Sadly, this is more Deppenport
Title: Clean
Pairing: Deppenport
Author: irish_channel
Rating: R
Summary: Jack ponders cleanliness.
Archive: Sure, just let me know!
Disclaimer: Jude Law waved at me once. Does that mean I own him? Anyway, no, I’ve never met JackDav or Johnny Christ.
A/N: I’ve been having writer’s block. If this sucks, please try not to blame me. Blame the block.
Three years on, Jack doesn’t remember, honestly, when it started. Which is strange, because if you’re having an affair with Johnny Depp, you remember. Jack only knows that it’s over as of an hour ago. His head is pounding, really pounding, and there’s an embarrassing lump in his throat; he wonders if anyone can see it. Well, there’s the undeniable truth that no one can really see the lump, then the paranoid sneaking suspicion that everyone he passes is looking at him. The walk back to his trailer from his car (from the pub where he’s been staring at a bottle of Guiness, not sure if he had any…) was all about that: Walk. Breathe. These things seemed entensified, given new facets, complicated. All because of the lump. The lump is made of tears cried by victims of the Spanish Inquisition, the spray from teenagers who spit out their first gulp of whiskey, and just a few brown nipples. Mostly the bit about the tears, though. Because it’s what the lump is begging him to do.
He cries. For some reason, his feet hurt, and he slumps down on his bum. Jack doesn’t think he can cry…not when so many people are still watching. He sees his own outburst through a window of Johnny driving down a country road listening to Nanci Griffith, whistling: glad to be rid of him. Or worse yet, without a single thought of him at all. The thought is suddenly very awful, and Jack does all he can to push it away, but it’s a nasty black cat that’s stuck in his hair, and the more he tugs it, the harder it digs into his scalp.
And Jack always did have a sensitive scalp.
Cats remind him, too, but this thought is more welcoming; an invitation out of the cold. The thought opens the door and sits him down on the couch - couch - he and Johnny on the couch watching DMC for the first time on their modest TV, and Johnny says, he says it with a voice that could smoke a Mardi Gras Indian out of his mouth -
“If you watch…there’s a turtle in that ship scene….”
“What ship scene? The whole fucking movie takes place on a fucking ship.”
“Jesus, man, that’s two whole fucks in one sentence.” There is a pause. Johnny says, “You’re gonna go to hell for that one.”
Jack now has confirmed his suspicion that Johnny is stoned.
Jack is now more than usually certain he’d like to be stoned himself. His bum begins to hurt, so he gets up off of it and walks over to the bookshelf. Calmly gives it a once-over. Knocks it over with an almost catlike grace.
Then steps over it, intending to go to the kitchen.
Then comes back, anger and destruction lust unslaked, stomps on it, stomps on the Nanci Griffith CD, the Mozart. Jack actually begins to feel bad about stomping on Mozart, so he cries again, not slumping down, going to his room, a place of refuge. Still, there’s no excuse for stomping on Mozart.
Bored, in the library, Jack is sixteen, and very angry with both of his parents for sending him to boarding school. Picking up a random book, skipping Literature class for the third time this week, stomach clenching with guilt, he reads about a man who stole the skin of his superior in his sleep to acquire the rank himself. Naturally, it didn’t work. And the man was killed, given the moral of the story by the all to helpful judge, “All men are equal in the eyes of God, my son.”
Jack thinks God must be blind. Or his mother. Or Johnny.
Pairing: Deppenport
Author: irish_channel
Rating: R
Summary: Jack ponders cleanliness.
Archive: Sure, just let me know!
Disclaimer: Jude Law waved at me once. Does that mean I own him? Anyway, no, I’ve never met JackDav or Johnny Christ.
A/N: I’ve been having writer’s block. If this sucks, please try not to blame me. Blame the block.
Three years on, Jack doesn’t remember, honestly, when it started. Which is strange, because if you’re having an affair with Johnny Depp, you remember. Jack only knows that it’s over as of an hour ago. His head is pounding, really pounding, and there’s an embarrassing lump in his throat; he wonders if anyone can see it. Well, there’s the undeniable truth that no one can really see the lump, then the paranoid sneaking suspicion that everyone he passes is looking at him. The walk back to his trailer from his car (from the pub where he’s been staring at a bottle of Guiness, not sure if he had any…) was all about that: Walk. Breathe. These things seemed entensified, given new facets, complicated. All because of the lump. The lump is made of tears cried by victims of the Spanish Inquisition, the spray from teenagers who spit out their first gulp of whiskey, and just a few brown nipples. Mostly the bit about the tears, though. Because it’s what the lump is begging him to do.
He cries. For some reason, his feet hurt, and he slumps down on his bum. Jack doesn’t think he can cry…not when so many people are still watching. He sees his own outburst through a window of Johnny driving down a country road listening to Nanci Griffith, whistling: glad to be rid of him. Or worse yet, without a single thought of him at all. The thought is suddenly very awful, and Jack does all he can to push it away, but it’s a nasty black cat that’s stuck in his hair, and the more he tugs it, the harder it digs into his scalp.
And Jack always did have a sensitive scalp.
Cats remind him, too, but this thought is more welcoming; an invitation out of the cold. The thought opens the door and sits him down on the couch - couch - he and Johnny on the couch watching DMC for the first time on their modest TV, and Johnny says, he says it with a voice that could smoke a Mardi Gras Indian out of his mouth -
“If you watch…there’s a turtle in that ship scene….”
“What ship scene? The whole fucking movie takes place on a fucking ship.”
“Jesus, man, that’s two whole fucks in one sentence.” There is a pause. Johnny says, “You’re gonna go to hell for that one.”
Jack now has confirmed his suspicion that Johnny is stoned.
Jack is now more than usually certain he’d like to be stoned himself. His bum begins to hurt, so he gets up off of it and walks over to the bookshelf. Calmly gives it a once-over. Knocks it over with an almost catlike grace.
Then steps over it, intending to go to the kitchen.
Then comes back, anger and destruction lust unslaked, stomps on it, stomps on the Nanci Griffith CD, the Mozart. Jack actually begins to feel bad about stomping on Mozart, so he cries again, not slumping down, going to his room, a place of refuge. Still, there’s no excuse for stomping on Mozart.
Bored, in the library, Jack is sixteen, and very angry with both of his parents for sending him to boarding school. Picking up a random book, skipping Literature class for the third time this week, stomach clenching with guilt, he reads about a man who stole the skin of his superior in his sleep to acquire the rank himself. Naturally, it didn’t work. And the man was killed, given the moral of the story by the all to helpful judge, “All men are equal in the eyes of God, my son.”
Jack thinks God must be blind. Or his mother. Or Johnny.