Mini NoNoWriMo -- 442 words
Nov. 28th, 2006 09:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyWith the end of mini_nanowrimo in sight, I thought I ought to get back on track with my original project. More John and Nancy, this time from John's POV.
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Nancy is curled up in the passenger seat as John wheels the Impala home from Daytona Beach. They're cruising toward the sunset, vivid with shades of red-orange and plum. The light glints off her dusty hair, and John wonders, not for the first time, why he keeps coming back to this woman. She's not even a pale copy of Mary--- Mary could've been a model. Her smile lit up a room. Nancy reminds him of those photos of raw-boned farm women during the Depression; stoic, pragmatic...maybe that's why. He doesn't want or need a courtesan---a decent meal, a quick tumble, no strings attached, that's all he asks for, and that's what Nancy gives him.
It's been...he has to think about it...it was right after than business with the minor demon possessing a biker and infesting his pack with imps...a nasty piece of work, that was. How long ago? Seven, eight years? But it isn't like he hangs around her a lot, he hastens to reassure himself. Sometimes he hasn't seen her for a year or more, and the longest he's ever stayed was five days---and that was only because it was an easy drive from her place to Ocala, where he was hunting.
Two years ago, he took her along when he went after a poltergeist in Savannah, and she was a real help, even though she still hasn't learned to throw a knife properly. (She sticks it maybe once in five hundred times, and John can't understand it---her aim is dead-on, but her form is terrible.) Although Nancy's psychic abilities didn't sit too well with him in the beginning, she's been right more times than he can count, although a lot of the time, it's about little things---who's on the phone, how John tore his shirt. Or he'll walk in the door after a day on the road, without calling ahead, and the table will be set with two places and she's pulling a pot roast out of the oven.
Even today---John's grip tightens on the wheel. There's no excuse for the way he treated her when he arrived. Even when she's willing, a woman deserves more than being bent over and done like that...but not a word of protest from Nancy, just her own brand of practical sympathy: a crooked-toothed smile and something to eat. She's never made any demands on him, not beyond ordinary stuff like changing the oil in her old station wagon, or helping her paint the hallway that time. Nancy never clings, doesn't ask him where their relationship is going or any of that talk-show horseshit.
Maybe she already knows.
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Nancy is curled up in the passenger seat as John wheels the Impala home from Daytona Beach. They're cruising toward the sunset, vivid with shades of red-orange and plum. The light glints off her dusty hair, and John wonders, not for the first time, why he keeps coming back to this woman. She's not even a pale copy of Mary--- Mary could've been a model. Her smile lit up a room. Nancy reminds him of those photos of raw-boned farm women during the Depression; stoic, pragmatic...maybe that's why. He doesn't want or need a courtesan---a decent meal, a quick tumble, no strings attached, that's all he asks for, and that's what Nancy gives him.
It's been...he has to think about it...it was right after than business with the minor demon possessing a biker and infesting his pack with imps...a nasty piece of work, that was. How long ago? Seven, eight years? But it isn't like he hangs around her a lot, he hastens to reassure himself. Sometimes he hasn't seen her for a year or more, and the longest he's ever stayed was five days---and that was only because it was an easy drive from her place to Ocala, where he was hunting.
Two years ago, he took her along when he went after a poltergeist in Savannah, and she was a real help, even though she still hasn't learned to throw a knife properly. (She sticks it maybe once in five hundred times, and John can't understand it---her aim is dead-on, but her form is terrible.) Although Nancy's psychic abilities didn't sit too well with him in the beginning, she's been right more times than he can count, although a lot of the time, it's about little things---who's on the phone, how John tore his shirt. Or he'll walk in the door after a day on the road, without calling ahead, and the table will be set with two places and she's pulling a pot roast out of the oven.
Even today---John's grip tightens on the wheel. There's no excuse for the way he treated her when he arrived. Even when she's willing, a woman deserves more than being bent over and done like that...but not a word of protest from Nancy, just her own brand of practical sympathy: a crooked-toothed smile and something to eat. She's never made any demands on him, not beyond ordinary stuff like changing the oil in her old station wagon, or helping her paint the hallway that time. Nancy never clings, doesn't ask him where their relationship is going or any of that talk-show horseshit.
Maybe she already knows.