Fic: yes the heart should always go one step too far
title: yes the heart should always go one step too far
word count: 499
disclaimer: By now, you guys all know that my mind on Jack and Renee is the poor egg on drugs (work with me). 'Nuf said.
warnings: show spoilers, references to suicidal thoughts and self-harm
This is for you, ws_scribe, with Christmas love and wishes for deployment that's as good as it can be during the holidays. For the complete list of prompts, you can click here.
Title is from 'Go Places,' by The New Pornographers.
*******
The hard part, it turns out, isn’t wanting not to die.
It’s wanting to live.
She does all the 'right' things.
Up and showered by nine (lipstick and mascara even if she's not going anywhere) so she won’t pull the covers over her head and keep hiding, bran flakes with skim milk (on weekends she cheats with Cocoa Puffs, feels decadent), outdoor walks regardless of weather, ten minutes of meditation to soothing new-age music before seven and a half hours of sleep.
A walking checklist of therapist-pleasing perfection.
She’s still stuck in the middle.
She thinks about the song.
Subtracts the "with you" part.
It’s December 17, assault of sparkling red and green when she just wants to buy tampons, perky Christmas music blaring from all the directions at once.
She huddles into the corner of her couch (clutch of hot chocolate in her cold hand); the wall behind her vibrates with bizarre hard-rock holiday tunes courtesy of the frat boys next door.
It’s pathetic as fuck and she knows it, but she can’t think of a single reason to smile.
*******
She saved all seven of Jack’s messages, but she’s listened to each one only once.
Now she plays them back in sequence, volume cranked high to drown out AC/DC creating unfortunate slant rhyme.
The first time, each soft syllable felt like stabbing.
Now, all she hears in the low, velvety-carved words is worry.
Concern.
Understanding.
She jams her thumb down on the call button before she can talk herself out of it again.
Edgy and nervous, she jumps at the click that signals connection.
And he doesn’t say, I’ve called you seven times. Why the hell didn’t you pick up? or, That wasn’t quite what I meant by ‘Try and make choices you can live with.’
He says her name.
Renee.
His voice feels like a fresh-from-the-dryer down comforter after you’ve been standing in a blizzard wearing shorts and a t-shirt.
“Hi,” is all she manages.
"I'm so glad you called," he says. But he sounds out of breath and she can tell he's keeping his voice low. There's noise in the background, conversation and the throb of music.
"Are you at Kim's?" she blurts. "We can talk another time."
"I'm in PT. Shit. I can't believe-" He hesitates. She closes her eyes and just listens to him breathe. "Can I call you back in half an hour? Wait, twenty-six minutes."
Then he laughs.
Barely, but the sound is so unfamiliar and lovely that she wants to record it, play it back when it's 3 a.m. and she's about to lose a staring contest with a bottle of Absolut.
"Of course. Take your time."
"Twenty-six minutes," he repeats. "Bye."
The smile she couldn't find before the phone call sneaks up from behind, taps her shoulder.
She glances at her watch.
Twenty-five.
*******
I have been mainlining Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Hot Buttered Rum" for a day now. If you are at all into music that sounds like poetry, I recommend it highly. *swoons*
And as always, entirely non fic-related comments/observations/randomness are welcome in this entry. Bring it on!
word count: 499
disclaimer: By now, you guys all know that my mind on Jack and Renee is the poor egg on drugs (work with me). 'Nuf said.
warnings: show spoilers, references to suicidal thoughts and self-harm
This is for you, ws_scribe, with Christmas love and wishes for deployment that's as good as it can be during the holidays. For the complete list of prompts, you can click here.
Title is from 'Go Places,' by The New Pornographers.
*******
The hard part, it turns out, isn’t wanting not to die.
It’s wanting to live.
She does all the 'right' things.
Up and showered by nine (lipstick and mascara even if she's not going anywhere) so she won’t pull the covers over her head and keep hiding, bran flakes with skim milk (on weekends she cheats with Cocoa Puffs, feels decadent), outdoor walks regardless of weather, ten minutes of meditation to soothing new-age music before seven and a half hours of sleep.
A walking checklist of therapist-pleasing perfection.
She’s still stuck in the middle.
She thinks about the song.
Subtracts the "with you" part.
It’s December 17, assault of sparkling red and green when she just wants to buy tampons, perky Christmas music blaring from all the directions at once.
She huddles into the corner of her couch (clutch of hot chocolate in her cold hand); the wall behind her vibrates with bizarre hard-rock holiday tunes courtesy of the frat boys next door.
It’s pathetic as fuck and she knows it, but she can’t think of a single reason to smile.
*******
She saved all seven of Jack’s messages, but she’s listened to each one only once.
Now she plays them back in sequence, volume cranked high to drown out AC/DC creating unfortunate slant rhyme.
The first time, each soft syllable felt like stabbing.
Now, all she hears in the low, velvety-carved words is worry.
Concern.
Understanding.
She jams her thumb down on the call button before she can talk herself out of it again.
Edgy and nervous, she jumps at the click that signals connection.
And he doesn’t say, I’ve called you seven times. Why the hell didn’t you pick up? or, That wasn’t quite what I meant by ‘Try and make choices you can live with.’
He says her name.
Renee.
His voice feels like a fresh-from-the-dryer down comforter after you’ve been standing in a blizzard wearing shorts and a t-shirt.
“Hi,” is all she manages.
"I'm so glad you called," he says. But he sounds out of breath and she can tell he's keeping his voice low. There's noise in the background, conversation and the throb of music.
"Are you at Kim's?" she blurts. "We can talk another time."
"I'm in PT. Shit. I can't believe-" He hesitates. She closes her eyes and just listens to him breathe. "Can I call you back in half an hour? Wait, twenty-six minutes."
Then he laughs.
Barely, but the sound is so unfamiliar and lovely that she wants to record it, play it back when it's 3 a.m. and she's about to lose a staring contest with a bottle of Absolut.
"Of course. Take your time."
"Twenty-six minutes," he repeats. "Bye."
The smile she couldn't find before the phone call sneaks up from behind, taps her shoulder.
She glances at her watch.
Twenty-five.
*******
I have been mainlining Mary Chapin Carpenter's "Hot Buttered Rum" for a day now. If you are at all into music that sounds like poetry, I recommend it highly. *swoons*
And as always, entirely non fic-related comments/observations/randomness are welcome in this entry. Bring it on!