Fic: "Cliche to the Heart" 5/10 (In the Future 2)
Title: Cliche to the Heart 5/10
Author: Me
Spoilers: References Bloodlust
Disclaimer: Fan fic, nothing owned
Word count: 545 words
Notes: This is het, R, Sam/Lenore. Future fic. Unbeta'd. Continues from the previous "In the Future" series.
Once again Lenore is forced to rely on skill, resolve and her breasts to keep them hidden and safe in the Horror Movie Motel as Sam has dubbed it. Money, blood, time - a safe quiet haven until Lenore is struck with inspiration to get things straightened out.
The town is so dead she hopes it’s haunted; at least it would give people something to look forward to (death, dismemberment) as opposed to a long slow death of nothingness.
“We should eat them, do ‘em a favor,” Sam says dryly when she voices this. Lenore of course doesn’t like this at all. Her temper is hair trigger on a good day - in the middle of a spate of bad days she’s a hissing bitch.
“Why can’t I joke?” he sighs, roaming around the tiny room with long legs and swinging arms. He’s brutally restless, teetering between out of control and scared. It makes Lenore’s flesh want to get up and run off her body.
“Because...because you can’t. Not about that.” She throws the magazine she’s reading across the room.
“You used to do it,” he murmurs. “You used to...we could find people who...”
“People who deserved it? Vigilante vampire, just eating enough bad guys to get by? Yeah, that doesn’t work okay? It not something you dabble in Sam,” she snaps, finally at her wit’s end. “You should have never pushed me into turning you!”
“I know.”
Her fists are clenched at her side; she’s spoiling for a fight but all she gets from Sam is defeat. Slumped shoulders. A pale face that reminds her of a young still idealistic man fighting for her life.
Truly she hates how much she loves him.
“I killed you once, I’m not doing it again.”
“Fine, be that way.” It’s a halfhearted attempted to joke and it stifles what’s left of her words.
He goes to the corner with his knapsack, reaching inside it and himself until she can see him shrink into the contemplative quiet of human Sam. It makes her eyes hurt and her throat itch.
***
Sam doesn’t say much from then on, thoughtful and quiet as he sits in the corner and reads. His father’s journal, his brother. His own. A few old books he carries around like precious cargo. Some have bookplates from a Catholic Church, others smell like ash and decades of use. They’re not especially helpful since almost everything of relevance is on the Internet but Sam won’t part with them. And Lenore doesn’t touch them; it would be like reading his diary.
She doesn’t engage him. They seem to be endlessly at this point, this stalemate. She doesn’t know how to help him transition properly because she isn’t objective.
And it’s not like she’s tapped into the vampire “community” and can make a call. “Hi, come make my lover into something I can manage”. She just wants to stop living in despair.
She’d also like to stop feeling pathetic. Soon she’s afraid the only ideas she’ll have will involve romantic swan dives into sunlight and suicide pacts. Nothing’s worse than living your whole life (and death) with some style and then having it end with a cliché to the heart.
Author: Me
Spoilers: References Bloodlust
Disclaimer: Fan fic, nothing owned
Word count: 545 words
Notes: This is het, R, Sam/Lenore. Future fic. Unbeta'd. Continues from the previous "In the Future" series.
Once again Lenore is forced to rely on skill, resolve and her breasts to keep them hidden and safe in the Horror Movie Motel as Sam has dubbed it. Money, blood, time - a safe quiet haven until Lenore is struck with inspiration to get things straightened out.
The town is so dead she hopes it’s haunted; at least it would give people something to look forward to (death, dismemberment) as opposed to a long slow death of nothingness.
“We should eat them, do ‘em a favor,” Sam says dryly when she voices this. Lenore of course doesn’t like this at all. Her temper is hair trigger on a good day - in the middle of a spate of bad days she’s a hissing bitch.
“Why can’t I joke?” he sighs, roaming around the tiny room with long legs and swinging arms. He’s brutally restless, teetering between out of control and scared. It makes Lenore’s flesh want to get up and run off her body.
“Because...because you can’t. Not about that.” She throws the magazine she’s reading across the room.
“You used to do it,” he murmurs. “You used to...we could find people who...”
“People who deserved it? Vigilante vampire, just eating enough bad guys to get by? Yeah, that doesn’t work okay? It not something you dabble in Sam,” she snaps, finally at her wit’s end. “You should have never pushed me into turning you!”
“I know.”
Her fists are clenched at her side; she’s spoiling for a fight but all she gets from Sam is defeat. Slumped shoulders. A pale face that reminds her of a young still idealistic man fighting for her life.
Truly she hates how much she loves him.
“I killed you once, I’m not doing it again.”
“Fine, be that way.” It’s a halfhearted attempted to joke and it stifles what’s left of her words.
He goes to the corner with his knapsack, reaching inside it and himself until she can see him shrink into the contemplative quiet of human Sam. It makes her eyes hurt and her throat itch.
***
Sam doesn’t say much from then on, thoughtful and quiet as he sits in the corner and reads. His father’s journal, his brother. His own. A few old books he carries around like precious cargo. Some have bookplates from a Catholic Church, others smell like ash and decades of use. They’re not especially helpful since almost everything of relevance is on the Internet but Sam won’t part with them. And Lenore doesn’t touch them; it would be like reading his diary.
She doesn’t engage him. They seem to be endlessly at this point, this stalemate. She doesn’t know how to help him transition properly because she isn’t objective.
And it’s not like she’s tapped into the vampire “community” and can make a call. “Hi, come make my lover into something I can manage”. She just wants to stop living in despair.
She’d also like to stop feeling pathetic. Soon she’s afraid the only ideas she’ll have will involve romantic swan dives into sunlight and suicide pacts. Nothing’s worse than living your whole life (and death) with some style and then having it end with a cliché to the heart.