(no subject)
Written for my darling resmin. Happy Birthday babe, from Laynie and the rest of your minions. *g*
Title: Never Had the Pleasure
Fandom: Everwood, various.
Notes: Totally and cracktastically AU.
I. Immutable
Bright's the one to come down to drive her home. Her own parents couldn't be bothered, and frankly, Laynie is thankful.
She's already heard the news, of course, but seeing Bright on her doorstep makes the reality all the more vivid. It always used to be Colin and Bright, attached at the hip. Now it's just Brighton Abbott, coming to collect the baby sister of his dead best friend.
God, they're like a bad 1950s melodrama.
She breaks down about seventy miles outside Everwood. They pull off the road and Bright holds her as the sobs wrack her body. He strokes her back and kisses her temple.
When she finally pulls back, wipes snot from her nose with the back of her hand, Laynie realizes that Bright was crying too. She kisses his cheek and they never speak of it again.
*
The morning that Amy leaves for rehab, Laynie and Bright stand in the Abbott's driveway, waving until they can't see the car any longer.
Laynie knows that he wants to scream at her -- it's her fault that Amy discovered her love of vodka. It's her fault that Amy adopted Laynie's method of coping.
But he doesn't yell. He doesn't even glare at her. He hugs her instead, crushing her body into his so she can barely breathe.
"C'mon, I'll give you a ride."
Bright's quiet and still on the drive to school, but before they get out of the truck he says, still looking straight ahead, "It's not your fault. Never doubt that."
She nods once, and then climbs out.
They never speak of it again either.
*
Years later, when Ephram and Amy have ceased to speak to either of them, Bright is still the constant in her life. He showed up on her doorstep one day and never left. Laynie likes to joke that they're the strays -- no, the black sheep -- that found each other.
She holds his hand at his mother's funeral and he holds hers the morning her book goes on sale.
Every year on the anniversary of the day Colin died (the first time), she says a silent prayer and yells at him for leaving her, but she ends by thanking him for leaving Bright for her to find.
II. Hetairae
It was the blonde she had spotted first, with her perfect curls and bowed lips. She looked sweet, but something told Laynie that this girl wasn't the typical belle
While Peyton was fun and made Laynie laugh, talking about art school and music, there was no spark. At least not until Peyton's friend Brooke slipped into their space and firmly attached herself to Peyton's arm. The look she gave Laynie was clear - Hands Off.
Brooke was whip smart and dangerous, seductive. She reminded Laynie of the midnight, powerful places she had discovered in the South. They didn't have places like that in Colorado.
Brooke made her nerves sing.
She was happily surprised that it was Brooke who invited her home with them. Laynie got the impression she wouldn't be spending the night on the couch.
Laynie decided right then that going south had been a good idea.
III. Beatification
He comes to visit one weekend in the spring. He brings her pastries from Mama Joy's and weird little presents from Bright. The lame, girly ones come from Amy.
Laynie shows him off around campus, her big brother, the gorgeous, perfect jock. Colin lets her do it, plays along while she smirks at how the other girls fawn over him. They both know that Colin belongs to her.
That night, as he moves over her, in her; as his breath and fingers paint her skin and she whispers blissed out nonsense in his ear, she knows that this is for her and her alone. He might have fucked other girls, but he worships her. It's the thought that pushes her over, crying out, nails digging into the skin of his back.
He laughs softly and kisses her, saying against her lips, "Mine."
When he leaves the next day, she waves and grins as he drives away, secure in the knowledge that nothing will ever break them apart.
IV. Artefacts
It's a fantastic internship, but skulking around the basement of this museum is hell on her allergies. Her days run the gamut from boring to infinitely boring. This entirely depends on 1) If she finds any treasures hidden away in an anonymous crate and 2) If she can sneak a pint at the pub over lunch.
It was this second point that made Bright believe the decision to work in England was a good idea.
This particular day was going particular well for her. She had found a rare door handle wrapped in an old tea towel and she had managed to score a pint and a half before the curator came in for his own lunch.
Laynie was so gleeful -- without an ounce of maliciousness even -- that she ran into the guy before taking two steps into the basement proper.
"Hey! No one's supposed to be down here."
The guy was tall, skinny, and really, really pale. He also had dark hair and startling blue eyes. With an odd little smile he said, "Then what are you doing here?"
Laynie narrowed her eyes and held up her ID card.
In return he smirked and held up his. "Theodore Nott. I'm in Antique Books and Manuscripts."
That explained the wardrobe. Theodore carried himself like public school rank and file, but his washed out Clash t-shirt, worn corduroys and scuffed oxfords spoke of an entirely different background. Exactly the type that worked in Manuscripts, 3rd floor, back corner. Word was they never saw the light of day so Management let them dress as they pleased.
Okay, he passed inspection. "So what are you doing down here?"
Theodore had wandered away and was now poking at various things on the shelves. They were common items, though now qualified as "historic" by a faceless authority. Given this, Laynie couldn't figure out why he was looking at an old-fashioned egg beater with such interest. She was even further confused when he pulled a piece of paper -- no, parchment -- from his pocket, consulted it for a second and then turned to her and asked in a tentative voice that didn't fit his otherwise confident demeanor, "This is an egg beater, is it not?"
"Uh, yeah." How could he not know what an egg beater looked like? Didn't everyone have a fussy grandmother that never trusted those "new fangled electric toys"?
Theodore was very pleased. The smile lit up his entire face, a good look for him to be sure.
"Good, good." And then in a softer voice, not meant for her ears, "This should do nicely."
What. In. Fucking. Hell.
As if he had just noticed the time instead of wanting to get out before the interrogation began, Theodore made for the door. "Thank you for the tour, Miss --?"
"Hart. Laynie Hart."
"Ah, yes. Hart." And again with the muttering, "Very old family. Interesting."
Give him a reason to come by again, she said to herself. "We have a ton of old crockery if you're interested in that sort of thing. Stop by any time!" she yelled at his retreating back.
And as if it all hadn't been strange enough, she heard a loud crack as soon as the door closed behind the mysterious, possibly slightly deranged, Theodore Nott.
Those guys in Manuscripts really needed to get out more.
-end-
* Hetairae:The sublimely beautiful, fiercely independent, impeccably cultured, fascinatingly worldly and witty courtesans of ancient Greece.
Title: Never Had the Pleasure
Fandom: Everwood, various.
Notes: Totally and cracktastically AU.
I. Immutable
Bright's the one to come down to drive her home. Her own parents couldn't be bothered, and frankly, Laynie is thankful.
She's already heard the news, of course, but seeing Bright on her doorstep makes the reality all the more vivid. It always used to be Colin and Bright, attached at the hip. Now it's just Brighton Abbott, coming to collect the baby sister of his dead best friend.
God, they're like a bad 1950s melodrama.
She breaks down about seventy miles outside Everwood. They pull off the road and Bright holds her as the sobs wrack her body. He strokes her back and kisses her temple.
When she finally pulls back, wipes snot from her nose with the back of her hand, Laynie realizes that Bright was crying too. She kisses his cheek and they never speak of it again.
*
The morning that Amy leaves for rehab, Laynie and Bright stand in the Abbott's driveway, waving until they can't see the car any longer.
Laynie knows that he wants to scream at her -- it's her fault that Amy discovered her love of vodka. It's her fault that Amy adopted Laynie's method of coping.
But he doesn't yell. He doesn't even glare at her. He hugs her instead, crushing her body into his so she can barely breathe.
"C'mon, I'll give you a ride."
Bright's quiet and still on the drive to school, but before they get out of the truck he says, still looking straight ahead, "It's not your fault. Never doubt that."
She nods once, and then climbs out.
They never speak of it again either.
*
Years later, when Ephram and Amy have ceased to speak to either of them, Bright is still the constant in her life. He showed up on her doorstep one day and never left. Laynie likes to joke that they're the strays -- no, the black sheep -- that found each other.
She holds his hand at his mother's funeral and he holds hers the morning her book goes on sale.
Every year on the anniversary of the day Colin died (the first time), she says a silent prayer and yells at him for leaving her, but she ends by thanking him for leaving Bright for her to find.
II. Hetairae
It was the blonde she had spotted first, with her perfect curls and bowed lips. She looked sweet, but something told Laynie that this girl wasn't the typical belle
While Peyton was fun and made Laynie laugh, talking about art school and music, there was no spark. At least not until Peyton's friend Brooke slipped into their space and firmly attached herself to Peyton's arm. The look she gave Laynie was clear - Hands Off.
Brooke was whip smart and dangerous, seductive. She reminded Laynie of the midnight, powerful places she had discovered in the South. They didn't have places like that in Colorado.
Brooke made her nerves sing.
She was happily surprised that it was Brooke who invited her home with them. Laynie got the impression she wouldn't be spending the night on the couch.
Laynie decided right then that going south had been a good idea.
III. Beatification
He comes to visit one weekend in the spring. He brings her pastries from Mama Joy's and weird little presents from Bright. The lame, girly ones come from Amy.
Laynie shows him off around campus, her big brother, the gorgeous, perfect jock. Colin lets her do it, plays along while she smirks at how the other girls fawn over him. They both know that Colin belongs to her.
That night, as he moves over her, in her; as his breath and fingers paint her skin and she whispers blissed out nonsense in his ear, she knows that this is for her and her alone. He might have fucked other girls, but he worships her. It's the thought that pushes her over, crying out, nails digging into the skin of his back.
He laughs softly and kisses her, saying against her lips, "Mine."
When he leaves the next day, she waves and grins as he drives away, secure in the knowledge that nothing will ever break them apart.
IV. Artefacts
It's a fantastic internship, but skulking around the basement of this museum is hell on her allergies. Her days run the gamut from boring to infinitely boring. This entirely depends on 1) If she finds any treasures hidden away in an anonymous crate and 2) If she can sneak a pint at the pub over lunch.
It was this second point that made Bright believe the decision to work in England was a good idea.
This particular day was going particular well for her. She had found a rare door handle wrapped in an old tea towel and she had managed to score a pint and a half before the curator came in for his own lunch.
Laynie was so gleeful -- without an ounce of maliciousness even -- that she ran into the guy before taking two steps into the basement proper.
"Hey! No one's supposed to be down here."
The guy was tall, skinny, and really, really pale. He also had dark hair and startling blue eyes. With an odd little smile he said, "Then what are you doing here?"
Laynie narrowed her eyes and held up her ID card.
In return he smirked and held up his. "Theodore Nott. I'm in Antique Books and Manuscripts."
That explained the wardrobe. Theodore carried himself like public school rank and file, but his washed out Clash t-shirt, worn corduroys and scuffed oxfords spoke of an entirely different background. Exactly the type that worked in Manuscripts, 3rd floor, back corner. Word was they never saw the light of day so Management let them dress as they pleased.
Okay, he passed inspection. "So what are you doing down here?"
Theodore had wandered away and was now poking at various things on the shelves. They were common items, though now qualified as "historic" by a faceless authority. Given this, Laynie couldn't figure out why he was looking at an old-fashioned egg beater with such interest. She was even further confused when he pulled a piece of paper -- no, parchment -- from his pocket, consulted it for a second and then turned to her and asked in a tentative voice that didn't fit his otherwise confident demeanor, "This is an egg beater, is it not?"
"Uh, yeah." How could he not know what an egg beater looked like? Didn't everyone have a fussy grandmother that never trusted those "new fangled electric toys"?
Theodore was very pleased. The smile lit up his entire face, a good look for him to be sure.
"Good, good." And then in a softer voice, not meant for her ears, "This should do nicely."
What. In. Fucking. Hell.
As if he had just noticed the time instead of wanting to get out before the interrogation began, Theodore made for the door. "Thank you for the tour, Miss --?"
"Hart. Laynie Hart."
"Ah, yes. Hart." And again with the muttering, "Very old family. Interesting."
Give him a reason to come by again, she said to herself. "We have a ton of old crockery if you're interested in that sort of thing. Stop by any time!" she yelled at his retreating back.
And as if it all hadn't been strange enough, she heard a loud crack as soon as the door closed behind the mysterious, possibly slightly deranged, Theodore Nott.
Those guys in Manuscripts really needed to get out more.
-end-
* Hetairae:The sublimely beautiful, fiercely independent, impeccably cultured, fascinatingly worldly and witty courtesans of ancient Greece.