(no subject)
TITLE: a vision too removed to mention
AUTHOR:
eudaimon
PAIRING: Lena/John
RATING: PG13
WORDS: 500
SUMMARY: Lena Riggi's Pops used to tell her stories about gods, but what the hell does she know about heroes?
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on fictionalised accounts of real people and no offense is meant.
A/N: A little love story for
newredshoes. Title from Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine.
Please, remember me
Fondly
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like 'We'll meet again'
And sometimes (by the ocean, mostly, and only ever for a few breaths at a time) he made her so, so sad. He came up out of the waves smiling and all she could ever think was how long am I going to have you? How long are you going to be mine?
Her Pops used to tell her stories about the God of the sea.
But Lena Riggi never knew much about gods and Lena Basilone didn't know much more. He wasn't even a hero to her. What he was was Gunny, that man who would not be told, the handsome, wonderful man who chased after her hat in the surf and kissed her for the first time in the shadow of a moving train. The flickering lights. The warm press of them.
And who cared if the whole world knew John Basilone?
Right there, right then, he was hers.
She'd felt out of place in her wedding gown. She was Paratrooper, falling through the clouds, propelled by her own weight. He'd been there to catch her; she'd anchored herself with her hands on either side of his face.
And the sun didn't shine on their wedding day, but she'd found that she didn't need it to. The breeze ruffled their hair and blew in miracles. She turned in the seat and watched him drive. And the wind had whispered it to her: the duration, plus six months. Or however long you have.
"Go and stand over there," she'd said, and he'd backed away from her. She'd leaned there and watched him undress, aware of how much she wanted him (thirty years old and she'd never wanted anyone like this). By the teach he reached for his belt, she couldn't wait any longer. She'd unfastened him herself, pushed his pants down with her fingers against his hot, bare skin. He pulled her against him still in her dress and she'd felt it then, what he'd said to her all of those times before.
Listen: you were the most beautiful girl in the world.
Afterwards, they lay in rumpled sheets and he made prophecies about her children, boys to ruin, girls to drive mad. She fastened a charm to keep him safe around his neck, protection for long journeys. She pushed up out of bed to make them both breakfast. At the door, she stopped and he was looking at her.
"What?" she said, but he never answered, and Lena Baslione had remembered everything that she'd ever known about heroes.
But who the hell can see forever anymore?
Half an hour later, she'd been cooking in the kitchen, his shirt loosely buttoned and no panties, and he'd walked by on his way to the bathroom, naked in the corner of her eye.
And everyone said, ooh, aah, there goes John Basilone, the hero of Guadalcanal.
Crossposted ( with
comments) at my dreamwidth | comment at the original entry
AUTHOR:
eudaimon
PAIRING: Lena/John
RATING: PG13
WORDS: 500
SUMMARY: Lena Riggi's Pops used to tell her stories about gods, but what the hell does she know about heroes?
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on fictionalised accounts of real people and no offense is meant.
A/N: A little love story for
newredshoes. Title from Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine.
Please, remember me
Fondly
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like 'We'll meet again'
And sometimes (by the ocean, mostly, and only ever for a few breaths at a time) he made her so, so sad. He came up out of the waves smiling and all she could ever think was how long am I going to have you? How long are you going to be mine?
Her Pops used to tell her stories about the God of the sea.
But Lena Riggi never knew much about gods and Lena Basilone didn't know much more. He wasn't even a hero to her. What he was was Gunny, that man who would not be told, the handsome, wonderful man who chased after her hat in the surf and kissed her for the first time in the shadow of a moving train. The flickering lights. The warm press of them.
And who cared if the whole world knew John Basilone?
Right there, right then, he was hers.
She'd felt out of place in her wedding gown. She was Paratrooper, falling through the clouds, propelled by her own weight. He'd been there to catch her; she'd anchored herself with her hands on either side of his face.
And the sun didn't shine on their wedding day, but she'd found that she didn't need it to. The breeze ruffled their hair and blew in miracles. She turned in the seat and watched him drive. And the wind had whispered it to her: the duration, plus six months. Or however long you have.
"Go and stand over there," she'd said, and he'd backed away from her. She'd leaned there and watched him undress, aware of how much she wanted him (thirty years old and she'd never wanted anyone like this). By the teach he reached for his belt, she couldn't wait any longer. She'd unfastened him herself, pushed his pants down with her fingers against his hot, bare skin. He pulled her against him still in her dress and she'd felt it then, what he'd said to her all of those times before.
Listen: you were the most beautiful girl in the world.
Afterwards, they lay in rumpled sheets and he made prophecies about her children, boys to ruin, girls to drive mad. She fastened a charm to keep him safe around his neck, protection for long journeys. She pushed up out of bed to make them both breakfast. At the door, she stopped and he was looking at her.
"What?" she said, but he never answered, and Lena Baslione had remembered everything that she'd ever known about heroes.
But who the hell can see forever anymore?
Half an hour later, she'd been cooking in the kitchen, his shirt loosely buttoned and no panties, and he'd walked by on his way to the bathroom, naked in the corner of her eye.
And everyone said, ooh, aah, there goes John Basilone, the hero of Guadalcanal.
Crossposted ( with
comments) at my dreamwidth | comment at the original entry