Extra Virgin, Jack Reacher, Jack-centric
t: Extra Virgin
f: Jack Reacher series - Lee Child
c: Jack
r/wc: G/1130
s: Genderswitched AU Other women get pitied for their facial bruises, but one look at Jack and you’d never mistake her for anybody’s victim.
n: I wanted to practice writing again, and stepquietly said: WANT LADY JACK REACHER WHO CHUGS COFFEE AND WANTS TO PEE IN MEN'S SKULLS. I could never write anything as good as that sentence, but I wrote a thing! Oh, and Virgin, Utah is a real place; I did about as much research as I assume Lee Child ever does.
The waitress’ heels click on the diner floor, a steady staccato; cheap vinyl and cheap shoes, heading toward the end of a long shift, a long day. She weaves expertly through the tables, dispensing coffee refills and easy red-lipsticked smiles, sandwiches and fries and pancakes for people eating this late. Her pace is even, constant; one she can keep up for hours, and clearly has.
She walks a little faster as she passes Jack’s table, all but dropping the cheeseburger in front of her before she wends her way back toward the other diners, the ones studiously ignoring where Jack sits with her back to the corner and her gaze on all the viable exits.
Jack’s used to this, used to being avoided and being stared at in vaguely equal measure, and she doesn’t much care. She’s been on a greyhound most of the day, and all she really cares about is the food in front of her, the fact the waitress doesn’t want to be near her for too long but trots over quick enough when Jack nudges her emptied cup toward the corner of the table. The coffee isn’t great, but it’s hot and black and there’s plenty of it, not too gritty, the cup warm and solid in Jack’s hands. She’s drunk better, but she’s drunk worse; much worse.
It was a whim, getting off the bus here; something about the sign made Jack’s lips quirk, slide out of her aisle seat and step out into the Utah dust. She lets curiosity and amusement dictate most of her travels these days, and it’s December; a town called Virgin seemed appropriate, if nothing else.
Hunger sated, Jack leans back in her chair, lets the waitress clear her plate and pour her another cup of coffee, reaching the bottom of the pot, a little darker and smokier and sharper against Jack’s tongue. She’s nowhere to be; there’s a motel across the street, small and too homely like the ones in towns this tiny tend to be. Jack’s key is a physical key, heavy and brass, with a thick brown leather keyring attached, embossed with the number four. She’s not convinced that there are many more rooms, or even other guests; a place this small, no one would bother to come here for much more than standing by the town’s sign and sniggering for a photo or two.
Any other woman, and the patrons of the diner would be looking at her with concern for her wellbeing, not their own. Jack hasn’t looked in a mirror since yesterday, glancing at her reflection as she changed in a cubicle at the back of a goodwill store, a clean shirt and passable jeans, folding her torn t-shirt and pants to be crammed into a trashcan later. She kept her boots though; they’re good boots, comfortable, and ones big enough for her feet need to be held onto for a little while, anyway. So: Jack hasn’t seen herself in a while, but she’s sure that the bruising won’t have gotten any better in the last sixteen hours or so. Her mouth stings a little with every sip of coffee; whenever she licks her lips she can taste the tang of blood and salt underneath the bitterness. Still, that’s all over now; now she wants to sleep for a week and drink this okay coffee and maybe see what sights there are to see in Virgin, Utah.
Other women get pitied for their facial bruises, but one look at Jack and you’d never mistake her for anybody’s victim. She has no illusions about her appearance; has lived with it for more than thirty years. She’s taller than almost all women, broader about the shoulders and chest, her hands hard and solid from years of work and coiled knuckles and when to duck and when to throw herself forward. Jack’s not sure exactly how many times she’s broken her nose now - three? four? - but it’s healed crooked, and her eyes are too sharp and flinty and cruel blue for her face ever to have been pretty. She doesn’t mind; her lovers have followed her scars with fascination, pressed kisses to the angry bite of her jaw, and she likes this body, knows exactly what it is capable of.
A group of men, who’d maybe be drinking in a bar if there was anywhere palatable around here, avert their eyes too slow from Jack’s wildcat gaze; one of them, false bravado, says something in an undertone to the others, and there’s a chorus of awkward titters. Jack doesn’t care. She knows the things that men say about her, and has little interest and even less time for them. Most men, she makes nervous; the ones she doesn’t are the interesting ones.
Jack scrubs a hand through her cropped hair, kept short because it’s easier than any of the other options, and holds her attention at their table until every single one of them has their gaze dropped to their cooling coffee, shoulders hunching defensive. Jack knows a lot of ways to break every bone in a man’s body, but she’ll never do it for wounded pride; not without another reason alongside it, anyway. It doesn’t stop her from wanting to, some days, but she’s human, after all.
The waitress’ carefully painted lips lilt a little when she brings Jack her cheque, though she says nothing else, whisking away Jack’s finally-emptied cup. Jack debates her options, but six cups is probably enough for one night, for now, anyway.
Virgin, Utah, has a population of well under a thousand people, all of whom are legally required to carry firearms, and it’s very dark and quiet outside and there’s the worn, starched sheets of a motel bed waiting for Jack; she dozed on the bus but it’s been days since she last slept, really slept, and she’s ready, she thinks. Ready to lie down somewhere quiet and rest and wait.
Her boots echo the waitress’ footfalls as she leaves the diner, thick soles on the vinyl, and Virgin is a quiet place she won’t remember once she’s gone, except the way she smirked at the name, a bridge long burned, something festive and reminiscent in the air.
Maybe she’ll remember the way she inclined her head at the men on her way out of the diner, murmuring, “gentlemen,” a greeting and a dare, and Jack’s never been foolhardy but she’s never been one for backing away either.
None of them look at her, and she lets the door to the diner fall shut behind her, a tinkling bell, and then silence. She takes another three steps, taps her fingertips against the soft denim of her jeans, counts. And then the bell chimes, the door opens, and she thinks: ah.
f: Jack Reacher series - Lee Child
c: Jack
r/wc: G/1130
s: Genderswitched AU Other women get pitied for their facial bruises, but one look at Jack and you’d never mistake her for anybody’s victim.
n: I wanted to practice writing again, and stepquietly said: WANT LADY JACK REACHER WHO CHUGS COFFEE AND WANTS TO PEE IN MEN'S SKULLS. I could never write anything as good as that sentence, but I wrote a thing! Oh, and Virgin, Utah is a real place; I did about as much research as I assume Lee Child ever does.
The waitress’ heels click on the diner floor, a steady staccato; cheap vinyl and cheap shoes, heading toward the end of a long shift, a long day. She weaves expertly through the tables, dispensing coffee refills and easy red-lipsticked smiles, sandwiches and fries and pancakes for people eating this late. Her pace is even, constant; one she can keep up for hours, and clearly has.
She walks a little faster as she passes Jack’s table, all but dropping the cheeseburger in front of her before she wends her way back toward the other diners, the ones studiously ignoring where Jack sits with her back to the corner and her gaze on all the viable exits.
Jack’s used to this, used to being avoided and being stared at in vaguely equal measure, and she doesn’t much care. She’s been on a greyhound most of the day, and all she really cares about is the food in front of her, the fact the waitress doesn’t want to be near her for too long but trots over quick enough when Jack nudges her emptied cup toward the corner of the table. The coffee isn’t great, but it’s hot and black and there’s plenty of it, not too gritty, the cup warm and solid in Jack’s hands. She’s drunk better, but she’s drunk worse; much worse.
It was a whim, getting off the bus here; something about the sign made Jack’s lips quirk, slide out of her aisle seat and step out into the Utah dust. She lets curiosity and amusement dictate most of her travels these days, and it’s December; a town called Virgin seemed appropriate, if nothing else.
Hunger sated, Jack leans back in her chair, lets the waitress clear her plate and pour her another cup of coffee, reaching the bottom of the pot, a little darker and smokier and sharper against Jack’s tongue. She’s nowhere to be; there’s a motel across the street, small and too homely like the ones in towns this tiny tend to be. Jack’s key is a physical key, heavy and brass, with a thick brown leather keyring attached, embossed with the number four. She’s not convinced that there are many more rooms, or even other guests; a place this small, no one would bother to come here for much more than standing by the town’s sign and sniggering for a photo or two.
Any other woman, and the patrons of the diner would be looking at her with concern for her wellbeing, not their own. Jack hasn’t looked in a mirror since yesterday, glancing at her reflection as she changed in a cubicle at the back of a goodwill store, a clean shirt and passable jeans, folding her torn t-shirt and pants to be crammed into a trashcan later. She kept her boots though; they’re good boots, comfortable, and ones big enough for her feet need to be held onto for a little while, anyway. So: Jack hasn’t seen herself in a while, but she’s sure that the bruising won’t have gotten any better in the last sixteen hours or so. Her mouth stings a little with every sip of coffee; whenever she licks her lips she can taste the tang of blood and salt underneath the bitterness. Still, that’s all over now; now she wants to sleep for a week and drink this okay coffee and maybe see what sights there are to see in Virgin, Utah.
Other women get pitied for their facial bruises, but one look at Jack and you’d never mistake her for anybody’s victim. She has no illusions about her appearance; has lived with it for more than thirty years. She’s taller than almost all women, broader about the shoulders and chest, her hands hard and solid from years of work and coiled knuckles and when to duck and when to throw herself forward. Jack’s not sure exactly how many times she’s broken her nose now - three? four? - but it’s healed crooked, and her eyes are too sharp and flinty and cruel blue for her face ever to have been pretty. She doesn’t mind; her lovers have followed her scars with fascination, pressed kisses to the angry bite of her jaw, and she likes this body, knows exactly what it is capable of.
A group of men, who’d maybe be drinking in a bar if there was anywhere palatable around here, avert their eyes too slow from Jack’s wildcat gaze; one of them, false bravado, says something in an undertone to the others, and there’s a chorus of awkward titters. Jack doesn’t care. She knows the things that men say about her, and has little interest and even less time for them. Most men, she makes nervous; the ones she doesn’t are the interesting ones.
Jack scrubs a hand through her cropped hair, kept short because it’s easier than any of the other options, and holds her attention at their table until every single one of them has their gaze dropped to their cooling coffee, shoulders hunching defensive. Jack knows a lot of ways to break every bone in a man’s body, but she’ll never do it for wounded pride; not without another reason alongside it, anyway. It doesn’t stop her from wanting to, some days, but she’s human, after all.
The waitress’ carefully painted lips lilt a little when she brings Jack her cheque, though she says nothing else, whisking away Jack’s finally-emptied cup. Jack debates her options, but six cups is probably enough for one night, for now, anyway.
Virgin, Utah, has a population of well under a thousand people, all of whom are legally required to carry firearms, and it’s very dark and quiet outside and there’s the worn, starched sheets of a motel bed waiting for Jack; she dozed on the bus but it’s been days since she last slept, really slept, and she’s ready, she thinks. Ready to lie down somewhere quiet and rest and wait.
Her boots echo the waitress’ footfalls as she leaves the diner, thick soles on the vinyl, and Virgin is a quiet place she won’t remember once she’s gone, except the way she smirked at the name, a bridge long burned, something festive and reminiscent in the air.
Maybe she’ll remember the way she inclined her head at the men on her way out of the diner, murmuring, “gentlemen,” a greeting and a dare, and Jack’s never been foolhardy but she’s never been one for backing away either.
None of them look at her, and she lets the door to the diner fall shut behind her, a tinkling bell, and then silence. She takes another three steps, taps her fingertips against the soft denim of her jeans, counts. And then the bell chimes, the door opens, and she thinks: ah.