End of the World (Cabaret/Chicago, PG-13, Velma Kelly/Sally Bowles)
Title: End of the World
Author: Apathy
Fandom: Cabaret/Chicago crossover
Rating: PG-13
For: The contrelamontre 'War' challenge.
Disclaimer: No incarnations of any of the characters from Cabaret or Chicago belong to me. I write for fun, not profit, and own nothing.
Notes: Based on recent stage musical productions of both, rather than the movies/plays/novels. However, for the most part, it doesn't really matter. My first time writing either of these fandoms; probably shouldn't've tried doing this on a time-limited challenge, but... oh, well. ;) Hope crossovers are allowed when the challenge doesn't specify it. Written in about 1 hour and 20 minutes.
There was a Cabaret
and there was a Master of Ceremonies
and there was a city called Berlin
in a country called Germany.
It was the end of the world....
--Cliff Bradshaw, 'Cabaret'
The wooden door booms shut behind her, and she shivers a little. It's even colder in here than outside, if possible, chilly air gusting through badly-patched cracks in the walls and raising goosebumps on her clammy skin. Her coat is sodden, and she's better off without it for now; she peels it off reluctantly, nose wrinkling slightly at the matted fur around the collar.
She takes a seat. They're not hard to come by - this dive is more empty than full, population consisting mostly of German soldiers who look like they haven't even started high school yet. One of them strides up to her, offers to buy her a drink. She turns on the charm as best she can in her halting German, tells him to get her a gin; and then, once he's brought it, proceeds to ignore him until he heads back to the jeers of his friends.
Her attention shifts fully to the act just finishing up onstage. Blonde, too skinny, younger, can't sing or speak German to save her life. Like a more hard-bitten version of Roxie, really, although not quite as irritating. Yet. She'll have to meet her first in order to be really sure.
If this is the competition around here, she's in, no problem.
Blondie finishes her caterwauling - thank God - and stumbles off-stage to the usual lewd chorus that comes from men with too much booze and too little sense. Velma tunes out most of the next act, paying only the most cursory attention to the performance as she keeps an eye on the most rowdy bunch of boys near the front.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, the girl comes out from a side door and plants herself firmly on the lap of the one nearest her. No calling from a hidden telephone, no sickeningly fake "demure" routine; she's getting straight into the action, and Velma can't help but feel a little grudging respect.
She half-watches for awhile longer, wondering how much the manager of a hovel like this would pay for a woman of such obvious talents and notoriety as herself. She's flicking through her money, wondering if she can afford another drink, when a pale figure practically materialises out of the smoke haze. Blondie directs her haughty gaze down at her, blood-red lips pressing together in a parody of a smile.
"I noticed that you were watching me." English, definitely - explains why she butchered her earlier number so badly.
She raises an eyebrow, tilts up the corner of her mouth in something that could be interpreted as an encouraging smile.
The kid leans forward in an attempt to show off her cleavage, but the effect is kind of killed by the protruding ribs that show clearly beneath her skimpy black outfit, and the purple bruises that march up along the inside of her forearm. Wild eyes stare at her from within dark, hollow pools, and it's obvious that she's high as a fucking kite.
Velma holds that wobbling gaze with steady eyes, and runs her hand slowly up one fishnet-clad leg. An appreciative whistle floats up from somewhere on the other side of the room, and the girl half-collapses onto Velma's lap, head lolling slightly. Limp arms hang themselves loosely about Velma's neck, and she catches a glimpse of green nail polish, dinted and chipped.
Air tickles her cheek as breathless giggles fill her ear, and she has no idea how old this broad is anymore, if she's a teenaged girl or an embittered old woman. Lips brush against her skin, and they make the rain outside seem warm and inviting by comparison.
She's seen it before, seen it so many times. Velma's a survivor, has always fought tooth and nail for what is hers. Never mind that she's been drifting for these last couple of years, wandering aimlessly through Europe in a half-hearted attempt to recapture her glory days; she's doing it because she can, not because she has no other choice.
This girl, though... she's never fought a day in her life. Never even tried - just waved a white flag at the first opportunity. She lacks a certain desperation that Velma isn't sure she could live without.
But the too-light arms on her shoulders are moving, ragged fingernails are scraping over her wet dress, and she wonders. Knows that she's just as lost as this girl, even though she'll never really admit it to herself, let alone anyone else. Knows that she's going to stay on here awhile, because she's got no better options. Thinks that maybe it'd be nice to just let the world go on past her for awhile.
Perhaps surrender isn't so bad.
Author: Apathy
Fandom: Cabaret/Chicago crossover
Rating: PG-13
For: The contrelamontre 'War' challenge.
Disclaimer: No incarnations of any of the characters from Cabaret or Chicago belong to me. I write for fun, not profit, and own nothing.
Notes: Based on recent stage musical productions of both, rather than the movies/plays/novels. However, for the most part, it doesn't really matter. My first time writing either of these fandoms; probably shouldn't've tried doing this on a time-limited challenge, but... oh, well. ;) Hope crossovers are allowed when the challenge doesn't specify it. Written in about 1 hour and 20 minutes.
There was a Cabaret
and there was a Master of Ceremonies
and there was a city called Berlin
in a country called Germany.
It was the end of the world....
--Cliff Bradshaw, 'Cabaret'
The wooden door booms shut behind her, and she shivers a little. It's even colder in here than outside, if possible, chilly air gusting through badly-patched cracks in the walls and raising goosebumps on her clammy skin. Her coat is sodden, and she's better off without it for now; she peels it off reluctantly, nose wrinkling slightly at the matted fur around the collar.
She takes a seat. They're not hard to come by - this dive is more empty than full, population consisting mostly of German soldiers who look like they haven't even started high school yet. One of them strides up to her, offers to buy her a drink. She turns on the charm as best she can in her halting German, tells him to get her a gin; and then, once he's brought it, proceeds to ignore him until he heads back to the jeers of his friends.
Her attention shifts fully to the act just finishing up onstage. Blonde, too skinny, younger, can't sing or speak German to save her life. Like a more hard-bitten version of Roxie, really, although not quite as irritating. Yet. She'll have to meet her first in order to be really sure.
If this is the competition around here, she's in, no problem.
Blondie finishes her caterwauling - thank God - and stumbles off-stage to the usual lewd chorus that comes from men with too much booze and too little sense. Velma tunes out most of the next act, paying only the most cursory attention to the performance as she keeps an eye on the most rowdy bunch of boys near the front.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, the girl comes out from a side door and plants herself firmly on the lap of the one nearest her. No calling from a hidden telephone, no sickeningly fake "demure" routine; she's getting straight into the action, and Velma can't help but feel a little grudging respect.
She half-watches for awhile longer, wondering how much the manager of a hovel like this would pay for a woman of such obvious talents and notoriety as herself. She's flicking through her money, wondering if she can afford another drink, when a pale figure practically materialises out of the smoke haze. Blondie directs her haughty gaze down at her, blood-red lips pressing together in a parody of a smile.
"I noticed that you were watching me." English, definitely - explains why she butchered her earlier number so badly.
She raises an eyebrow, tilts up the corner of her mouth in something that could be interpreted as an encouraging smile.
The kid leans forward in an attempt to show off her cleavage, but the effect is kind of killed by the protruding ribs that show clearly beneath her skimpy black outfit, and the purple bruises that march up along the inside of her forearm. Wild eyes stare at her from within dark, hollow pools, and it's obvious that she's high as a fucking kite.
Velma holds that wobbling gaze with steady eyes, and runs her hand slowly up one fishnet-clad leg. An appreciative whistle floats up from somewhere on the other side of the room, and the girl half-collapses onto Velma's lap, head lolling slightly. Limp arms hang themselves loosely about Velma's neck, and she catches a glimpse of green nail polish, dinted and chipped.
Air tickles her cheek as breathless giggles fill her ear, and she has no idea how old this broad is anymore, if she's a teenaged girl or an embittered old woman. Lips brush against her skin, and they make the rain outside seem warm and inviting by comparison.
She's seen it before, seen it so many times. Velma's a survivor, has always fought tooth and nail for what is hers. Never mind that she's been drifting for these last couple of years, wandering aimlessly through Europe in a half-hearted attempt to recapture her glory days; she's doing it because she can, not because she has no other choice.
This girl, though... she's never fought a day in her life. Never even tried - just waved a white flag at the first opportunity. She lacks a certain desperation that Velma isn't sure she could live without.
But the too-light arms on her shoulders are moving, ragged fingernails are scraping over her wet dress, and she wonders. Knows that she's just as lost as this girl, even though she'll never really admit it to herself, let alone anyone else. Knows that she's going to stay on here awhile, because she's got no better options. Thinks that maybe it'd be nice to just let the world go on past her for awhile.
Perhaps surrender isn't so bad.