FIC: you are filthy but fine, Darcy Edwards, PG-13
Title: you are filthy but fine
Author: aphrodite_mine
Fandom: Degrassi
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for season 7, reference to rape, violence
Prompt: 18) I could never tell where inspiration begins and impulse leaves off. I suppose the answer is in the outcome. If your hunch proves a good one, you were inspired; if it proves bad, you are guilty of yielding to thoughtless impulse. -- Beryl Markham.
Summary: Degrassi belongs to the folks at CTV and has for several hundred years. My thanks goes to my beta readers i_am_may and takemeback. The title comes from the song "New York I Love You" by LCD Soundsystem. Season seven has been a journey for Darcy, and many times, not a good one. Counseling helps some things, of course, but mostly time is the healer. Or is it.
you are filthy but fine
just to get so tired
just to feel every
itty-bitty god-damned
bone in your body - The Bird and the Bee, "The Races"
come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. - Matthew, 11:28, KJV
--
It's a stupid power thing and she knows it. Darcy can pull back the string and even though her fingertips get a little numb and sore later, they don't feel as useless as they do the rest of the time. Once in awhile, her arms get this ache. She'll hold the pose longer than she needs, watching the tip of the arrow, holding her breath. Picturing herself underwater. Maybe one in five she shuts her eyes tight - looking first to see if Mr. Armstrong is watching.
It makes her wish that archery was every day. All day. Because it wakes her up a little. Makes her take aim at something, even if it is only a little red circle on a plastic Styrofoam target. Her feet are squared, her arms high, her face turned in perfect form. She lets the arrow fly.
--
Miss Sauve tells her once, though Darcy barely heeds it, that you can tell the before from the after, and that Darcy's after tells her that there's something she's not saying. Something big.
But she's not cutting (not anywhere anyone could hope to see, not even Peter, not anymore) or disrupting class (she saves it for her mom, now) or jumping off any buildings (she doesn't even go up to the roof), so honestly, why does anyone care?
--
Late at night, or in the shower, she tries to make it happen again, in her mind. She plays back the night - drink after drink, laughing with Peter, the wind pressing against the glass outside, the warm glow she felt spreading inside of her gut. Then there's nothing, so she builds it from scratch. Sometimes he's wearing a mask and he knocks Peter out and he snatches her like a caveman, dragging her out through a storm - sometimes by her hair, sometimes, over his shoulder, legs flopping. He's aggressive, and leaves her bruised. He presses marks into her stomach with his fingers, a bite against her shoulder - through the mask. She's drifting, but he won't risk it. He'll risk the flesh on flesh feeling - doesn't see that as a risk, sees that as a thrill, as an ultimate triumph, the spilling of his seed, of his disease into her.
Sometimes he's a fresh-faced high school boy, features similar to Peter, similar enough that she has to shiver and twist away the next morning when he touches her. He's reverent with her body. He doesn't see this as rape, doesn't see it as a violation. And she almost pities him, maybe she would if she wasn't the one, unable to fight back, unable to move beneath him as he pressed smelly breath kisses to her face, caressed her body with too-smooth hands and entered her haltingly, rough.
She can "remember" the sex part better since camp, and Peter, and maybe he wouldn't be happy to know that she's got the water turned hot to wash her tears down the drain as she presses her stomach against the icy tile and imagines a monster inside of her and this time - her eyes open.
--
"Jesus, Darce, what were you doing?" The sound of a string snapping and Jane drops her bow, grabbing Darcy's shoulder. She jumps.
"What?"
Mr. Armstrong runs over, sees the arm guard forced to Darcy's wrist. "You know to hold your arm straight --" he starts to scold, taking a lecture-y tone, then sees the burn, all along her arm, from the bow string. His tone shifts. "Go to the nurse right now... it stings, doesn't it?"
"Your arm looks fucked up!" Jane's lips pull back in awe as she twists Darcy's arm for a better look.
"Jane, language."
"It doesn't hurt." It doesn't. "I'm fine." She is. "I don't want to go in."
Armstrong shakes his head, reaching for a clipboard. "Darcy, go see the nurse."
"It's not even bleeding." It isn't. She tosses the arm guard to the ground.
Jane takes a step back. "Darcy, maybe you should go see the nurse."
--
Peter tries to talk to her, before school, at lunch, after school. She's all smiles and hand holding and light pecks on the cheek until - No.
"I don't get it, Darcy," he says, his hands palm up, like some perverse Jesus. Cast him in silver and sling him around her neck.
Honestly, she doesn't have an answer. She tried this without him and she tried this with him and she doesn't much like either, and she doesn't much like herself. But maybe his hands wouldn't touch her in the night if she pushes them away first. She's found a target and all she has to do it ready, aim, fire. She knows she's good enough to bullseye this one. It's a shame she's playing with a handicap.
--
She's stopped trying to find him in crowds. She knows it's useless. She's known that from the beginning. But, for awhile that didn't stop her from turning at every shadow, shivering at every chill, ready to reach for a her phone and make the dial. Even though she knew the words would never come out, even though she knew the proof was long gone and even the heaviest of hunches was worthless.
She can walk in a straight line without turning back. She can keep her eyes straight ahead. She can keep her arms at her sides, sometimes without her hands clenched.
--
Kim gives her a look and Darcy knows she's thinking about Peter, about suspicious interactions with well-liked teachers, about too-short skirts on Spirit Squad, but a weekend ski trip never crosses her mind.
"I was talking to Linus, and well, I guess... the Lord says, come as you are, and... well, Darcy, I think that it would be very beneficial to you to join us at church this Sunday." Her leather-bound Bible in her hands, her eyes avoiding Darcy's eyes.
The third time she asks, Darcy says yes.
Her sweater bunches around her wrists and waist. She's lost weight since she last wore it. Words about repentance for sins echo through the high-ceilinged room. Darcy sucks in her cheeks and bites down.
--
Darcy's appointments are bi-weekly now. She's still not talking, and her wardrobe and personal hygiene have improved so it's harder, she knows, for Miss Sauve to make a solid argument keeping her there. They play the game, answering the rundown of questions Darcy can knock off in her sleep now. No, she's not cutting. No, she's not talked back. Yes, things are going well at home. Yes, things are great with teachers. And just one more before the half hour of silence kicks in:
"And how are you, Darcy?"
"Me? I'm fine."
Author: aphrodite_mine
Fandom: Degrassi
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for season 7, reference to rape, violence
Prompt: 18) I could never tell where inspiration begins and impulse leaves off. I suppose the answer is in the outcome. If your hunch proves a good one, you were inspired; if it proves bad, you are guilty of yielding to thoughtless impulse. -- Beryl Markham.
Summary: Degrassi belongs to the folks at CTV and has for several hundred years. My thanks goes to my beta readers i_am_may and takemeback. The title comes from the song "New York I Love You" by LCD Soundsystem. Season seven has been a journey for Darcy, and many times, not a good one. Counseling helps some things, of course, but mostly time is the healer. Or is it.
you are filthy but fine
just to get so tired
just to feel every
itty-bitty god-damned
bone in your body - The Bird and the Bee, "The Races"
come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. - Matthew, 11:28, KJV
--
It's a stupid power thing and she knows it. Darcy can pull back the string and even though her fingertips get a little numb and sore later, they don't feel as useless as they do the rest of the time. Once in awhile, her arms get this ache. She'll hold the pose longer than she needs, watching the tip of the arrow, holding her breath. Picturing herself underwater. Maybe one in five she shuts her eyes tight - looking first to see if Mr. Armstrong is watching.
It makes her wish that archery was every day. All day. Because it wakes her up a little. Makes her take aim at something, even if it is only a little red circle on a plastic Styrofoam target. Her feet are squared, her arms high, her face turned in perfect form. She lets the arrow fly.
--
Miss Sauve tells her once, though Darcy barely heeds it, that you can tell the before from the after, and that Darcy's after tells her that there's something she's not saying. Something big.
But she's not cutting (not anywhere anyone could hope to see, not even Peter, not anymore) or disrupting class (she saves it for her mom, now) or jumping off any buildings (she doesn't even go up to the roof), so honestly, why does anyone care?
--
Late at night, or in the shower, she tries to make it happen again, in her mind. She plays back the night - drink after drink, laughing with Peter, the wind pressing against the glass outside, the warm glow she felt spreading inside of her gut. Then there's nothing, so she builds it from scratch. Sometimes he's wearing a mask and he knocks Peter out and he snatches her like a caveman, dragging her out through a storm - sometimes by her hair, sometimes, over his shoulder, legs flopping. He's aggressive, and leaves her bruised. He presses marks into her stomach with his fingers, a bite against her shoulder - through the mask. She's drifting, but he won't risk it. He'll risk the flesh on flesh feeling - doesn't see that as a risk, sees that as a thrill, as an ultimate triumph, the spilling of his seed, of his disease into her.
Sometimes he's a fresh-faced high school boy, features similar to Peter, similar enough that she has to shiver and twist away the next morning when he touches her. He's reverent with her body. He doesn't see this as rape, doesn't see it as a violation. And she almost pities him, maybe she would if she wasn't the one, unable to fight back, unable to move beneath him as he pressed smelly breath kisses to her face, caressed her body with too-smooth hands and entered her haltingly, rough.
She can "remember" the sex part better since camp, and Peter, and maybe he wouldn't be happy to know that she's got the water turned hot to wash her tears down the drain as she presses her stomach against the icy tile and imagines a monster inside of her and this time - her eyes open.
--
"Jesus, Darce, what were you doing?" The sound of a string snapping and Jane drops her bow, grabbing Darcy's shoulder. She jumps.
"What?"
Mr. Armstrong runs over, sees the arm guard forced to Darcy's wrist. "You know to hold your arm straight --" he starts to scold, taking a lecture-y tone, then sees the burn, all along her arm, from the bow string. His tone shifts. "Go to the nurse right now... it stings, doesn't it?"
"Your arm looks fucked up!" Jane's lips pull back in awe as she twists Darcy's arm for a better look.
"Jane, language."
"It doesn't hurt." It doesn't. "I'm fine." She is. "I don't want to go in."
Armstrong shakes his head, reaching for a clipboard. "Darcy, go see the nurse."
"It's not even bleeding." It isn't. She tosses the arm guard to the ground.
Jane takes a step back. "Darcy, maybe you should go see the nurse."
--
Peter tries to talk to her, before school, at lunch, after school. She's all smiles and hand holding and light pecks on the cheek until - No.
"I don't get it, Darcy," he says, his hands palm up, like some perverse Jesus. Cast him in silver and sling him around her neck.
Honestly, she doesn't have an answer. She tried this without him and she tried this with him and she doesn't much like either, and she doesn't much like herself. But maybe his hands wouldn't touch her in the night if she pushes them away first. She's found a target and all she has to do it ready, aim, fire. She knows she's good enough to bullseye this one. It's a shame she's playing with a handicap.
--
She's stopped trying to find him in crowds. She knows it's useless. She's known that from the beginning. But, for awhile that didn't stop her from turning at every shadow, shivering at every chill, ready to reach for a her phone and make the dial. Even though she knew the words would never come out, even though she knew the proof was long gone and even the heaviest of hunches was worthless.
She can walk in a straight line without turning back. She can keep her eyes straight ahead. She can keep her arms at her sides, sometimes without her hands clenched.
--
Kim gives her a look and Darcy knows she's thinking about Peter, about suspicious interactions with well-liked teachers, about too-short skirts on Spirit Squad, but a weekend ski trip never crosses her mind.
"I was talking to Linus, and well, I guess... the Lord says, come as you are, and... well, Darcy, I think that it would be very beneficial to you to join us at church this Sunday." Her leather-bound Bible in her hands, her eyes avoiding Darcy's eyes.
The third time she asks, Darcy says yes.
Her sweater bunches around her wrists and waist. She's lost weight since she last wore it. Words about repentance for sins echo through the high-ceilinged room. Darcy sucks in her cheeks and bites down.
--
Darcy's appointments are bi-weekly now. She's still not talking, and her wardrobe and personal hygiene have improved so it's harder, she knows, for Miss Sauve to make a solid argument keeping her there. They play the game, answering the rundown of questions Darcy can knock off in her sleep now. No, she's not cutting. No, she's not talked back. Yes, things are going well at home. Yes, things are great with teachers. And just one more before the half hour of silence kicks in:
"And how are you, Darcy?"
"Me? I'm fine."