Fic: Deep down, you know your insides never change
For this prompt at the Awesome Ladies Ficathon.
Deep down, you know your insides never change
Emily; Emily/Ali - Pretty Little Liars
PG | ~850
Emily worries that one day she'll run out of room for all these secrets, worries still that when she does they'll all come spilling out of her for the world to see.
They're supposed to be doing Algebra. It's more Emily's doing the Algebra and Ali's doing her nails. Emily upturns her pencil and erases her answer for number thirty-six.
“What's, uh-- what's the coefficient, the one before or after the factor?”
Ali sighs, raises an eyebrow, “Do I look like Spencer? Nope, no plaid, no argyle, no field-hockey knees. So, I'm gonna go ahead and say no, no idea.”
Emily watches as Ali purses her lips into this perfect “O” and blows delicately on a fresh coat of iridescent berry pink. If Emily's staring, if Ali notices, Ali says nothing.
--
The last week before school starts up again for sophomore year, Ali insists they all check out this killer party at some guy's house. Aria and Hanna spend most of the night discussing the best way to get Sean's attention without a bible and Spencer just keeps reminding them all to keep an eye on their drinks because date rape is no laughing matter.
Ali bides her time in front of one boy then the next, right hand wrapped around a Solo cup and the left around Emily's wrist.
--
Then there's this one night, when Emily is about to go to bed, and really, it's nothing. She gets the lights and goes over to the window to draw the blinds. She can just see Ali across the lawn in her own room. Emily lifts a hand to wave, but stands frozen (invisible) when Ali turns her back and pulls her own shirt up over her head and off.
Emily doesn't look. She couldn't see anything anyway.
--
“So, swimmer-boy was checking you out.”
“What?”
“You know, what's-his-name? Dark hair.”
“Who, Ben?”
“Ben. Checking you out.”
“He was not, he was just asking about try-outs. It wasn't even like that.”
“Right.”
--
Ali can be kind of a bitch sometimes. Often. Often and without remorse.
--
“Emily, Emily, Emily Fields.”
“Alison, Alison, Alison DiLaurentis.”
Ali smiles, warm and slow, says: “I am drunk. Are you drunk?”
“I think I'm getting there,” Emily says back. Not as fast as Ali, granted, but that's probably because Emily is taller and the alcohol has further to travel to get to her brain. Maybe she is drunk.
“Hey, Em?”
“Hey, what?”
And Ali rolls over so she can just reach and there's this sudden tangle of legs and this total mess of mouths and Emily's never really been much for praying but, god, she's praying she's not so drunk she won't remember this tomorrow.
(She remembers, and Emily can tell by the way she smirks that Ali remembers too, but Ali never brings it up so of course Emily can't.)
--
Emily tries hard not to dwell. She's got a lot of other things to worry about like her swim meet next Wednesday and the History mid-term she'll probably fail if Spencer doesn't loan her those flashcards and Ben because he actually was checking Emily out.
Not. Dwelling.
--
When she's not being a bitch, Ali can be thoughtful and sweet and beautiful (and devastating, mostly that). But, again, not often.
--
After the whole Jenna Thing - and that's what they've all come to call it, when they talk about it all, which they never do - Emily learns to recognize that secret, private part of her where she hides all the things she doesn't want to seehearknow. She tucks the Jenna Thing away, right there next to her mother's expectations and her father's absenteeism. She sandwiches it between the way Ben looks at her like he knows and the way Ali looks at her like she knows.
Emily worries that one day she'll run out of room for all these secrets, worries still that when she does they'll all come spilling out of her for the world to see.
--
“Yo, Earth to Emily,” Aria snaps her fingers in front of Emily's face and Emily looks up to see everyone watching her. “Where'd you go?”
“Nowhere, sorry.” Emily tries then to focus on what Aria's saying, and she's hearing the words, but not understanding any of them. Aria must give up on her because she turns to Hanna and Hanna answers like she was actually listening. Spencer pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them and mm-hmms when necessary.
Emily - reliable, predictable Emily - lets her eyes slide back to where Ali is in front of the mirror. Ali meets her gaze in the reflection and cocks her head to one side, smile practiced and crooked.
“Hey, Em, red or black?” Ali holds up two dresses, lifting one then the other in appraisal.
(There's this twist in Emily's chest, in that old, quiet part of her that she doesn't quite know how to label.)
“Red,” Emily says. She has to work to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. “Definitely red.”
Deep down, you know your insides never change
Emily; Emily/Ali - Pretty Little Liars
PG | ~850
Emily worries that one day she'll run out of room for all these secrets, worries still that when she does they'll all come spilling out of her for the world to see.
They're supposed to be doing Algebra. It's more Emily's doing the Algebra and Ali's doing her nails. Emily upturns her pencil and erases her answer for number thirty-six.
“What's, uh-- what's the coefficient, the one before or after the factor?”
Ali sighs, raises an eyebrow, “Do I look like Spencer? Nope, no plaid, no argyle, no field-hockey knees. So, I'm gonna go ahead and say no, no idea.”
Emily watches as Ali purses her lips into this perfect “O” and blows delicately on a fresh coat of iridescent berry pink. If Emily's staring, if Ali notices, Ali says nothing.
--
The last week before school starts up again for sophomore year, Ali insists they all check out this killer party at some guy's house. Aria and Hanna spend most of the night discussing the best way to get Sean's attention without a bible and Spencer just keeps reminding them all to keep an eye on their drinks because date rape is no laughing matter.
Ali bides her time in front of one boy then the next, right hand wrapped around a Solo cup and the left around Emily's wrist.
--
Then there's this one night, when Emily is about to go to bed, and really, it's nothing. She gets the lights and goes over to the window to draw the blinds. She can just see Ali across the lawn in her own room. Emily lifts a hand to wave, but stands frozen (invisible) when Ali turns her back and pulls her own shirt up over her head and off.
Emily doesn't look. She couldn't see anything anyway.
--
“So, swimmer-boy was checking you out.”
“What?”
“You know, what's-his-name? Dark hair.”
“Who, Ben?”
“Ben. Checking you out.”
“He was not, he was just asking about try-outs. It wasn't even like that.”
“Right.”
--
Ali can be kind of a bitch sometimes. Often. Often and without remorse.
--
“Emily, Emily, Emily Fields.”
“Alison, Alison, Alison DiLaurentis.”
Ali smiles, warm and slow, says: “I am drunk. Are you drunk?”
“I think I'm getting there,” Emily says back. Not as fast as Ali, granted, but that's probably because Emily is taller and the alcohol has further to travel to get to her brain. Maybe she is drunk.
“Hey, Em?”
“Hey, what?”
And Ali rolls over so she can just reach and there's this sudden tangle of legs and this total mess of mouths and Emily's never really been much for praying but, god, she's praying she's not so drunk she won't remember this tomorrow.
(She remembers, and Emily can tell by the way she smirks that Ali remembers too, but Ali never brings it up so of course Emily can't.)
--
Emily tries hard not to dwell. She's got a lot of other things to worry about like her swim meet next Wednesday and the History mid-term she'll probably fail if Spencer doesn't loan her those flashcards and Ben because he actually was checking Emily out.
Not. Dwelling.
--
When she's not being a bitch, Ali can be thoughtful and sweet and beautiful (and devastating, mostly that). But, again, not often.
--
After the whole Jenna Thing - and that's what they've all come to call it, when they talk about it all, which they never do - Emily learns to recognize that secret, private part of her where she hides all the things she doesn't want to seehearknow. She tucks the Jenna Thing away, right there next to her mother's expectations and her father's absenteeism. She sandwiches it between the way Ben looks at her like he knows and the way Ali looks at her like she knows.
Emily worries that one day she'll run out of room for all these secrets, worries still that when she does they'll all come spilling out of her for the world to see.
--
“Yo, Earth to Emily,” Aria snaps her fingers in front of Emily's face and Emily looks up to see everyone watching her. “Where'd you go?”
“Nowhere, sorry.” Emily tries then to focus on what Aria's saying, and she's hearing the words, but not understanding any of them. Aria must give up on her because she turns to Hanna and Hanna answers like she was actually listening. Spencer pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them and mm-hmms when necessary.
Emily - reliable, predictable Emily - lets her eyes slide back to where Ali is in front of the mirror. Ali meets her gaze in the reflection and cocks her head to one side, smile practiced and crooked.
“Hey, Em, red or black?” Ali holds up two dresses, lifting one then the other in appraisal.
(There's this twist in Emily's chest, in that old, quiet part of her that she doesn't quite know how to label.)
“Red,” Emily says. She has to work to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. “Definitely red.”