Nov. 9th, 2006

Rant

Nov. 9th, 2006 10:07 pm
vanillafluffy: (Asylum grafitti)
Kripke, you bastard, if you Joss my WIP, I will be beyond pissed. Seriously.

Rant

Nov. 9th, 2006 10:07 pm
vanillafluffy: (Asylum grafitti)
Kripke, you bastard, if you Joss my WIP, I will be beyond pissed. Seriously.
vanillafluffy: (JW reward)
He returns later that year, in mid-November. This is a season of terrible memories for him; and she feels curiously honored that he's come here, to her, for refuge. She cooks for him, finds projects that need doing that he and Tallboy can work on together. Tallboy's just a few years older than his older boy (those sons she doesn't officially know about yet), and they labor in amiable accord putting up new gutters and mending her worn storm shutters.

This trip, her lover discovers how she makes her living. "A medium?" His lip curls with derision. He's sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning his fingernails with a Bowie knife that could take down a wildcat. "A two-bit hustler with a bunch of artsy-farsty New Age pretensions is more like it. You're a nice girl, Nancy, but don't think you're going to take me in with a load of parlor tricks and fakery."

She's been called worse, but she's not going to take that crap from him. "Oh? Well, you needn't think you can sit there and call me a liar in my own house, John Winchester. Let me just tell you a few things---" He's gone still when she called him by name, since all he admitted to before this was "John", and she's not going to give him a chance to claim she ran his car tags or some such malarkey. Nancy plucks the knife from his grasp, and it's as much of a revelation as bedding him was, but in an even less reassuring direction. He's carried it for more than twenty-five years, and soon she's telling him about events that happened a continent away during an undeclared war, incidents known only to him, and one or two others who linger only as shades of memory and names carved in granite.

"Now then," she says calmly, while he sits there, his tanned face a sickly shade of pale, "are you convinced that I'm telling you the truth, or should I go on?"

"I believe you," he says, his voice hoarse. When she tries to hand back the knife, John shakes his head. "Keep it," he tells her. "I have enough ghosts."
vanillafluffy: (JW reward)
He returns later that year, in mid-November. This is a season of terrible memories for him; and she feels curiously honored that he's come here, to her, for refuge. She cooks for him, finds projects that need doing that he and Tallboy can work on together. Tallboy's just a few years older than his older boy (those sons she doesn't officially know about yet), and they labor in amiable accord putting up new gutters and mending her worn storm shutters.

This trip, her lover discovers how she makes her living. "A medium?" His lip curls with derision. He's sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning his fingernails with a Bowie knife that could take down a wildcat. "A two-bit hustler with a bunch of artsy-farsty New Age pretensions is more like it. You're a nice girl, Nancy, but don't think you're going to take me in with a load of parlor tricks and fakery."

She's been called worse, but she's not going to take that crap from him. "Oh? Well, you needn't think you can sit there and call me a liar in my own house, John Winchester. Let me just tell you a few things---" He's gone still when she called him by name, since all he admitted to before this was "John", and she's not going to give him a chance to claim she ran his car tags or some such malarkey. Nancy plucks the knife from his grasp, and it's as much of a revelation as bedding him was, but in an even less reassuring direction. He's carried it for more than twenty-five years, and soon she's telling him about events that happened a continent away during an undeclared war, incidents known only to him, and one or two others who linger only as shades of memory and names carved in granite.

"Now then," she says calmly, while he sits there, his tanned face a sickly shade of pale, "are you convinced that I'm telling you the truth, or should I go on?"

"I believe you," he says, his voice hoarse. When she tries to hand back the knife, John shakes his head. "Keep it," he tells her. "I have enough ghosts."

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