Fic: In a Manner of Speaking (Wallace, Veronica) PG
Title: In a Manner of Speaking
Author: boyfriendincoma
Pairing/Character: Wallace/Veronica
Word Count: 676
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.
Spoilers/Warnings: Set in the summer between Season One and Two.
This is a very late birthday present for eolivet. Happy Birthday!
In a Manner of Speaking
On the first day her hand is warm and sweaty on his arm; so warm, so soft that he wishes she would never take it away. Her teeth glint in the sunlight, her hair brushes past her shoulders; she leans forward and talks about BFF night, about South Park, about popcorn and junk food. He nods at the appropriate moments, her hand burns itself softly into his skin.
*
On the second day she stands in his doorway, a towel in her hand, a smile on her face. The sun gives her hair golden shine; she wears a pale pink bikini top that shows off her bare belly. When she invites him for an afternoon on the beach he just stands there and nods, hardly comprehending the words coming from her mouth.
Later asks him to help her with the sunscreen on her back. The sunscreen is cool on his hands, her back is warm. His fingers strike softly along the ridge of her spine.
*
On the third day she comes over for a South Park marathon. She brings tons of junk food: Twizzlers, potato chips, a tub of strawberry ice-cream and popcorn. His mouth feels sticky with the taste of sugar.
Sitting besides her; her left arm touches his. Her skin is still as warm and soft as he remembers. He doesn't look at her, but he hears her laugh.
The pictures on the screen become a blur when her thigh touches his.
*
On the fourth day she stands in his doorway again, on her lips a promise of endless roads, of sunshine, of freedom. He doesn't say no.
They stop in in the middle of nowhere, in Nevada, at a gas station - where the ancient manager looks at them as they are about to rob him. She grabs his hand and calls him baby. The manager looks like he is going to have a heart attack. Veronica smiles and grabs his hand tighter. Her hand is as sweaty as his.
She doesn't let go until they reach the car. Still smiling.
On the drive home her eyes are free of worry.
*
On the fifth day, he doesn't hesitate jumping into her car, even when she promises to cross the Mexican border today. They drive until they find an empty beach somewhere in the Baja California. The sun is setting when Veronica pulls out a bottle of cheap Tequila like it's a hard-won prize. She sips and gives it to him, a laugh on her face, the comment from her lips about jackass-y ex-boyfriends betraying it. The wind blows loose strands of hair into her face, the sun gives her skin a rosy hue. He drinks.
Neither Veronica nor him are seasoned drinkers. The bottle is still two-thirds full when they are both drunk, stumbling through the warm sand, laughing. She grasps his hand again; this time her skin is dry and sandy, it's too dark to see anything and so they fumble, tumble through the sand, falling over a log, a piece of wood, a branch, laughing still, his hand still in hers.
They don't get up. The sand is a comfortable bed, the Tequila numbs the cold wind, her side is pressed against him, soft, warm, inviting, comfortable. Her breath blows across his face. She is speaking to him, her breath, her words close, so close to his. She bridges the distance and her warm breath becomes her warm lips, her warm tongue. Her right hands sneaks up to touch his face, his skin; her left hand still firmly holds his right.
When he wakes, she stands above him, with the back to the rising sun. The sunlight shines around her like a halo, he hardly sees the outlines of her face, her eyes, her lips. But he sees rich white boys in the arc of her brow, in the bridge of her nose, the curve of her smile. He doesn't see himself. She stretches out her hand, to help him up. "Friends?" she asks.
He grasps her hand, it's still as warm, as soft, as sandy as yesterday. "Friends."
Author: boyfriendincoma
Pairing/Character: Wallace/Veronica
Word Count: 676
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.
Spoilers/Warnings: Set in the summer between Season One and Two.
This is a very late birthday present for eolivet. Happy Birthday!
In a Manner of Speaking
On the first day her hand is warm and sweaty on his arm; so warm, so soft that he wishes she would never take it away. Her teeth glint in the sunlight, her hair brushes past her shoulders; she leans forward and talks about BFF night, about South Park, about popcorn and junk food. He nods at the appropriate moments, her hand burns itself softly into his skin.
*
On the second day she stands in his doorway, a towel in her hand, a smile on her face. The sun gives her hair golden shine; she wears a pale pink bikini top that shows off her bare belly. When she invites him for an afternoon on the beach he just stands there and nods, hardly comprehending the words coming from her mouth.
Later asks him to help her with the sunscreen on her back. The sunscreen is cool on his hands, her back is warm. His fingers strike softly along the ridge of her spine.
*
On the third day she comes over for a South Park marathon. She brings tons of junk food: Twizzlers, potato chips, a tub of strawberry ice-cream and popcorn. His mouth feels sticky with the taste of sugar.
Sitting besides her; her left arm touches his. Her skin is still as warm and soft as he remembers. He doesn't look at her, but he hears her laugh.
The pictures on the screen become a blur when her thigh touches his.
*
On the fourth day she stands in his doorway again, on her lips a promise of endless roads, of sunshine, of freedom. He doesn't say no.
They stop in in the middle of nowhere, in Nevada, at a gas station - where the ancient manager looks at them as they are about to rob him. She grabs his hand and calls him baby. The manager looks like he is going to have a heart attack. Veronica smiles and grabs his hand tighter. Her hand is as sweaty as his.
She doesn't let go until they reach the car. Still smiling.
On the drive home her eyes are free of worry.
*
On the fifth day, he doesn't hesitate jumping into her car, even when she promises to cross the Mexican border today. They drive until they find an empty beach somewhere in the Baja California. The sun is setting when Veronica pulls out a bottle of cheap Tequila like it's a hard-won prize. She sips and gives it to him, a laugh on her face, the comment from her lips about jackass-y ex-boyfriends betraying it. The wind blows loose strands of hair into her face, the sun gives her skin a rosy hue. He drinks.
Neither Veronica nor him are seasoned drinkers. The bottle is still two-thirds full when they are both drunk, stumbling through the warm sand, laughing. She grasps his hand again; this time her skin is dry and sandy, it's too dark to see anything and so they fumble, tumble through the sand, falling over a log, a piece of wood, a branch, laughing still, his hand still in hers.
They don't get up. The sand is a comfortable bed, the Tequila numbs the cold wind, her side is pressed against him, soft, warm, inviting, comfortable. Her breath blows across his face. She is speaking to him, her breath, her words close, so close to his. She bridges the distance and her warm breath becomes her warm lips, her warm tongue. Her right hands sneaks up to touch his face, his skin; her left hand still firmly holds his right.
When he wakes, she stands above him, with the back to the rising sun. The sunlight shines around her like a halo, he hardly sees the outlines of her face, her eyes, her lips. But he sees rich white boys in the arc of her brow, in the bridge of her nose, the curve of her smile. He doesn't see himself. She stretches out her hand, to help him up. "Friends?" she asks.
He grasps her hand, it's still as warm, as soft, as sandy as yesterday. "Friends."