FIC: you will not remember this (United States of Tara, Multi-pairing, PG-R)
Title: you will not remember this
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: They have always been there for one another.
Info: Tara/Charmaine, T/Charmaine, Buck/Charmaine, Shoshana/Charmaine, Alice/Charmaine. PG-R. I recommend listening to “Paradise Circus” by Massive Attack on repeat while reading. Written for glitterberrys for fandomaid.
Warning: Incest. Pseudo-incest. Consent issues. Canon references to sexual abuse.
Note: The title comes from a hypnotism technique.
Girl with the parking lot eyes // Her bravery is mistaken for the thrashing in the lake // Her jaw aches from wanting and she's sick from chlorine - "Margaret vs. Pauline" - Neko Case
The devil makes us sin, but we like it when we’re spinning in his grip - “Paradise Circus” - Massive Attack
--
Alice doesn't come away easy after the initial transition, the layers of makeup, the pearls, the curls. Tara is slumped on the couch, thinking about basements and yellow houses, and Charmaine makes gentle strokes of the hair brush. It's one of those rare, quiet moments. Tara doesn't know that she remembers the last one, the last time it was just the two of them, just like this.
There is a flash, perhaps, of something she doesn't recognize, of hands held under a table, of a finger held against freshly-lipsticked lips, the muscle memory of crouching thighs, all in the space of a blink, Tara feeling her mouth go slack, swallowing, licking her bottom lip.
Charmaine sits up abruptly, touches Tara on the chin. "You okay?" She's concerned, it settles deep into her eyes, like emotions rarely do aside from ones relating to herself.
Tara's eyes re-focus at the sound of her sister's voice. "Yeah. Totally." She pulls her knees up to her chest, letting the heels that Alice dug out of the closet fall to the floor.
And Charmaine resumes her brushing, the rhythmic tugs easing Tara back, one by one.
--
She’s thinking about how to arrange the furniture, the crib and all the baby stuff, oh, a rocker, maybe, so that when visitors come over she can sweep open the door and say “And this is the baby’s room, but you must be quiet -- she’s sleeping.” And there will be a sparkle in her eye, and her heart will feel so so full and --
The door shuts, gently, with a click.
Charmaine turns around.
“Oh, fuck no.”
Tara -- Shoshana, whatever the fuck that bitch’s name is -- adjusts her glasses, rose-colored, and smiles like she’s swallowed a canary. “Oh, Charmaine, resistance to therapy is normal, but you’ve chosen this place for a reason.”
“Like hell!” Charmaine’s breath starts to come in little spurts, her chest squeezing tighter. She elbows past this monstrosity in seventies dress -- somehow, not all that different from what Tara wears when she’s feeling fancy. It’s unnerving. More than usual.
Shoshana just follows. “It occurs to me that you haven’t been given an adequate forum to express yourself, Charmaine, to explore these feelings. And I know -- as Tara’s doctor I shouldn’t be seeking you out like this --”
Charmaine catches a full breath, and uses it to throw words back, full force. “Well, if it’s for Tara!” She’s shaking. When did she start shaking?
“Charmaine,” Shoshana’s voice is different, somehow, calmer, still, then her ever-calm doctor’s tone. “I want you to close your eyes, and repeat after me.”
She knows she’s going to do it. Because it’s Tara, under all that jazz and hooey, and god damnit. She looks away first, studies the grain of the door. Swallows. Lets it go dark. “Okay.”
“Now, Charmaine. I’d like you to countdown backwards from ten. Go ahead, count out loud so I can hear you.” She can picture Shoshana with her arms crossed, that little half-smile on her lips.
This is full-on ridiculous, but Charmaine plays along, knowing she has years of alter-bingo awaiting her if she doesn’t. “10, 9, 8,” And a kind of choking sound when she feels what is distinctly Tara’s hand on her breast. She doesn’t move.
“Keep going, Charmaine. The world doesn’t wait for you.”
The hand isn’t flexed or rough… just. Resting there.
“7, 6, 5.”
“Slower, slower.”
“I thought you said-“
“Just counting, Charmaine.”
“4.”
The smallest of squeezes.
“3, 2, 1.”
She feels… relaxed. Oddly. She would blink, but her eyelids are heavy.
“Now, Charmaine. Tell me. Do these define you?” Tara-Shoshana runs her hand over Charmaine’s left breast. Charmaine opens her mouth to answer, sluggish. Tara-Shoshana moves her hand down Charmaine’s arm, cupping her fingers, lovingly. “Does this,” she touches the ring, “define you?”
--
Alice is in full-on bake-away-the-pain mode, having been denied a baby for possibly the third time (Charmaine doesn’t check on these things, in fact, she’d rather stay out of the whole business). The scent of forced happiness is in the air, not that Charmaine knows anything about that.
Charmaine lurks around the corners of the kitchen, hoping to enjoy the spoils without directly engaging in war with the formidable beast encased in a frilly apron. She giggles, imagining Alice on all fours, snarling, with horns.
“Oh, Charmaine, I almost didn’t notice you there, with your unwashed hair and poorly manicured hands.” Alice doesn’t even look up from her mixing bowl. The insults are recycled.
“You did, though. Notice me.”
Mixing, mixing away. That dough is going to be flat. “Hmm.”
“Almost. It’s an important distinction.”
“And you want me to indicate that I did, in fact, notice you? Unwashed hair and poorly manicured hands and all?” A quick glance up, a raised eyebrow.
“I didn’t say that.”
Alice resumes her business, adding a dash of this, a dash of that. She drops the mixture into cupcake tins, the oven perfectly heated.
“You’ll have to teach me, maybe.”
“Maybe I will.”
--
It only happens once, which is what Charmaine would tell Tara if she ever asked, but thank God there are no awkward transitions right in the middle of--, and Buck isn't exactly the sort to go around leaving secret messages for... whomever is in charge up there, and what the hell. She is in some serious pain, and her doctor (however dubious Tara may think he is) knows she reacts strongly to pain medication, and apparently strongly, in this case, means with great sexual aggression. And. Well.
From experience, there isn't much that can draw men away from their stories, but in Buck's case, his... "host body"'s sister, doped up, with her newly modified breasts bound up tight attempting to lick his ear. Her ear. Tara's... ear? Is pretty high on his list of distractible things. Of things that will distract.
And -- this may be the medication talking -- but he (she?) does this seriously incredible thing with his tongue that just. Holy. Fuck. The pain is worth it. And the potential therapy. If Charmaine can figure out exactly what, or who... Or maybe it's best not to.
--
"What the fuck, Tara? The least you could do when you finally come home from fucking boarding school is be sober." Charmaine's been waiting for hours for this moment. She’s wearing a new cardigan. It just isn't happening how she planned. Not by a long shot. For starters, Tara didn’t ring the doorbell wearing a perfectly-ironed school uniform, like Charmaine’s been imagining. She didn’t ring the doorbell at all.
Ding-dong-dash doesn’t count.
"Tara?" She slows, turns around, narrows her eyes, flips her ponytail (so five years ago). "Tara's not home right now." And an ungodly laugh erupts from her sister's throat, starting somewhere around the dangerously low neckline that Charmaine thinks, momentarily, would look damn good on her. Minus the gold. Because ew.
"Um, you just got here, obviously." She sighs. "And mom and dad are waiting in the living room. To see you not blitzed out of your mind?"
"Whatever, Hall Monitor. Last time I checked, a little pot in the back of my friend's car isn't illegal-"
"Actually it is!"
"-and I don't give a fuck what Tara's parents think. Hello!" She shakes her meager chest in invitation or taunting. Charmaine can't be sure. And also, what?
"Um. Tara's parents?" The emphasis might be wrong there. She frowns.
Tara's nose wrinkles, she smiles. "Or you, fluster-fuck." She taps Charmaine on her bottom lip, causing her to genuinely startle. "Look. I'm sure Tara'll be home... someday. Until then..." She makes a few quick pats on her person, settles for a hip pocket and pulls out something small and white. "Share?"
Charmaine sputters.
Tara shrugs. Pops the pill herself, then tugs Charmaine towards her by the loops of her jeans. They kiss, and it happens purely out of shock that Charmaine doesn't step back, doesn't shove away, doesn't stiffen, but leans against her sister. "Tara," she says, when she can breathe.
"It's T. Gotta motor."
--
"You have to stay here, Char-Char."
There's a kind of hidey-hole next to and behind an old shelving unit in the basement. It smells like dirt and unwashed pajamas and old farts, but Charmaine is the younger sister, so she goes, squishes down, makes herself as tiny as possible and wiggles her behind until she's truly invisible. "Like this, Chicken?"
"Just till I come and get you."
"Come quick." And she smiles, toothy. But Tara doesn't smile back. She doesn't come back, either.
--
She doesn't remember Charmaine being born. She was far too young for any of that, even if she could remember most things, that far back. But there are some things. Little things. Dark hair next to fair, spread on a pillow. Breath into an already frosty window and chubby fingers tracing letters. Twenty years later, in a kitchen, brushing cookie dough along her sister's cheek. Charmaine squealing, and then suddenly silent when she leaned in to eat it off. So still, her hands in fists. The dough needed more flour, it was far too sticky. Grabbing her sister in the grocery store, grabbing her hard around the shoulders and feeling the wave coming, coming, and begging "Char, Char, I don't want to transition here, I don't, talk to me, please. I don't want to transition." And Charmaine, shrugging, reaching for the cream cheese. "You know that shit's all in your head, Tara." And--
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: They have always been there for one another.
Info: Tara/Charmaine, T/Charmaine, Buck/Charmaine, Shoshana/Charmaine, Alice/Charmaine. PG-R. I recommend listening to “Paradise Circus” by Massive Attack on repeat while reading. Written for glitterberrys for fandomaid.
Warning: Incest. Pseudo-incest. Consent issues. Canon references to sexual abuse.
Note: The title comes from a hypnotism technique.
Girl with the parking lot eyes // Her bravery is mistaken for the thrashing in the lake // Her jaw aches from wanting and she's sick from chlorine - "Margaret vs. Pauline" - Neko Case
The devil makes us sin, but we like it when we’re spinning in his grip - “Paradise Circus” - Massive Attack
--
Alice doesn't come away easy after the initial transition, the layers of makeup, the pearls, the curls. Tara is slumped on the couch, thinking about basements and yellow houses, and Charmaine makes gentle strokes of the hair brush. It's one of those rare, quiet moments. Tara doesn't know that she remembers the last one, the last time it was just the two of them, just like this.
There is a flash, perhaps, of something she doesn't recognize, of hands held under a table, of a finger held against freshly-lipsticked lips, the muscle memory of crouching thighs, all in the space of a blink, Tara feeling her mouth go slack, swallowing, licking her bottom lip.
Charmaine sits up abruptly, touches Tara on the chin. "You okay?" She's concerned, it settles deep into her eyes, like emotions rarely do aside from ones relating to herself.
Tara's eyes re-focus at the sound of her sister's voice. "Yeah. Totally." She pulls her knees up to her chest, letting the heels that Alice dug out of the closet fall to the floor.
And Charmaine resumes her brushing, the rhythmic tugs easing Tara back, one by one.
--
She’s thinking about how to arrange the furniture, the crib and all the baby stuff, oh, a rocker, maybe, so that when visitors come over she can sweep open the door and say “And this is the baby’s room, but you must be quiet -- she’s sleeping.” And there will be a sparkle in her eye, and her heart will feel so so full and --
The door shuts, gently, with a click.
Charmaine turns around.
“Oh, fuck no.”
Tara -- Shoshana, whatever the fuck that bitch’s name is -- adjusts her glasses, rose-colored, and smiles like she’s swallowed a canary. “Oh, Charmaine, resistance to therapy is normal, but you’ve chosen this place for a reason.”
“Like hell!” Charmaine’s breath starts to come in little spurts, her chest squeezing tighter. She elbows past this monstrosity in seventies dress -- somehow, not all that different from what Tara wears when she’s feeling fancy. It’s unnerving. More than usual.
Shoshana just follows. “It occurs to me that you haven’t been given an adequate forum to express yourself, Charmaine, to explore these feelings. And I know -- as Tara’s doctor I shouldn’t be seeking you out like this --”
Charmaine catches a full breath, and uses it to throw words back, full force. “Well, if it’s for Tara!” She’s shaking. When did she start shaking?
“Charmaine,” Shoshana’s voice is different, somehow, calmer, still, then her ever-calm doctor’s tone. “I want you to close your eyes, and repeat after me.”
She knows she’s going to do it. Because it’s Tara, under all that jazz and hooey, and god damnit. She looks away first, studies the grain of the door. Swallows. Lets it go dark. “Okay.”
“Now, Charmaine. I’d like you to countdown backwards from ten. Go ahead, count out loud so I can hear you.” She can picture Shoshana with her arms crossed, that little half-smile on her lips.
This is full-on ridiculous, but Charmaine plays along, knowing she has years of alter-bingo awaiting her if she doesn’t. “10, 9, 8,” And a kind of choking sound when she feels what is distinctly Tara’s hand on her breast. She doesn’t move.
“Keep going, Charmaine. The world doesn’t wait for you.”
The hand isn’t flexed or rough… just. Resting there.
“7, 6, 5.”
“Slower, slower.”
“I thought you said-“
“Just counting, Charmaine.”
“4.”
The smallest of squeezes.
“3, 2, 1.”
She feels… relaxed. Oddly. She would blink, but her eyelids are heavy.
“Now, Charmaine. Tell me. Do these define you?” Tara-Shoshana runs her hand over Charmaine’s left breast. Charmaine opens her mouth to answer, sluggish. Tara-Shoshana moves her hand down Charmaine’s arm, cupping her fingers, lovingly. “Does this,” she touches the ring, “define you?”
--
Alice is in full-on bake-away-the-pain mode, having been denied a baby for possibly the third time (Charmaine doesn’t check on these things, in fact, she’d rather stay out of the whole business). The scent of forced happiness is in the air, not that Charmaine knows anything about that.
Charmaine lurks around the corners of the kitchen, hoping to enjoy the spoils without directly engaging in war with the formidable beast encased in a frilly apron. She giggles, imagining Alice on all fours, snarling, with horns.
“Oh, Charmaine, I almost didn’t notice you there, with your unwashed hair and poorly manicured hands.” Alice doesn’t even look up from her mixing bowl. The insults are recycled.
“You did, though. Notice me.”
Mixing, mixing away. That dough is going to be flat. “Hmm.”
“Almost. It’s an important distinction.”
“And you want me to indicate that I did, in fact, notice you? Unwashed hair and poorly manicured hands and all?” A quick glance up, a raised eyebrow.
“I didn’t say that.”
Alice resumes her business, adding a dash of this, a dash of that. She drops the mixture into cupcake tins, the oven perfectly heated.
“You’ll have to teach me, maybe.”
“Maybe I will.”
--
It only happens once, which is what Charmaine would tell Tara if she ever asked, but thank God there are no awkward transitions right in the middle of--, and Buck isn't exactly the sort to go around leaving secret messages for... whomever is in charge up there, and what the hell. She is in some serious pain, and her doctor (however dubious Tara may think he is) knows she reacts strongly to pain medication, and apparently strongly, in this case, means with great sexual aggression. And. Well.
From experience, there isn't much that can draw men away from their stories, but in Buck's case, his... "host body"'s sister, doped up, with her newly modified breasts bound up tight attempting to lick his ear. Her ear. Tara's... ear? Is pretty high on his list of distractible things. Of things that will distract.
And -- this may be the medication talking -- but he (she?) does this seriously incredible thing with his tongue that just. Holy. Fuck. The pain is worth it. And the potential therapy. If Charmaine can figure out exactly what, or who... Or maybe it's best not to.
--
"What the fuck, Tara? The least you could do when you finally come home from fucking boarding school is be sober." Charmaine's been waiting for hours for this moment. She’s wearing a new cardigan. It just isn't happening how she planned. Not by a long shot. For starters, Tara didn’t ring the doorbell wearing a perfectly-ironed school uniform, like Charmaine’s been imagining. She didn’t ring the doorbell at all.
Ding-dong-dash doesn’t count.
"Tara?" She slows, turns around, narrows her eyes, flips her ponytail (so five years ago). "Tara's not home right now." And an ungodly laugh erupts from her sister's throat, starting somewhere around the dangerously low neckline that Charmaine thinks, momentarily, would look damn good on her. Minus the gold. Because ew.
"Um, you just got here, obviously." She sighs. "And mom and dad are waiting in the living room. To see you not blitzed out of your mind?"
"Whatever, Hall Monitor. Last time I checked, a little pot in the back of my friend's car isn't illegal-"
"Actually it is!"
"-and I don't give a fuck what Tara's parents think. Hello!" She shakes her meager chest in invitation or taunting. Charmaine can't be sure. And also, what?
"Um. Tara's parents?" The emphasis might be wrong there. She frowns.
Tara's nose wrinkles, she smiles. "Or you, fluster-fuck." She taps Charmaine on her bottom lip, causing her to genuinely startle. "Look. I'm sure Tara'll be home... someday. Until then..." She makes a few quick pats on her person, settles for a hip pocket and pulls out something small and white. "Share?"
Charmaine sputters.
Tara shrugs. Pops the pill herself, then tugs Charmaine towards her by the loops of her jeans. They kiss, and it happens purely out of shock that Charmaine doesn't step back, doesn't shove away, doesn't stiffen, but leans against her sister. "Tara," she says, when she can breathe.
"It's T. Gotta motor."
--
"You have to stay here, Char-Char."
There's a kind of hidey-hole next to and behind an old shelving unit in the basement. It smells like dirt and unwashed pajamas and old farts, but Charmaine is the younger sister, so she goes, squishes down, makes herself as tiny as possible and wiggles her behind until she's truly invisible. "Like this, Chicken?"
"Just till I come and get you."
"Come quick." And she smiles, toothy. But Tara doesn't smile back. She doesn't come back, either.
--
She doesn't remember Charmaine being born. She was far too young for any of that, even if she could remember most things, that far back. But there are some things. Little things. Dark hair next to fair, spread on a pillow. Breath into an already frosty window and chubby fingers tracing letters. Twenty years later, in a kitchen, brushing cookie dough along her sister's cheek. Charmaine squealing, and then suddenly silent when she leaned in to eat it off. So still, her hands in fists. The dough needed more flour, it was far too sticky. Grabbing her sister in the grocery store, grabbing her hard around the shoulders and feeling the wave coming, coming, and begging "Char, Char, I don't want to transition here, I don't, talk to me, please. I don't want to transition." And Charmaine, shrugging, reaching for the cream cheese. "You know that shit's all in your head, Tara." And--