"from here to eternity (without in-betweens)", Being Human, Lia-centric
Title: from here to eternity (without in-betweens)
Fandom: Being Human
Characters: Lia
Challenge/Prompt: 100_women, 062. Death
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2035
Genre: Gen
Copyright: Title taken from Valentine's Day by ABC.
Warnings: Spoilers for episode one of season three. Basically, if you don't know who Lia is.
Summary: mysterious doors tend to lead nowhere good and lia had plans for this weekend, plans and a pretty summer dress that's sticking to her thighs.
Author’s Notes: Because Lia is actually my new favourite character ever, she was amazing. I want her in all fandoms I write ever. So I thought that at least writing her in her own fandom seemed like a start. I don't know who, other than finkpishnets (her again) will want to read this, but Lia was wonderful and sinister and brilliant and I wanted to write her story.
her last thoughts are, shamefully, something along the lines of at least he's pretty.
(later, daisy licks her blood off his chin, giggles sharp and vicious and lost. she's found a few hours later, cold, eyes blank and open.)
there's a door in the wall of the carriage, a door that wasn't there before and which probably wasn't sanctioned by british rail since it's incongruously wood-panelled and a little battered around the edges. lia considers her options; going through the mysterious door/not going through the mysterious door. mysterious doors tend to lead nowhere good and lia had plans for this weekend, plans and a pretty summer dress that's sticking to her thighs.
she looks behind her and, oh, that summer dress is ruined now, stained all red and her hair's lost its volume and she spent loads on that manicure that's all scratched up from clawing at the guy who killed her. fat lot of good that did her and she hopes someone bothers to repaint her nails for the inevitable funeral.
hmmm. that's an interesting thought. there'd better not be bloody lilies, she's better than bloody lilies.
"i'm suing," someone behind her says, mobile already in hand.
lia sighs, because clearly she is the only sensible one here. which is kind of tragic, really, but what can you do.
"shut the fuck up, you're dead," she tells him, and smooths her dress down a little. "no point suing anyone anymore really. well, i suppose it depends on what the afterlife's like, really, i might sue someone myself if it's not glittery. it's meant to be glittery, right? well, good glittery, i mean, not tacky glittery."
she frowns at the door. she doesn't want to go through it, not really, but they're stranded in the middle of nowhere and she doubts there's a whole lot of options once you're dead, location-wise. and walking along the track doesn't really appeal, even if electrocution's probably not an issue anymore. people are crying behind her, shouting, and lia's always been good in a crisis, more sensible than anyone ever gave her credit for.
she'd have been a fucking amazing vet.
"well," lia murmurs, "no point hanging around here, no one wants to spend more time than they have to in a shitty little train carriage. 'specially not this one, all that blood's kind of ruining the ambience."
the doorhandle twists easily under her palm.
the lighting isn't flattering.
"i thought it was meant to be all soft-focus, vaseline over the lens, that kind of thing," lia explains, and gets a truncheon hit against the wire cage for her pains. "come on, i mean, strip-lighting doesn't do anyone any favours. it's like changing rooms, i mean, no one ever looks good in clothes in changing rooms, how the hell are you supposed to buy anything? it's all too bright, no one looks good in bright lighting, we were made for dark rooms and sunglasses."
she sighs and sits down, shoes sliding over the cracked lino flooring. she's alone right now, alone in a little room that isn't really a room, and there are people outside whose faces she can't quite see. she's not scared, because she's already been scared enough for one day.
"can i at least get a cuppa?" she asks. "i mean, my friend's cousin, right, she's on this train and a load of teenage idiots through a rock through the window, and they all got brought cups of tea off the trolley afterwards. and i'm pretty sure that getting killed is way worse than not even getting brained by a bit of concrete."
the people don't say anything, but that's kind of ok. lia can entertain herself, and anyway, she kind of gets the feeling that she doesn't want to hear anything that they have to say.
the bar is both better and worse. it's kind of like vodka revs on a wednesday night, actually; not busy enough to be overcrowded and horrible, but with that edge of desperation that drinking on a weekday has.
lia sips a martini. it tastes a little dusty but it's a good start, and anyway she thinks she doesn't really have the option of being picky anymore.
it's a strange not-quite-evening. a guy from a recent police shoot-out tries to hit on her; he claims it was a case of mistaken identity but lia doesn't think it is, and the tv behind the bar flickers between repeats of the one show - which; really? - and shots of people crying. that helpless, despairing sobbing that is deeply uncomfortable to watch. lia doesn't understand until a fluff piece on hedgehogs or something is replaced by her mum, weeping as a policeman who looks way too young for this shit tries to look sympathetic and not just terrified.
lia's glass shatters on the floor and she doesn't bother looking down. she thinks she's crying, which is rubbish becuase this mascara isn't waterproof and she's not sure where she's going to get make-up remover in wherever the hell she is. she tries to find her voice to tell them to change the channel, that anything's better than this, but she can't make her voice work and onscreen her mum just cries on and on and on.
"you mean i wasn't awesome enough for either heaven or hell?" lia demands. "that's kind of crap, really. i mean, no one goes oh i really want to go to purgatory after i die. no one makes films about it."
there's a bored-looking man in a grey suit with a bad combover and a desperate need for an early night sat behind a desk looking like he'd rather be somewhere else. presumably he wasn't awesome enough to get out of purgatory either. his computer has windows 98 on it; lia caught a glimpse.
"heaven and hell are abstract constructs," he tries.
"yeah, no," lia says, "no, they're not, because i watched them drag that guy out the bar, ok, i watched them take him and his second door was fucking flaming, yeah? so whatever shit you've been told to tell me, i know you're lying."
he raises an eyebrow like he's not really used to making facial expressions anymore.
"i'm actually insulted," lia says. "i mean, you've basically just told me i'm boring. i'm not boring."
"clearly," he says dryly, and types something into her file.
lia's bored from filling out paperwork with a pen that leaked, her fingers are stained with biro ink and her head hurts and she kind of thought by now she'd be somewhere, not shunted from stock location to stock location. it's like being in a soap opera.
"if the next place you guys put me is a laundrette i'm not going to be responsible for my actions, by the way," she says.
the man looks more tired than ever. "noted," he says, and clicks something. lia has the horrible suspicion he's actually serious.
"so, this guy's, like, actually really fucking hot," lia muses, going through the john mitchell file. there's lots of people in here, she's right up the back and it's not even a particularly good photo of herself, it's one of the ones she was going to untag herself from on facebook when she got off that train. only then she didn't get off that train.
her fellow passengers don't look nearly as happy about this fact. lia was always an optimist, though, and she's not sure what she is now except that she's got some kind of righteous indignation going on that's kind of complicated. everyone else seems kind of quiet, kind of in shock, slumped around watching their families cry through television sets that only ever seem to show the ultimate in filler tv; if she has to watch one more episode of coast lia is actually going to break something. they don't seem to care where they end up. lia has a vested interest in herself, though, and all of this really just feels like a paperwork fuck-up.
"come on," she says, "does no one else think about the aesthetics of their death?"
"no," she's told by half a dozen people.
lia rolls her eyes. "fine. seriously, though, he's pretty. also tortured."
"this isn't take me out," tanya snaps. tanya was one of the first to go. she still spends most of her time with her fingers pressed to her neck even though all the marks are gone from them all. which is good, really, lia doesn't think any of them want to sit around looking like they're part of a low-budget zombie movie. there were too many ripped-open stomachs and spilling intestines for any of this to really be socially acceptable.
lia takes a sip of her tea and turns the page. she doesn't know if this is meant to be the blame game or if they're meant to be bonding or if it's just another variation of the waiting game, but it's not like anyone's going to tell her anytime soon.
lia gets called back into the office with the bored-looking man. he's added one of those supposedly inspirational posters to the wall; the blu-tack is peeling off and it just makes the ambience even more depressing. lia points this out and says maybe he should get a desk calendar instead and the man looks vaguely annoyed. lia thinks she might turn out to be good for him; maybe he'll manage an actual emotion next time she shows up.
if there's a next time.
"we want you to do us a favour," he explains.
lia doesn't think he means 'us', she thinks he means that he works for the actual people, he's a middleman with an ugly tie and nothing to ever look forward to. she doesn't say this aloud, though, because she thinks she's probably pissed him off enough for one day.
"is this going to get me awesome brownie points and get me out of this?" she asks. "i mean, not that this succession of badly-decorated rooms isn't fun or anything..."
"everything's a succession of badly-decorated rooms," he responds calmly, and that's a worrying enough thought that it actually shuts her up.
he hands her a piece of paper, crumpled at the corners, with an unfamiliar letterhead that means death might actually have its own logo, and she's almost disappointed when she looks up and he isn't wearing a ghastly smile after all.
"do i get any training?" lia asks. "because, you know, i'm not qualified for this. i mean, i can improvise and stuff, but a how-to manual would be nice."
he sends her out of his office on a sigh, and lia frowns down at the paper some more. funny how things have a way of working out.
john mitchell is even more pretty the second time around. this might be the lack of blood and screaming and terror, or it might be the flat, calm anger that she doesn't think she's ever letting go of, or it might even be the message she gets to convey if he gets far enough.
she kind of wants to get him far enough. lia can't work out if this is because she feels sympathetic or if she wants to punish him, and if maybe the two things are mutually exclusive. either way, she won't object if he wants to shag her up against the wall of her his own personal badly-decorated corridor, though she thinks he might.
which is kind of sad, really, when you stop and think about it.
lia curls her nails against the ugly wallpaper and reminds herself that things can always be worse, that she was alive until she wasn't and she's seen so many episodes of countryfile that she's actually starting to enjoy it, and there's the promise of something better beyond her reach but she doesn't know how to get there and she doesn't know if anyone does, really.
anyway, things can always get worse, things can always get uglier, you can watch your own blood slide down a train carriage wall, and lia doesn't think this will be the last time she'll meet john mitchell.
and they say there's nothing left to look forward to.
Fandom: Being Human
Characters: Lia
Challenge/Prompt: 100_women, 062. Death
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2035
Genre: Gen
Copyright: Title taken from Valentine's Day by ABC.
Warnings: Spoilers for episode one of season three. Basically, if you don't know who Lia is.
Summary: mysterious doors tend to lead nowhere good and lia had plans for this weekend, plans and a pretty summer dress that's sticking to her thighs.
Author’s Notes: Because Lia is actually my new favourite character ever, she was amazing. I want her in all fandoms I write ever. So I thought that at least writing her in her own fandom seemed like a start. I don't know who, other than finkpishnets (her again) will want to read this, but Lia was wonderful and sinister and brilliant and I wanted to write her story.
her last thoughts are, shamefully, something along the lines of at least he's pretty.
(later, daisy licks her blood off his chin, giggles sharp and vicious and lost. she's found a few hours later, cold, eyes blank and open.)
there's a door in the wall of the carriage, a door that wasn't there before and which probably wasn't sanctioned by british rail since it's incongruously wood-panelled and a little battered around the edges. lia considers her options; going through the mysterious door/not going through the mysterious door. mysterious doors tend to lead nowhere good and lia had plans for this weekend, plans and a pretty summer dress that's sticking to her thighs.
she looks behind her and, oh, that summer dress is ruined now, stained all red and her hair's lost its volume and she spent loads on that manicure that's all scratched up from clawing at the guy who killed her. fat lot of good that did her and she hopes someone bothers to repaint her nails for the inevitable funeral.
hmmm. that's an interesting thought. there'd better not be bloody lilies, she's better than bloody lilies.
"i'm suing," someone behind her says, mobile already in hand.
lia sighs, because clearly she is the only sensible one here. which is kind of tragic, really, but what can you do.
"shut the fuck up, you're dead," she tells him, and smooths her dress down a little. "no point suing anyone anymore really. well, i suppose it depends on what the afterlife's like, really, i might sue someone myself if it's not glittery. it's meant to be glittery, right? well, good glittery, i mean, not tacky glittery."
she frowns at the door. she doesn't want to go through it, not really, but they're stranded in the middle of nowhere and she doubts there's a whole lot of options once you're dead, location-wise. and walking along the track doesn't really appeal, even if electrocution's probably not an issue anymore. people are crying behind her, shouting, and lia's always been good in a crisis, more sensible than anyone ever gave her credit for.
she'd have been a fucking amazing vet.
"well," lia murmurs, "no point hanging around here, no one wants to spend more time than they have to in a shitty little train carriage. 'specially not this one, all that blood's kind of ruining the ambience."
the doorhandle twists easily under her palm.
the lighting isn't flattering.
"i thought it was meant to be all soft-focus, vaseline over the lens, that kind of thing," lia explains, and gets a truncheon hit against the wire cage for her pains. "come on, i mean, strip-lighting doesn't do anyone any favours. it's like changing rooms, i mean, no one ever looks good in clothes in changing rooms, how the hell are you supposed to buy anything? it's all too bright, no one looks good in bright lighting, we were made for dark rooms and sunglasses."
she sighs and sits down, shoes sliding over the cracked lino flooring. she's alone right now, alone in a little room that isn't really a room, and there are people outside whose faces she can't quite see. she's not scared, because she's already been scared enough for one day.
"can i at least get a cuppa?" she asks. "i mean, my friend's cousin, right, she's on this train and a load of teenage idiots through a rock through the window, and they all got brought cups of tea off the trolley afterwards. and i'm pretty sure that getting killed is way worse than not even getting brained by a bit of concrete."
the people don't say anything, but that's kind of ok. lia can entertain herself, and anyway, she kind of gets the feeling that she doesn't want to hear anything that they have to say.
the bar is both better and worse. it's kind of like vodka revs on a wednesday night, actually; not busy enough to be overcrowded and horrible, but with that edge of desperation that drinking on a weekday has.
lia sips a martini. it tastes a little dusty but it's a good start, and anyway she thinks she doesn't really have the option of being picky anymore.
it's a strange not-quite-evening. a guy from a recent police shoot-out tries to hit on her; he claims it was a case of mistaken identity but lia doesn't think it is, and the tv behind the bar flickers between repeats of the one show - which; really? - and shots of people crying. that helpless, despairing sobbing that is deeply uncomfortable to watch. lia doesn't understand until a fluff piece on hedgehogs or something is replaced by her mum, weeping as a policeman who looks way too young for this shit tries to look sympathetic and not just terrified.
lia's glass shatters on the floor and she doesn't bother looking down. she thinks she's crying, which is rubbish becuase this mascara isn't waterproof and she's not sure where she's going to get make-up remover in wherever the hell she is. she tries to find her voice to tell them to change the channel, that anything's better than this, but she can't make her voice work and onscreen her mum just cries on and on and on.
"you mean i wasn't awesome enough for either heaven or hell?" lia demands. "that's kind of crap, really. i mean, no one goes oh i really want to go to purgatory after i die. no one makes films about it."
there's a bored-looking man in a grey suit with a bad combover and a desperate need for an early night sat behind a desk looking like he'd rather be somewhere else. presumably he wasn't awesome enough to get out of purgatory either. his computer has windows 98 on it; lia caught a glimpse.
"heaven and hell are abstract constructs," he tries.
"yeah, no," lia says, "no, they're not, because i watched them drag that guy out the bar, ok, i watched them take him and his second door was fucking flaming, yeah? so whatever shit you've been told to tell me, i know you're lying."
he raises an eyebrow like he's not really used to making facial expressions anymore.
"i'm actually insulted," lia says. "i mean, you've basically just told me i'm boring. i'm not boring."
"clearly," he says dryly, and types something into her file.
lia's bored from filling out paperwork with a pen that leaked, her fingers are stained with biro ink and her head hurts and she kind of thought by now she'd be somewhere, not shunted from stock location to stock location. it's like being in a soap opera.
"if the next place you guys put me is a laundrette i'm not going to be responsible for my actions, by the way," she says.
the man looks more tired than ever. "noted," he says, and clicks something. lia has the horrible suspicion he's actually serious.
"so, this guy's, like, actually really fucking hot," lia muses, going through the john mitchell file. there's lots of people in here, she's right up the back and it's not even a particularly good photo of herself, it's one of the ones she was going to untag herself from on facebook when she got off that train. only then she didn't get off that train.
her fellow passengers don't look nearly as happy about this fact. lia was always an optimist, though, and she's not sure what she is now except that she's got some kind of righteous indignation going on that's kind of complicated. everyone else seems kind of quiet, kind of in shock, slumped around watching their families cry through television sets that only ever seem to show the ultimate in filler tv; if she has to watch one more episode of coast lia is actually going to break something. they don't seem to care where they end up. lia has a vested interest in herself, though, and all of this really just feels like a paperwork fuck-up.
"come on," she says, "does no one else think about the aesthetics of their death?"
"no," she's told by half a dozen people.
lia rolls her eyes. "fine. seriously, though, he's pretty. also tortured."
"this isn't take me out," tanya snaps. tanya was one of the first to go. she still spends most of her time with her fingers pressed to her neck even though all the marks are gone from them all. which is good, really, lia doesn't think any of them want to sit around looking like they're part of a low-budget zombie movie. there were too many ripped-open stomachs and spilling intestines for any of this to really be socially acceptable.
lia takes a sip of her tea and turns the page. she doesn't know if this is meant to be the blame game or if they're meant to be bonding or if it's just another variation of the waiting game, but it's not like anyone's going to tell her anytime soon.
lia gets called back into the office with the bored-looking man. he's added one of those supposedly inspirational posters to the wall; the blu-tack is peeling off and it just makes the ambience even more depressing. lia points this out and says maybe he should get a desk calendar instead and the man looks vaguely annoyed. lia thinks she might turn out to be good for him; maybe he'll manage an actual emotion next time she shows up.
if there's a next time.
"we want you to do us a favour," he explains.
lia doesn't think he means 'us', she thinks he means that he works for the actual people, he's a middleman with an ugly tie and nothing to ever look forward to. she doesn't say this aloud, though, because she thinks she's probably pissed him off enough for one day.
"is this going to get me awesome brownie points and get me out of this?" she asks. "i mean, not that this succession of badly-decorated rooms isn't fun or anything..."
"everything's a succession of badly-decorated rooms," he responds calmly, and that's a worrying enough thought that it actually shuts her up.
he hands her a piece of paper, crumpled at the corners, with an unfamiliar letterhead that means death might actually have its own logo, and she's almost disappointed when she looks up and he isn't wearing a ghastly smile after all.
"do i get any training?" lia asks. "because, you know, i'm not qualified for this. i mean, i can improvise and stuff, but a how-to manual would be nice."
he sends her out of his office on a sigh, and lia frowns down at the paper some more. funny how things have a way of working out.
john mitchell is even more pretty the second time around. this might be the lack of blood and screaming and terror, or it might be the flat, calm anger that she doesn't think she's ever letting go of, or it might even be the message she gets to convey if he gets far enough.
she kind of wants to get him far enough. lia can't work out if this is because she feels sympathetic or if she wants to punish him, and if maybe the two things are mutually exclusive. either way, she won't object if he wants to shag her up against the wall of her his own personal badly-decorated corridor, though she thinks he might.
which is kind of sad, really, when you stop and think about it.
lia curls her nails against the ugly wallpaper and reminds herself that things can always be worse, that she was alive until she wasn't and she's seen so many episodes of countryfile that she's actually starting to enjoy it, and there's the promise of something better beyond her reach but she doesn't know how to get there and she doesn't know if anyone does, really.
anyway, things can always get worse, things can always get uglier, you can watch your own blood slide down a train carriage wall, and lia doesn't think this will be the last time she'll meet john mitchell.
and they say there's nothing left to look forward to.