her if Chelsea didn't think she knew him so well. she's heard him be this sincere with so many people in the past that the effect is lost on her. His professions of love would have a better audience in a barmaid he had known for less than an hour. She feels cheated. He had her going and then-- And then.
She shakes her head, glancing through the corner of her eye to watch him watch the stars.
"Save it for someone who will believe you," she says.
Turning around to head back down the little hill, back to where the others are sleeping, she leaves him and his hurt behind.
He doesn't understand why she leaves, why she doesn't believe him. It is the first time he realizes that his way of making things easy for himself might actually just be making things harder.