Black Donnellys Fic: stranger invitations
stranger invitations tommy/jenny, pg.
what are parents don’t tell us is really what decides to kill us in the end. so says the neighborhood. spoilers for series’ end. 1,576 words.
notes: Happy (day after) birthday to deadduck008! I miss these kids, this show, and everything that had to do with it. If you’ve never seen the Black Donnellys, you should because this was a show. Enjoy!
-
Same old city with a different name
Men are coming to take me away
I don't know why, but I know I can't stay.
(the arcade fire - keep the car running)
When Helen Donnelly is shot the neighborhood stops moving. The diner is closed. There are bloody towels underneath the sink.
“It was open,” Tommy says, stumbling in. His hands are shaking and she stops on the stairs, watching him as he pulls at his coat. He looks at her and Jenny looks away. Her mouth hurts and she’s finally put her dad to bed, just after he’s started mumbling her mother’s name and pulling at her hands.
She’s heard, Jenny wants to say, she’s heard and she’s heard. Her throat is dry. It’s the routine, these days.
“I just need coffee,” he adds too.
Jenny nods. Her hands smooth over her hips. She waits for them to start shaking again. But they stop on her hips and she takes the last few steps down into the diner. Ducking under the counter, she takes a quick glance at the door. The we’re closed! sign skips lazily against the glass, only resting when a flash of red and blue sirens flash by.
There could be questions, she thinks. Instead, she stops at the counter. She doesn’t set a place and watches Tommy again.
“I’m planning on coming by.”
“That’s good, real good,” He sits in front of her and shoves his hands into his coat. He looks like the neighborhood is on fire. “Can I - uh, coffee, I guess. Coffee would be good.”
“It’s gonna be a minute,” she murmurs.
She doesn’t turn. The coffee machine takes a minute to start up. It’s another round of minutes to make a fresh brew. There are too many pieces of old equipment, too many bills, and too many Reilly’s, it’s an institution! from customers. Her eyes dart to the sign at the door again. Out of habit, she listens for movement upstairs.
“How’s she doing?”
She asks but doesn’t have to. When she looks at Tommy again, she studies his shoulders and the long, tight lock of his jaw. His head drops. His eyes close. He looks exactly like he did the day his dad died - or was it Sean, she thinks, was it Sean getting beat up? It was one of the last and only times she remembered him the right way.
But Tommy shakes his head. His eyes open slowly. He looks at her, but isn’t looking at her. She turns away again.
“You know, I had plans. I always have plans. Plans of doing my art, plans of going to school for it all - plans, just plans and more plans, so many goddamn plans for a life outside of all of this. I had a plan to get us out and had one for you to come with me, with the family.”
“I know.”
“Was the first time I got Ma to go and agree with something,” he laughs, or tries to laugh, as the sound is too soft to be anything. The neighborhood isn’t the same anymore, she thinks. And she’s the one that married a dead man.
Tommy laughs again. Jenny clears her throat. She looks up at the walls in front of her. Blank, for the most part; there was a picture, an old neighborhood picture over the dishes once, but it fell just last week. Or her dad threw it, she thinks. The memory’s not so clear anymore.
“Coffee’s ready.”
He sighs. Outside, sirens begin to yell again.
“Dad’s upstairs,” she says slowly, and wraps her hands around an empty cup. She doesn’t check if it’s clean, doesn’t say that she hasn’t been here all day, and doesn’t tell Tommy that she left Samson in the stairwell, right outside his door, with a busted head and blood starting to sink into his floor. Samson loved his floor. Jenny remembers his hand in her hair and the sound of her nails against his back, just as he whispered bed, bed, bed. So she left him there.
Tommy clears his throat. She turns slightly, snapping out of her thoughts. Her fingers tap against the coffee pot too.
“Give me a minute.”
He nods again.
“How’s - he doing okay?”
“I don’t know.” She pulls at the coffee pot. It comes out of the maker with a loud snap and she pours Tommy a cup, watching the steam rise into her. “Good days and bad days … I talked to him, but he’s never been about listening. There are piles of bills and payments. Not really in any sort of trouble, but there’s - there’s stuff that I don’t know.”
She’s pointed because she can’t help it. The coffee settles between her hands. She walks over to Tommy and puts it down in front of him. They stare at each other, but Tommy looks away too quickly.
“You leaving?” he asks quietly.
“Why would I?” she asks too.
“Right.” He rubs his eyes. “Right. Things are different and the same. Things are always the same.”
She studies at him. His mouth shifts slightly, almost a smile. She wants to laugh. She wants to tell him too about everything, about things have suddenly gone beyond how or what she knows to do. But she reaches forward, only halfway before he ducks and reaches for his coffee. Her hand drops against the counter. She tries to smile too.
She sighs. “There’s nothing else to drink.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
They look at each other again; Jenny with her half-smile, Tommy with a frown. They are, as they stand, products of their fathers, fathers and never mothers, as the neighborhood seems to breed. There is a part of her that wants to ask him upstairs, that might ask him upstairs on another day, in another place or the same - but when she looks at him, she feels like she’s back to that day, the day where he gave her back the scarf. There is never a simple gesture between them and she’s grown up knowing that, and grown up knowing that there is no room for her to leave the city.
“I have to make this work,” she murmurs. Her elbows drop to the counter. She rests her chin in her hands, closing her fingers against her jaw and then shutting her eyes. She means to ask about Helen again. “I have no other place to go,” she says instead.
“We were never kids, you know.”
She looks up at him. “You weren’t.”
“Neither were you.”
Tommy laughs too, after he says it, in that awkward, sharp way that he usually does. Jenny frowns and thinks of Jimmy and Helen too. Her hands hit the counter lightly. Upstairs, she hears something drop. It’s not loud enough for concern. She still looks up.
“I should head out.”
He says it but doesn’t move. Jenny studies the ceiling, waiting. There’s nothing else moving around upstairs. Stepping back, she reaches for the coffee pot even though Tommy hasn’t touched his coffee.
“I’ll come by later.”
She glances back. He shrugs. He slides out of the stool too, pulling at the zipper of his jacket.
“Maybe you shouldn’t. I don’t know - I don’t know what’s gonna happen, if anything’s gonna happen tonight.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she mutters.
“It’s too late for that.”
When he looks at her, she’s reminded of the hospital again, that first night with Sean and the family somewhere in the back. She knows what happened. They all know what happened. But there’s never really been a point to push past it - and maybe they can’t, she thinks.
Her mouth opens. There’s no sound and she thinks she might be ready to tell him about Samson, about what happened. But Tommy shakes her head and reaches for her. His hands cup her face. The gesture is awkward, a little rough as his palms slide against her skin. His mouth presses against hers and the only thing she can think is that he tastes dry and sticky.
She’s not even sure that she’s kissing him back. Her mouth opens. She feels herself sigh. Her hand curls in his jacket, just one and a fist. Her stomach sinks into the counter and she feels his teeth slide into her lip. It’s not what she needs. It’s not what they had. The difference is clear even as she pushes herself harder against the counter, just to be closer.
But Tommy pulls back. They’re breathless too. He pants. She sighs and exhales, if only to hear herself. His eyes are closed. Her eyes are open and all she can think about are the bloody towels under the sink in the back. She hears sirens too but doesn’t flinch.
“I’ll be back,” Tommy says. When his eyes open, he reaches forward and presses his fingers to her mouth. “Wait until morning,” he says to, “until you come and see Ma. It’s probably better that you stay here.”
He takes a step back. It’s then that Jenny notices the coffee, the cup overturned on its plate and the stain starting to pool over the counter. She says nothing and Tommy’s wiping away at his sleeves.
She believes him though. She doesn’t smile either. There’s another sound from upstairs. It trails along the floor and over to the stairs, right at the door that splits her place with the diner. Dad, she thinks. Tommy is already at the door.
“I’ll be back,” he says again.
Jenny reaches for a dirty towel. “Where am I going to go?” she asks.
what are parents don’t tell us is really what decides to kill us in the end. so says the neighborhood. spoilers for series’ end. 1,576 words.
notes: Happy (day after) birthday to deadduck008! I miss these kids, this show, and everything that had to do with it. If you’ve never seen the Black Donnellys, you should because this was a show. Enjoy!
-
Same old city with a different name
Men are coming to take me away
I don't know why, but I know I can't stay.
(the arcade fire - keep the car running)
When Helen Donnelly is shot the neighborhood stops moving. The diner is closed. There are bloody towels underneath the sink.
“It was open,” Tommy says, stumbling in. His hands are shaking and she stops on the stairs, watching him as he pulls at his coat. He looks at her and Jenny looks away. Her mouth hurts and she’s finally put her dad to bed, just after he’s started mumbling her mother’s name and pulling at her hands.
She’s heard, Jenny wants to say, she’s heard and she’s heard. Her throat is dry. It’s the routine, these days.
“I just need coffee,” he adds too.
Jenny nods. Her hands smooth over her hips. She waits for them to start shaking again. But they stop on her hips and she takes the last few steps down into the diner. Ducking under the counter, she takes a quick glance at the door. The we’re closed! sign skips lazily against the glass, only resting when a flash of red and blue sirens flash by.
There could be questions, she thinks. Instead, she stops at the counter. She doesn’t set a place and watches Tommy again.
“I’m planning on coming by.”
“That’s good, real good,” He sits in front of her and shoves his hands into his coat. He looks like the neighborhood is on fire. “Can I - uh, coffee, I guess. Coffee would be good.”
“It’s gonna be a minute,” she murmurs.
She doesn’t turn. The coffee machine takes a minute to start up. It’s another round of minutes to make a fresh brew. There are too many pieces of old equipment, too many bills, and too many Reilly’s, it’s an institution! from customers. Her eyes dart to the sign at the door again. Out of habit, she listens for movement upstairs.
“How’s she doing?”
She asks but doesn’t have to. When she looks at Tommy again, she studies his shoulders and the long, tight lock of his jaw. His head drops. His eyes close. He looks exactly like he did the day his dad died - or was it Sean, she thinks, was it Sean getting beat up? It was one of the last and only times she remembered him the right way.
But Tommy shakes his head. His eyes open slowly. He looks at her, but isn’t looking at her. She turns away again.
“You know, I had plans. I always have plans. Plans of doing my art, plans of going to school for it all - plans, just plans and more plans, so many goddamn plans for a life outside of all of this. I had a plan to get us out and had one for you to come with me, with the family.”
“I know.”
“Was the first time I got Ma to go and agree with something,” he laughs, or tries to laugh, as the sound is too soft to be anything. The neighborhood isn’t the same anymore, she thinks. And she’s the one that married a dead man.
Tommy laughs again. Jenny clears her throat. She looks up at the walls in front of her. Blank, for the most part; there was a picture, an old neighborhood picture over the dishes once, but it fell just last week. Or her dad threw it, she thinks. The memory’s not so clear anymore.
“Coffee’s ready.”
He sighs. Outside, sirens begin to yell again.
“Dad’s upstairs,” she says slowly, and wraps her hands around an empty cup. She doesn’t check if it’s clean, doesn’t say that she hasn’t been here all day, and doesn’t tell Tommy that she left Samson in the stairwell, right outside his door, with a busted head and blood starting to sink into his floor. Samson loved his floor. Jenny remembers his hand in her hair and the sound of her nails against his back, just as he whispered bed, bed, bed. So she left him there.
Tommy clears his throat. She turns slightly, snapping out of her thoughts. Her fingers tap against the coffee pot too.
“Give me a minute.”
He nods again.
“How’s - he doing okay?”
“I don’t know.” She pulls at the coffee pot. It comes out of the maker with a loud snap and she pours Tommy a cup, watching the steam rise into her. “Good days and bad days … I talked to him, but he’s never been about listening. There are piles of bills and payments. Not really in any sort of trouble, but there’s - there’s stuff that I don’t know.”
She’s pointed because she can’t help it. The coffee settles between her hands. She walks over to Tommy and puts it down in front of him. They stare at each other, but Tommy looks away too quickly.
“You leaving?” he asks quietly.
“Why would I?” she asks too.
“Right.” He rubs his eyes. “Right. Things are different and the same. Things are always the same.”
She studies at him. His mouth shifts slightly, almost a smile. She wants to laugh. She wants to tell him too about everything, about things have suddenly gone beyond how or what she knows to do. But she reaches forward, only halfway before he ducks and reaches for his coffee. Her hand drops against the counter. She tries to smile too.
She sighs. “There’s nothing else to drink.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
They look at each other again; Jenny with her half-smile, Tommy with a frown. They are, as they stand, products of their fathers, fathers and never mothers, as the neighborhood seems to breed. There is a part of her that wants to ask him upstairs, that might ask him upstairs on another day, in another place or the same - but when she looks at him, she feels like she’s back to that day, the day where he gave her back the scarf. There is never a simple gesture between them and she’s grown up knowing that, and grown up knowing that there is no room for her to leave the city.
“I have to make this work,” she murmurs. Her elbows drop to the counter. She rests her chin in her hands, closing her fingers against her jaw and then shutting her eyes. She means to ask about Helen again. “I have no other place to go,” she says instead.
“We were never kids, you know.”
She looks up at him. “You weren’t.”
“Neither were you.”
Tommy laughs too, after he says it, in that awkward, sharp way that he usually does. Jenny frowns and thinks of Jimmy and Helen too. Her hands hit the counter lightly. Upstairs, she hears something drop. It’s not loud enough for concern. She still looks up.
“I should head out.”
He says it but doesn’t move. Jenny studies the ceiling, waiting. There’s nothing else moving around upstairs. Stepping back, she reaches for the coffee pot even though Tommy hasn’t touched his coffee.
“I’ll come by later.”
She glances back. He shrugs. He slides out of the stool too, pulling at the zipper of his jacket.
“Maybe you shouldn’t. I don’t know - I don’t know what’s gonna happen, if anything’s gonna happen tonight.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she mutters.
“It’s too late for that.”
When he looks at her, she’s reminded of the hospital again, that first night with Sean and the family somewhere in the back. She knows what happened. They all know what happened. But there’s never really been a point to push past it - and maybe they can’t, she thinks.
Her mouth opens. There’s no sound and she thinks she might be ready to tell him about Samson, about what happened. But Tommy shakes her head and reaches for her. His hands cup her face. The gesture is awkward, a little rough as his palms slide against her skin. His mouth presses against hers and the only thing she can think is that he tastes dry and sticky.
She’s not even sure that she’s kissing him back. Her mouth opens. She feels herself sigh. Her hand curls in his jacket, just one and a fist. Her stomach sinks into the counter and she feels his teeth slide into her lip. It’s not what she needs. It’s not what they had. The difference is clear even as she pushes herself harder against the counter, just to be closer.
But Tommy pulls back. They’re breathless too. He pants. She sighs and exhales, if only to hear herself. His eyes are closed. Her eyes are open and all she can think about are the bloody towels under the sink in the back. She hears sirens too but doesn’t flinch.
“I’ll be back,” Tommy says. When his eyes open, he reaches forward and presses his fingers to her mouth. “Wait until morning,” he says to, “until you come and see Ma. It’s probably better that you stay here.”
He takes a step back. It’s then that Jenny notices the coffee, the cup overturned on its plate and the stain starting to pool over the counter. She says nothing and Tommy’s wiping away at his sleeves.
She believes him though. She doesn’t smile either. There’s another sound from upstairs. It trails along the floor and over to the stairs, right at the door that splits her place with the diner. Dad, she thinks. Tommy is already at the door.
“I’ll be back,” he says again.
Jenny reaches for a dirty towel. “Where am I going to go?” she asks.