fic: never once did I think of Roanoke, Virginia
veronica mars/gilmore girls. veronica/jess. 500 words. "Is that why you're dressed like a reject from West Side Story? Did the Jets kick you out?"
notes: for s. title from this awesome poem that you should read.
If you aren't careful California will swallow you whole, spit you out as nothing more than an empty shell with a heart that bleeds more than it beats.
This girl is like that too. But where the sunny behemoth, straddling the Pacific like a lover who’s been beaten into submission, releases neon lights and Xanax in clear orange bottles, Veronica Mars only gives a smile.
There's danger written on her face, but it's not the sort you would think of.
-
"I'm a private detective."
"I didn't know they existed, except in books."
"I'm not very tall either."
See how clever these kids are.
-
At some point Ronny writes off epic stories as a bridge too far. Spanning years and continents was always more Tolstoy's purview than Hammett's and these things do matter.
Line up all the lies you've told in a row and chances are it won't be near so long as that of the ones people have believed about you.
Hers stretch halfway to the sun and, as luck and its bastard sister chance would have it, his do too.
Sometimes it's the small things.
-
Jess Mariano is nineteen years old and he is running. Not from the past, or himself, or anything else so trivial. He is running from life.
He's in LA.
He's done an awfully good job of it.
-
You should know, a lie is just a well-imagined truth. It's also entirely dependent on geography.
Elsewhere the phrase 'private detective' would spring back regurgitated as her name on a neat white card, letters printed in Times New because Arial is a bitch. That's somewhere else, somewhere not here.
In this city, that doesn't lack satire in its choice of name (she'll give it that), her words bounce off the bar and he thinks they're a lie and that's good enough for her.
Here she's just a high school dropout; nicotine stains on her fingers masking how badly they shake.
That makes this hand two of a kind.
-
"So, New York?"
"Yeah."
"Is that why you're dressed like a reject from West Side Story? Did the Jets kick you out?"
"Fuck off."
"And we were having such a nice conversation. Come on then, I know a place."
-
Life is either a bad cabaret or a joke.
Then again, she might just be drunk tonight. Either way one-night stands are as good a way to pass the time as anything.
When he kisses her, and he does, she hadn't taken him for a romantic; he says, "you don't look like anyone I know. Not at all."
She laughs against his mouth because she likes the taste of him.
-
He gets out alive. Leaves in the morning while her skin is still cradled in sheets, she isn't asleep but let's pretend.
He gets out alive and maybe some would find this a surprise but they shouldn't.
He's not what she wanted. He isn't what she wanted at all.
notes: for s. title from this awesome poem that you should read.
If you aren't careful California will swallow you whole, spit you out as nothing more than an empty shell with a heart that bleeds more than it beats.
This girl is like that too. But where the sunny behemoth, straddling the Pacific like a lover who’s been beaten into submission, releases neon lights and Xanax in clear orange bottles, Veronica Mars only gives a smile.
There's danger written on her face, but it's not the sort you would think of.
-
"I'm a private detective."
"I didn't know they existed, except in books."
"I'm not very tall either."
See how clever these kids are.
-
At some point Ronny writes off epic stories as a bridge too far. Spanning years and continents was always more Tolstoy's purview than Hammett's and these things do matter.
Line up all the lies you've told in a row and chances are it won't be near so long as that of the ones people have believed about you.
Hers stretch halfway to the sun and, as luck and its bastard sister chance would have it, his do too.
Sometimes it's the small things.
-
Jess Mariano is nineteen years old and he is running. Not from the past, or himself, or anything else so trivial. He is running from life.
He's in LA.
He's done an awfully good job of it.
-
You should know, a lie is just a well-imagined truth. It's also entirely dependent on geography.
Elsewhere the phrase 'private detective' would spring back regurgitated as her name on a neat white card, letters printed in Times New because Arial is a bitch. That's somewhere else, somewhere not here.
In this city, that doesn't lack satire in its choice of name (she'll give it that), her words bounce off the bar and he thinks they're a lie and that's good enough for her.
Here she's just a high school dropout; nicotine stains on her fingers masking how badly they shake.
That makes this hand two of a kind.
-
"So, New York?"
"Yeah."
"Is that why you're dressed like a reject from West Side Story? Did the Jets kick you out?"
"Fuck off."
"And we were having such a nice conversation. Come on then, I know a place."
-
Life is either a bad cabaret or a joke.
Then again, she might just be drunk tonight. Either way one-night stands are as good a way to pass the time as anything.
When he kisses her, and he does, she hadn't taken him for a romantic; he says, "you don't look like anyone I know. Not at all."
She laughs against his mouth because she likes the taste of him.
-
He gets out alive. Leaves in the morning while her skin is still cradled in sheets, she isn't asleep but let's pretend.
He gets out alive and maybe some would find this a surprise but they shouldn't.
He's not what she wanted. He isn't what she wanted at all.