(no subject)
Holy crap, this is the first fic I've written in AGES.
Title: Untitled.
Pairing: Jack/Pilot; Highway-verse.
Word Count: 935. And probably not even finished yet; I know I'll tweak.
Warnings: Look out, kids! There's mentionings of man love! And a lot of foul language (I'll be sure to wash Pilot's mouth out with soap).
Disclaimers: Characters aren't mine, speech lifted from the movie. Don't sue, I have no money.
Untitled
"So, it was cool, you know? I told her about my troubles and she was like, 'sexual confusion's a tricky thing.' Sexual confusion? I mean, easy on the sexual confusion tip, baby. You make me sound like a guy in a raincoat with a fistful of vaseline, you know?" I'm laughing to myself, shaking my head. "Sexual confusion... I mean, you don't think I have sexual confusion, do you?"
Perhaps I'm overcompensating here. Jack's barely even listening as I'm talking, anyway. But, and I'm quite determined to get this point across, I'm not sexually confused. I know what I want. It's just how I'd go about getting it that royally fucks me over. 'God of Fuck' he may be but, that doesn't mean shit for me when he only extends his 'powers' as a sexual deity towards chicks. Even now, I'm yammering on and he's looking over my shoulder at some piece of ass sitting across the restaurant. That same appraising stare I've seen him giving numerous girls and that look's still in his eyes when he turns them back onto me, giving me that split second chance to imagine what it feels like to be the object of Jack's baser intentions. Fuck, why doesn't it feel like that when Lucy looks at me? That pang -- like a bad case of indigestion, I find myself thinking -- but concentrated just a few inches lower. I'd pay a thousand bucks to whoever decides these things to feel like that with her, rather than with my best friend. I realise my mouth's still moving, words coming out without any consideration; some bullshit about fucking Becky Meadows and I don't even remember if it's true, could be that we just made out or even that she slapped me across the face and told me 'never in a million years'. Memory's a tricky thing when you've addled your brain with this many chemicals. Jack's still looking at me, frowning slightly before his lips curve into a perfect smirk.
"Bro. I boned Becky Meadows."
And I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. The fuck does it matter which one of us did? I can't concentrate on anything when he's looking at me like that -- I feel like I've been kicked in the goddamn nuts, all breathless and aching, like I could just double over. I practically tear my eyes away from him, casting them down to the table and deciding I need a least a minute, or perhaps a year, before I can even look at him again. My second coping strategy: saying absolutely nothing. The one I resort to only after talking ten to the dozen doesn't fix things. If I speak, I'll say the wrong thing, or worse, my voice'll crack like a goddamn teenager's and I'll go back to being fifteen and completely powerless when it comes to Jack. As if I'm so strong now, as if I don't feel like I'm losing my fucking mind every time he gives me one of those looks, smiles one of those smiles; fuck, every time the bastard breathes. I keep eating in silence until I feel his attention's left me once more and I dare glance up, see him staring out the window. That same girl he was watching all through dinner, outside now. Figures.
By the time I've finished dinner, I figure I'm ready to attempt speech once more and I find it comes easily, just as it usually does. I start on about goddamn Lois again, as if any of it fucking matters at all. But then, perhaps it does. At least I know I'm not queer. I fucked a woman and I enjoyed it; surely that's against some gay code of conduct? That said, if we're going along those lines, then the thoughts I've been having about Jack -- that little thrill that chases through me when I see him smoking because it means I can watch the way his lips wrap around the roach, revel in the tiniest reveal of tongue as it sweeps it over his lips, tasting the bittersweet tang of tobacco and weed -- are probably against the rules of being a straight guy. Well, shit, I never was one for rules, was I? Mouth still moving in automatic, brain still endlessly going over these thoughts, I suddenly realise Jack's been distracted again and I'm vaguely aware of hearing voices, shaking my head to clarify that they're not just in my mind. Nope, it's the girl from the diner, that slick-looking fella she was sitting with, both stood next to some flash convertible, having what looks to be one of those 'socially acceptable' arguments where you can say what you want so long as you don't raise your voice above a certain level. Next thing you know, Slick's trying it on, she's slapping him, he's slapping her; it's all happening too fast for me to even have a hope of keeping up but, the moment I see Jack running in, I know I'm going to follow. Always the knight in tarnished armour, riding in to save some poor unfortunate from whatever situation they've gotten themselves into, despite the fact he can barely keep himself out of trouble. A stupid habit, but then Jack's never been the brightest spark. And who am I to talk? The fucking moron who's fallen for him, who'd run straight off the edge of a cliff if Jack dashed over first, who'd do any goddamn thing the guy asked of him; even knowing Jack'll never ask me for what I really want to give.
Title: Untitled.
Pairing: Jack/Pilot; Highway-verse.
Word Count: 935. And probably not even finished yet; I know I'll tweak.
Warnings: Look out, kids! There's mentionings of man love! And a lot of foul language (I'll be sure to wash Pilot's mouth out with soap).
Disclaimers: Characters aren't mine, speech lifted from the movie. Don't sue, I have no money.
Untitled
"So, it was cool, you know? I told her about my troubles and she was like, 'sexual confusion's a tricky thing.' Sexual confusion? I mean, easy on the sexual confusion tip, baby. You make me sound like a guy in a raincoat with a fistful of vaseline, you know?" I'm laughing to myself, shaking my head. "Sexual confusion... I mean, you don't think I have sexual confusion, do you?"
Perhaps I'm overcompensating here. Jack's barely even listening as I'm talking, anyway. But, and I'm quite determined to get this point across, I'm not sexually confused. I know what I want. It's just how I'd go about getting it that royally fucks me over. 'God of Fuck' he may be but, that doesn't mean shit for me when he only extends his 'powers' as a sexual deity towards chicks. Even now, I'm yammering on and he's looking over my shoulder at some piece of ass sitting across the restaurant. That same appraising stare I've seen him giving numerous girls and that look's still in his eyes when he turns them back onto me, giving me that split second chance to imagine what it feels like to be the object of Jack's baser intentions. Fuck, why doesn't it feel like that when Lucy looks at me? That pang -- like a bad case of indigestion, I find myself thinking -- but concentrated just a few inches lower. I'd pay a thousand bucks to whoever decides these things to feel like that with her, rather than with my best friend. I realise my mouth's still moving, words coming out without any consideration; some bullshit about fucking Becky Meadows and I don't even remember if it's true, could be that we just made out or even that she slapped me across the face and told me 'never in a million years'. Memory's a tricky thing when you've addled your brain with this many chemicals. Jack's still looking at me, frowning slightly before his lips curve into a perfect smirk.
"Bro. I boned Becky Meadows."
And I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. The fuck does it matter which one of us did? I can't concentrate on anything when he's looking at me like that -- I feel like I've been kicked in the goddamn nuts, all breathless and aching, like I could just double over. I practically tear my eyes away from him, casting them down to the table and deciding I need a least a minute, or perhaps a year, before I can even look at him again. My second coping strategy: saying absolutely nothing. The one I resort to only after talking ten to the dozen doesn't fix things. If I speak, I'll say the wrong thing, or worse, my voice'll crack like a goddamn teenager's and I'll go back to being fifteen and completely powerless when it comes to Jack. As if I'm so strong now, as if I don't feel like I'm losing my fucking mind every time he gives me one of those looks, smiles one of those smiles; fuck, every time the bastard breathes. I keep eating in silence until I feel his attention's left me once more and I dare glance up, see him staring out the window. That same girl he was watching all through dinner, outside now. Figures.
By the time I've finished dinner, I figure I'm ready to attempt speech once more and I find it comes easily, just as it usually does. I start on about goddamn Lois again, as if any of it fucking matters at all. But then, perhaps it does. At least I know I'm not queer. I fucked a woman and I enjoyed it; surely that's against some gay code of conduct? That said, if we're going along those lines, then the thoughts I've been having about Jack -- that little thrill that chases through me when I see him smoking because it means I can watch the way his lips wrap around the roach, revel in the tiniest reveal of tongue as it sweeps it over his lips, tasting the bittersweet tang of tobacco and weed -- are probably against the rules of being a straight guy. Well, shit, I never was one for rules, was I? Mouth still moving in automatic, brain still endlessly going over these thoughts, I suddenly realise Jack's been distracted again and I'm vaguely aware of hearing voices, shaking my head to clarify that they're not just in my mind. Nope, it's the girl from the diner, that slick-looking fella she was sitting with, both stood next to some flash convertible, having what looks to be one of those 'socially acceptable' arguments where you can say what you want so long as you don't raise your voice above a certain level. Next thing you know, Slick's trying it on, she's slapping him, he's slapping her; it's all happening too fast for me to even have a hope of keeping up but, the moment I see Jack running in, I know I'm going to follow. Always the knight in tarnished armour, riding in to save some poor unfortunate from whatever situation they've gotten themselves into, despite the fact he can barely keep himself out of trouble. A stupid habit, but then Jack's never been the brightest spark. And who am I to talk? The fucking moron who's fallen for him, who'd run straight off the edge of a cliff if Jack dashed over first, who'd do any goddamn thing the guy asked of him; even knowing Jack'll never ask me for what I really want to give.