FIC: Hydroplane (SB/VM) {PG-13}
Nov. 22nd, 2003 10:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helens78 posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleTitle: Hydroplane
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
helens78
Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Heavy angst.
Disclaimer: Step away from the crack pipe. This never happened. It is entirely a work of fiction.
The heater's no good on a day like this. The rain's coming down so hard and so cold that the heat coming up against the glass just makes it fog up faster. The only way to keep the windshield clear is to turn the air conditioner all the way up and shiver.
The windshield wipers on the car are old, and they make soft thudding noises as they move from side to side. There's enough rain they aren't squeaking anymore, which they usually do. I don't know how far I'm going to have to go before the rain will stop. There's a station in my head where the inner voices are collecting bets on which will run out first -- the rain or my endless invectives, the names I'm calling myself right now. I'm not going to tell them to shut up. Anything to drown out the way his face looked before I walked out of his house this morning.
If I were home, I'd know where to go. I'd get myself somewhere quiet and I'd break up the silence with my screams, and after my throat was raw and my body was shaking from exhaustion, I'd sit back a while. I'd smoke. And then I'd drive back.
I don't know where to go here. I don't know where the roads lead, and sometimes when I think I'm taking a brand new turn and heading off somewhere I've never been before, I end up right back where I started.
I can still see. I'm cold and the water's running off my hair and catching in my collar, and somehow I'm sweating anyway. But I can still see, and there are no steamclouds of breath coming out of my mouth, which all adds up to a picture where I'm not crying. Not screaming. Somehow I'm hanging on, and that just gives the voices in my head more fuel. You don't even care enough to scream.
Not here. Not like this. Just get out of the rain and get somewhere you can stop, and then...
It wasn't an accident. I could have blamed it on too much drink or too many faces in the crowd. The late night, the way none of us are sleeping right now. Being homesick. Wanting someone to lean hard on. I gave him the truth. At least there's that. If he's going to look at me like that, if he's going to hate me, at least he hates me for the right reasons. He doesn't hate me for being careless.
I should have gone last night. It was late, and I was tired, but I could have gotten myself home. I would have gone, if he hadn't caught me by the arm and said Stay. I should have known better. You don't fucking spend the night with men who don't know where their heart is, where their affections lie. You don't give them something to look at in the morning that says Everything in my life is different. You don't make them face the fact that half the things they used to believe are a lie.
I can't talk him into thinking he loves me back. I can't push him into taking back the look on his face. He woke up wrapped around me, and for the first few minutes while I was making the transition from dream back to reality, I was happy. I was complete.
I have to pull off to the side of the road. The rain's coming down so hard no one can see anymore; I'm not the only one taking to the shoulder. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. The rain's going to pass soon. Just need to take to the shoulder and rest. Just need to rest.
The rain's so loud it drowns out everything. Drowns out screaming, and cursing, and the rest of it, those things I wanted to put into words and knew well enough not to.
The windows are steamed again by the time I come out of it. I get my breathing into order and rub the sleeve of my jacket against the windshield, breaking up some of the fog. It's enough to drive by. I pull back onto the road and look for the first opportunity to turn around. I did know better. I knew how his eyes were going to look at me the next morning, and I thought I could hold that look back if I didn't say everything that was in my mind. I thought we had a chance.
My apartment almost laughs at me when I get home. I can see the remnants of last night all over it. The sketch I was halfway through when I got his phone call. The box of mac and cheese I was about to cook when he suggested dinner instead. The paint-stained t-shirt I threw off in the front room before going to the bedroom and looking for something clean to wear. Back in the bedroom, the bed's laughing at me, too -- the sheets are cold, and they know I didn't sleep here last night. My stomach twists, and I head back to the kitchen.
There's a message on my answering machine. I don't want to know. More to the point, I know it's not him, and I can't think of anyone else I'd want to hear from right now. He's not the type to leave a message. If he wanted to talk to me, the phone would still be ringing off the hook. He'd be at my doorstep.
I'm a weak fucking fool; I hit the button on the answering machine anyway, hoping it's him and steeling myself because I know it's not. There are a few little electronic clicks before the answering machine emits a dial tone. I have a moment of fantasy, where I think maybe it was Sean trying to think of something to say and finally hanging up, before I realize it's more likely the call is from a telemarketing machine that hung up as soon as it realized it was talking to an answering machine.
And for some reason, the idea that my answering machine just shot my last hope down makes me think the answering machine would look better in pieces. It gets yanked out of the wall and thrown across the room, and then my throat is too hoarse to scream again.
I have to snap out of this. We're going to be here another six weeks before everyone packs up and goes home, and if I'm acting like my best friend just broke my heart, he's not even going to want to speak to me. Bad enough coming this close to getting everything I wanted and having it taken right back. I can manage starting at square one. I don't want to take a step back after that.
Someone's knocking at my door. I give an accusing look to the corpse of my answering machine on the floor and kick plastic pieces out of the way so I can find out who's here at this time of day.
The rain's picked up even more, by the sound of it; I get the door open and--
"Hi."
Sean has both his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, and he's drenched. The darkness of the water staining the shoulders of his jacket makes him look even paler than usual, and I don't know what to make of him. He doesn't look good. Doesn't look bad. He's just here.
"Should I come in, or do you want me on the porch, then?" he asks.
I take a step back and open the door up for him. "In," I tell him, "sorry about the mess."
He doesn't even notice the mess at this point; just steps over discarded papers and shoes and the books that seem to collect on the floor around the couch as if by magic. He takes a seat and looks over his shoulder at me, which means I'm supposed to go sit down, too. I push papers out of the way and sit down on the floor; I don't really want to share couch cushions with him right now.
"I'm sorry about--"
"Don't." I cut him off. "I thought we'd just say nothing happened. You know. It didn't work." I shrug.
"Is that what you want?" he asks. Quietly. Evenly. Like he doesn't even know it's killing me to have him here.
"Yeah," I mumble, not looking at him. "That's what I want."
He stays silent for a long time; I can feel his eyes on me. I wince, and finally look back up at him.
"What, Sean?"
"I wish I'd known sooner," he says. "Wish I'd had more time to think about it before it happened."
There's more bitterness in my voice than I'd like when I tell him, "You've got all the time in the world to think about it now. But I guess that doesn't really help, does it?"
"Not much," he shoots back. "Do you want to know what kills me about last night?"
"No," I mumble.
Silence again, heavy and uncomfortable, and he's not moving, not going anywhere. I put both hands over my face for a moment and then take them away, trying not to break down or throw something at him, or throw myself at him.
"All right," I say. "Tell me."
"It kills me that you spent last night saying It's all right, it's fine, let me talk you through this. And then this morning it was not all right and not fine and you didn't try to talk me through a fucking thing."
"What would you have liked?" I ask him; my voice sounds like well-worn gravel.
"I would have liked to know you were still my friend. That if we never fuck again, it's all right. And if I wanted to... with you... again... that you'd talk me through it."
I wince at the way he says fuck, even though of course it's true. Of course it's what it was to him.
I give him the oldest line in the book. "It's not about you, Sean. It's about me."
"Oh, fucking spare me that sort of dancing around the matter. Do you think you're the only one who's scared now?"
I look up at him, and God, he's fucking beautiful, and he looks so angry and desperate and confused and frustrated. I want to touch him, want to talk him through this the way I promised, want to tell him so many things...
I stand up and stalk across the front room. Can't do this. "Enough," I tell him. "There's the door. Get out."
"There's the--" Sean stands up and I can hear him following me down the hall. "You don't fucking tell me to go. Not after last night you don't. Not after this morning."
"Then I'll go," I mutter, and I turn around, push past him, get out on the porch. It's fucking freezing and I'm barefoot and the rain's coming down, and I can't stay in the same room with him.
He grabs me by the arm and drags me back under the overhanging of the porch. "Stop this," he shouts at me. I don't know why he's shouting. The rain isn't that loud.
"Let go," I tell him. Can't look at him now.
"I don't want to let go. I want to find out if last night meant something." Sean drags me back and shakes me, both hands on my upper arms now, face close to mine. "Did it mean something?" he asks.
I look up at him, and I don't know what's in my eyes. I know what's in my heart. Fury, and terror, and goddamn but I'm in love with him, and yes last night meant something, Sean. Yes, it meant something.
His hands come off my arms, and I fist both hands in his jacket and push him backwards, pressing him up against the wall of my house. He grabs for me, hands coming up to my forearms, and for all that we're both standing outdoors in the cold with the rain pouring down around us, his body is warm and his mouth is warmer. And he's kissing me back with everything he's got.
I pull away to breathe. He rests his head against my shoulder, and I run my hand over his hair, almost petting him, cupping the back of his neck in my hand. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"All right," he tells me. "Tell me you're sorry later. Just come inside with me now. Come in out of the rain with me."
I nod against him and head up the stairs. Neither one of us knows what happens next. I don't know what happens, and I don't want to look ahead. He wants me in out of the rain, and he wants to be out of the rain with me. That's good enough.
Author:
helens78Pairing: SB/VM
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Heavy angst.
Disclaimer: Step away from the crack pipe. This never happened. It is entirely a work of fiction.
The heater's no good on a day like this. The rain's coming down so hard and so cold that the heat coming up against the glass just makes it fog up faster. The only way to keep the windshield clear is to turn the air conditioner all the way up and shiver.
The windshield wipers on the car are old, and they make soft thudding noises as they move from side to side. There's enough rain they aren't squeaking anymore, which they usually do. I don't know how far I'm going to have to go before the rain will stop. There's a station in my head where the inner voices are collecting bets on which will run out first -- the rain or my endless invectives, the names I'm calling myself right now. I'm not going to tell them to shut up. Anything to drown out the way his face looked before I walked out of his house this morning.
If I were home, I'd know where to go. I'd get myself somewhere quiet and I'd break up the silence with my screams, and after my throat was raw and my body was shaking from exhaustion, I'd sit back a while. I'd smoke. And then I'd drive back.
I don't know where to go here. I don't know where the roads lead, and sometimes when I think I'm taking a brand new turn and heading off somewhere I've never been before, I end up right back where I started.
I can still see. I'm cold and the water's running off my hair and catching in my collar, and somehow I'm sweating anyway. But I can still see, and there are no steamclouds of breath coming out of my mouth, which all adds up to a picture where I'm not crying. Not screaming. Somehow I'm hanging on, and that just gives the voices in my head more fuel. You don't even care enough to scream.
Not here. Not like this. Just get out of the rain and get somewhere you can stop, and then...
It wasn't an accident. I could have blamed it on too much drink or too many faces in the crowd. The late night, the way none of us are sleeping right now. Being homesick. Wanting someone to lean hard on. I gave him the truth. At least there's that. If he's going to look at me like that, if he's going to hate me, at least he hates me for the right reasons. He doesn't hate me for being careless.
I should have gone last night. It was late, and I was tired, but I could have gotten myself home. I would have gone, if he hadn't caught me by the arm and said Stay. I should have known better. You don't fucking spend the night with men who don't know where their heart is, where their affections lie. You don't give them something to look at in the morning that says Everything in my life is different. You don't make them face the fact that half the things they used to believe are a lie.
I can't talk him into thinking he loves me back. I can't push him into taking back the look on his face. He woke up wrapped around me, and for the first few minutes while I was making the transition from dream back to reality, I was happy. I was complete.
I have to pull off to the side of the road. The rain's coming down so hard no one can see anymore; I'm not the only one taking to the shoulder. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. The rain's going to pass soon. Just need to take to the shoulder and rest. Just need to rest.
The rain's so loud it drowns out everything. Drowns out screaming, and cursing, and the rest of it, those things I wanted to put into words and knew well enough not to.
The windows are steamed again by the time I come out of it. I get my breathing into order and rub the sleeve of my jacket against the windshield, breaking up some of the fog. It's enough to drive by. I pull back onto the road and look for the first opportunity to turn around. I did know better. I knew how his eyes were going to look at me the next morning, and I thought I could hold that look back if I didn't say everything that was in my mind. I thought we had a chance.
My apartment almost laughs at me when I get home. I can see the remnants of last night all over it. The sketch I was halfway through when I got his phone call. The box of mac and cheese I was about to cook when he suggested dinner instead. The paint-stained t-shirt I threw off in the front room before going to the bedroom and looking for something clean to wear. Back in the bedroom, the bed's laughing at me, too -- the sheets are cold, and they know I didn't sleep here last night. My stomach twists, and I head back to the kitchen.
There's a message on my answering machine. I don't want to know. More to the point, I know it's not him, and I can't think of anyone else I'd want to hear from right now. He's not the type to leave a message. If he wanted to talk to me, the phone would still be ringing off the hook. He'd be at my doorstep.
I'm a weak fucking fool; I hit the button on the answering machine anyway, hoping it's him and steeling myself because I know it's not. There are a few little electronic clicks before the answering machine emits a dial tone. I have a moment of fantasy, where I think maybe it was Sean trying to think of something to say and finally hanging up, before I realize it's more likely the call is from a telemarketing machine that hung up as soon as it realized it was talking to an answering machine.
And for some reason, the idea that my answering machine just shot my last hope down makes me think the answering machine would look better in pieces. It gets yanked out of the wall and thrown across the room, and then my throat is too hoarse to scream again.
I have to snap out of this. We're going to be here another six weeks before everyone packs up and goes home, and if I'm acting like my best friend just broke my heart, he's not even going to want to speak to me. Bad enough coming this close to getting everything I wanted and having it taken right back. I can manage starting at square one. I don't want to take a step back after that.
Someone's knocking at my door. I give an accusing look to the corpse of my answering machine on the floor and kick plastic pieces out of the way so I can find out who's here at this time of day.
The rain's picked up even more, by the sound of it; I get the door open and--
"Hi."
Sean has both his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, and he's drenched. The darkness of the water staining the shoulders of his jacket makes him look even paler than usual, and I don't know what to make of him. He doesn't look good. Doesn't look bad. He's just here.
"Should I come in, or do you want me on the porch, then?" he asks.
I take a step back and open the door up for him. "In," I tell him, "sorry about the mess."
He doesn't even notice the mess at this point; just steps over discarded papers and shoes and the books that seem to collect on the floor around the couch as if by magic. He takes a seat and looks over his shoulder at me, which means I'm supposed to go sit down, too. I push papers out of the way and sit down on the floor; I don't really want to share couch cushions with him right now.
"I'm sorry about--"
"Don't." I cut him off. "I thought we'd just say nothing happened. You know. It didn't work." I shrug.
"Is that what you want?" he asks. Quietly. Evenly. Like he doesn't even know it's killing me to have him here.
"Yeah," I mumble, not looking at him. "That's what I want."
He stays silent for a long time; I can feel his eyes on me. I wince, and finally look back up at him.
"What, Sean?"
"I wish I'd known sooner," he says. "Wish I'd had more time to think about it before it happened."
There's more bitterness in my voice than I'd like when I tell him, "You've got all the time in the world to think about it now. But I guess that doesn't really help, does it?"
"Not much," he shoots back. "Do you want to know what kills me about last night?"
"No," I mumble.
Silence again, heavy and uncomfortable, and he's not moving, not going anywhere. I put both hands over my face for a moment and then take them away, trying not to break down or throw something at him, or throw myself at him.
"All right," I say. "Tell me."
"It kills me that you spent last night saying It's all right, it's fine, let me talk you through this. And then this morning it was not all right and not fine and you didn't try to talk me through a fucking thing."
"What would you have liked?" I ask him; my voice sounds like well-worn gravel.
"I would have liked to know you were still my friend. That if we never fuck again, it's all right. And if I wanted to... with you... again... that you'd talk me through it."
I wince at the way he says fuck, even though of course it's true. Of course it's what it was to him.
I give him the oldest line in the book. "It's not about you, Sean. It's about me."
"Oh, fucking spare me that sort of dancing around the matter. Do you think you're the only one who's scared now?"
I look up at him, and God, he's fucking beautiful, and he looks so angry and desperate and confused and frustrated. I want to touch him, want to talk him through this the way I promised, want to tell him so many things...
I stand up and stalk across the front room. Can't do this. "Enough," I tell him. "There's the door. Get out."
"There's the--" Sean stands up and I can hear him following me down the hall. "You don't fucking tell me to go. Not after last night you don't. Not after this morning."
"Then I'll go," I mutter, and I turn around, push past him, get out on the porch. It's fucking freezing and I'm barefoot and the rain's coming down, and I can't stay in the same room with him.
He grabs me by the arm and drags me back under the overhanging of the porch. "Stop this," he shouts at me. I don't know why he's shouting. The rain isn't that loud.
"Let go," I tell him. Can't look at him now.
"I don't want to let go. I want to find out if last night meant something." Sean drags me back and shakes me, both hands on my upper arms now, face close to mine. "Did it mean something?" he asks.
I look up at him, and I don't know what's in my eyes. I know what's in my heart. Fury, and terror, and goddamn but I'm in love with him, and yes last night meant something, Sean. Yes, it meant something.
His hands come off my arms, and I fist both hands in his jacket and push him backwards, pressing him up against the wall of my house. He grabs for me, hands coming up to my forearms, and for all that we're both standing outdoors in the cold with the rain pouring down around us, his body is warm and his mouth is warmer. And he's kissing me back with everything he's got.
I pull away to breathe. He rests his head against my shoulder, and I run my hand over his hair, almost petting him, cupping the back of his neck in my hand. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"All right," he tells me. "Tell me you're sorry later. Just come inside with me now. Come in out of the rain with me."
I nod against him and head up the stairs. Neither one of us knows what happens next. I don't know what happens, and I don't want to look ahead. He wants me in out of the rain, and he wants to be out of the rain with me. That's good enough.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-11-23 05:26 am (UTC)Thanks for this. I loved it.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-23 05:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-23 10:58 pm (UTC)Wow... that was incoherent. Sorry! But what it comes down to is, I love this, I love that you can write Viggo in first person (I can't even try...), and I'd love to see more!
*hugs you*
~Kris
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 12:58 am (UTC)My angst does tend to have happy endings. I just torture the muses until I'm ready to let them have the "happily ever after", I think. ;)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 03:02 am (UTC)Oooh, I loved this. It seemed so realistic and there was a resolution at the end and their so beautiful, no matter how you play them. And I am making no sense, but you get the idea, I hope.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-24 05:30 am (UTC)