Guess what I have under the cut!
I am watching Xena for the first time. I got the DVDs and decided to take on the challenge. I now know why I avoided watching the show when it originally aired, but I am learning how to cope with that as I focus on some other stuff other than the show itself. Like, for example, now I can openly enjoy Lucy’s fake Xena tan in contrast to her purty eyes, or the fine ass warrior princess muscles, the leather and the dear-gods-they-are-so-gay-for-each-other Xena/Gabrielle moments. I couldn’t do that back in the year 2000 when (I thought) I was straight. Back then, if I watched it, with all the denial I was in, I would have had to pretend I’m watching it because the whole mythology and campiness were my thing. And they are not. Now I can just admit I’m watching it for my own shallow reasons that are subtext and eye candy.
And between watching Xena, Death Proof and Angel of Death… the plot bunnies started gathering around me. It was creepy until it became fun.
My Muse begged me to write something on this. She wouldn’t leave it alone. But I can’t really blame her because, honestly? The very thought of it is making me all giddy.
Title: Until it breaks (a ficlet)
Fandom: Angel of Death
Pairing: Vera/Eve | AU of sorts. A mix of episode 6 and 9, with a twist.
Rating:PG
Summary: Eve doesn’t need a friend.
Disclaimer: The story is mine-ish. Characters are not.
And, of course, unbeta’d.
She used to be glamorous. She used to dance and sing and sit at the best tables at the finest restaurants with the most notorious of men. And they took care of her. They bought her clothes and jewelry. They showed her off like she was a lady and threw money at her for acting like a whore when no one but them was watching. And she loved it. She soaked in every minute of it, just like she downed every drink she was being bought or every line of cocaine offered to her. It was the life. Even after they stopped treating her like a lady and demanded only the whore from her, the clothes were still nice. The jewelry was still sparkling, and the split lips and bruises they left behind healed on their own, anyway.
It took her long enough, but she smartened up. Quitting the rough trade was difficult enough, but at least she quit it while she was still alive.
It seemed like some other life, eons ago. She was sober (or trying to be), older and, she’d like to think, wiser than that young Vera so many years ago used to be. But God, did she miss the clothes and glamour and being a lady.
There was a glass of bourbon in her hand - just one drink, nothing excessive! - and feather boa wrapped around her neck. The dress she found in the back of Eve’s wardrobe fit her perfectly. A touch of the old times, Vera smiled for herself, and then twirled in place. She’ll be damned, but she still had her figure! And with just a little bit of make up, she’d have them all on their knees in front of her.
“I don’t need a friend,” a raspy voice broke Vera’s reverie and the woman turned to face two tired eyes watching her from the sofa on the other end of the apartment.
The girl, bruised and battered, but still strong enough to defy every single attempt her neighbor made to take care of her, watched her from her seat. Resigned, if not disapproving eyes followed Vera’s performance in front of her imaginary audience. It took a while, but Vera noticed one corner of the girl’s mouth twitch in a smile.
“You like to think so, sweetheart, don’t you?” Vera pranced majestically until she stood right in front of Eve. She struck a pose there and it made Eve smile, genuinely. “You’d like to believe that you are enough for you, that you don’t need a friend or a lover or a companion of any sort.”
“I never said anything about a lover.” Eve smirked. “Lovers come in handy.”
“Yes,” Vera downed her drink and then plopped onto the sofa next to Eve, “they certainly do.”
“Which one of those three are you trying to be?”
Vera liked the bluntness Eve so effortlessly conveyed. With one eyebrow raised and her empty glass dangling from her fingers in a wordless demand for a refill, she replied innocently: “I’m just here for the clothes. And to make sure you don’t get yourself into any more trouble. Not tonight, at least.”
“I am trouble.”
“Yes, that I can see.” Her fingers gently touched, then moved aside a strand of blonde hair to reveal a nasty bruise just under Eve’s hairline. Vera clucked. “Such a pretty girl…”
“I don’t need a mother either.” Eve huffed while pouring bourbon into Vera’s glass.
“And that I certainly do not wish to be!” Vera huffed back right before she retrieved her glass and then took care of the bourbon in it in one single gulp.
“You won’t live to be much of anything if you don’t stop hanging around me.”
“What could possibly happen to me in your company that I haven’t been through before?”
With her forefinger and thumb arranged in a gesture of a gun, Eve pointed to the side of Vera’s head. She leaned in closer to the older woman and whispered, “A bullet to your brain? A whole new, and very memorable experience, I’m sure.”
“So be it! As long as I get to go out in style!” It was probably the alcohol talking but Eve was still annoyed with her neighbor’s persistence. “And in such a charming company…”
“Listen-”
“Please, call me Vee-ra. Like you do. Come on!”
“Listen… Vee-ra,” Vera’s eyes beamed like a little girl’s and she clasped her hands around Eve’s making the young woman exhale loudly in exasperation. “I am not joking. One time was a gamble. Twice was pushing your luck. Third time someone is going to end up dead and I’m pretty sure it won’t be me. I appreciate the help, but I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, hush!” Vera squeezed her hand. “Pour me another drink. And then tell me your story.”
The end.
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Hey, I never said it was going to be good. Sheesh.