FIC: This Promised Land (1/1) Original
TITLE: This Promised Land
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
Rating: PG
SUMMARY: Shut down strangers and hot rod angels
DISCLAIMER: This fic is original for all intents and purposes. Written based on the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen's Racing in the Street
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Fic number seven in the "Happy Birthday! quicknow!" series. I'd tell you to guess which one's the last one, but I'm afraid you'll pick something that's *not* what I have written, and I'd have to write more. :) Thanks to for the beta.
The hardest thing is the waiting.
Some nights she almost wishes there’d be a black and white pulling up to the front of the house, lights not even flashing because it’s too late for there to be a reason. She almost hopes that there will be someone in a uniform to tell her that there’s nothing left but a silently spinning hubcap and a dark burn of rubber across the asphalt. It would be easier than waiting and wondering every night.
Her father watches her instead of his television, staring out the window and wondering where his little girl has gone. She knows he wants to say something, but how can he tell her what she already knows? You’re a fool and You deserve better and a million other things that she tells herself as she swings slowly back and forth, waiting for someday to arrive.
She falls asleep on the swing, and when she wakes up, he’s squatting down in front of her. His heart’s pounding fast in his chest when she reaches out and touches it and he’s smiling like he’s cheated death one more time. He’s told her to leave him, and she’s silently begged him to tell her he’s going, but instead they stay like this, neither of them happy with each other, neither of them able to break apart.
He takes her up to their room and the thrill of it all isn’t full of the promise it used to be. He still makes love to her, and she can taste the race on his lips, on his tongue, on his cock, and she can feel the road in his stroke and his thrust. She burns where he touches her, like scorched and twisted metal, buckling beneath him.
He never sleeps after; he gets up and wanders down for a beer or a smoke or something else to soothe the adrenaline from his system. She watches him go, wondering if he’ll stay home or if there’s something else calling his name, asphalt angels and blacktop devils fighting a war over his soul since they’ve already taken hers. She’s still awake when the front door closes in the distance and the engine comes to life. She goes to the window and watches him, sees him look up at her for a moment before he drives away.
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
Rating: PG
SUMMARY: Shut down strangers and hot rod angels
DISCLAIMER: This fic is original for all intents and purposes. Written based on the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen's Racing in the Street
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Fic number seven in the "Happy Birthday! quicknow!" series. I'd tell you to guess which one's the last one, but I'm afraid you'll pick something that's *not* what I have written, and I'd have to write more. :) Thanks to for the beta.
The hardest thing is the waiting.
Some nights she almost wishes there’d be a black and white pulling up to the front of the house, lights not even flashing because it’s too late for there to be a reason. She almost hopes that there will be someone in a uniform to tell her that there’s nothing left but a silently spinning hubcap and a dark burn of rubber across the asphalt. It would be easier than waiting and wondering every night.
Her father watches her instead of his television, staring out the window and wondering where his little girl has gone. She knows he wants to say something, but how can he tell her what she already knows? You’re a fool and You deserve better and a million other things that she tells herself as she swings slowly back and forth, waiting for someday to arrive.
She falls asleep on the swing, and when she wakes up, he’s squatting down in front of her. His heart’s pounding fast in his chest when she reaches out and touches it and he’s smiling like he’s cheated death one more time. He’s told her to leave him, and she’s silently begged him to tell her he’s going, but instead they stay like this, neither of them happy with each other, neither of them able to break apart.
He takes her up to their room and the thrill of it all isn’t full of the promise it used to be. He still makes love to her, and she can taste the race on his lips, on his tongue, on his cock, and she can feel the road in his stroke and his thrust. She burns where he touches her, like scorched and twisted metal, buckling beneath him.
He never sleeps after; he gets up and wanders down for a beer or a smoke or something else to soothe the adrenaline from his system. She watches him go, wondering if he’ll stay home or if there’s something else calling his name, asphalt angels and blacktop devils fighting a war over his soul since they’ve already taken hers. She’s still awake when the front door closes in the distance and the engine comes to life. She goes to the window and watches him, sees him look up at her for a moment before he drives away.