fic: Weeds, Nancy/Andy
Title: seeing things that I may never see again
Fandom: Weeds
Pairing: Nancy/Andy
Word count: 429
Notes: original post here, in the small fandom and rare pairing drabblethon, for the prompt "refrigerator".
They run. They finally, really and truly run. After Shane and after blood and after bullets, after emergency rooms and frenzied lies and getaways, they run, and they don’t stop.
Silas stays. A phone call per week from whatever motel it is this time, whatever gas station pay phone (Andy is convinced that wherever her cell goes, Esteban can follow, and for once she is listening to him, is listening to everything and not asking questions, and it sort of scares the fuck out of him but it is sort of exactly what he’s always wanted, and maybe the former follows the latter; maybe) and next post office a check will be waiting for Lacey and Jude LaPlante, general delivery, as Silas methodically sells off all of Andy’s accumulated shit.
And they’re on the road (again) and at every red light Andy will check the rearview mirror, and he will glance to his right, and if he edits out the bandages swaddling Shane’s shoulder and Stevie’s black peach fuzz and the purple pouches under Nancy’s eyes, he can almost pretend they’re just a family on a road trip, seeing America the way it was meant to be seen, without deadlines or destinations in mind.
They have sex. First night on the run she wakes him, pulls him out to the car and they fuck in the backseat like furtive teenagers. His back sticks to the leather seat, painful as she rides him, nails pinching his shoulders and her hair getting in his mouth. They make a practice of it, and he really has no idea what they’re doing but they’re running, and in the daylight there is sand and sun and phone calls and post offices and endless road, and in the dark there is Nancy, sticky and soft and heavy, and maybe, in the most monumentally fucked-up way, he’s happy.
He wakes up one morning and her face is close to his, her hand pushing his hair back from his forehead, and she’s whispering something.
What?
A refrigerator, she’s saying, I want a refrigerator.
This is the day they stop running. Andy buys a calendar and the next morning he draws an X through August 23rd, day one, and no, he’s not stupid enough to think that this can possibly last, but it’s what they have, for now, and maybe they are something kind of close to okay, and maybe he’s learned that that’s all he can ask for out of this life, their life, their story.
At least they have a story; and maybe he’s the hero.
Fandom: Weeds
Pairing: Nancy/Andy
Word count: 429
Notes: original post here, in the small fandom and rare pairing drabblethon, for the prompt "refrigerator".
They run. They finally, really and truly run. After Shane and after blood and after bullets, after emergency rooms and frenzied lies and getaways, they run, and they don’t stop.
Silas stays. A phone call per week from whatever motel it is this time, whatever gas station pay phone (Andy is convinced that wherever her cell goes, Esteban can follow, and for once she is listening to him, is listening to everything and not asking questions, and it sort of scares the fuck out of him but it is sort of exactly what he’s always wanted, and maybe the former follows the latter; maybe) and next post office a check will be waiting for Lacey and Jude LaPlante, general delivery, as Silas methodically sells off all of Andy’s accumulated shit.
And they’re on the road (again) and at every red light Andy will check the rearview mirror, and he will glance to his right, and if he edits out the bandages swaddling Shane’s shoulder and Stevie’s black peach fuzz and the purple pouches under Nancy’s eyes, he can almost pretend they’re just a family on a road trip, seeing America the way it was meant to be seen, without deadlines or destinations in mind.
They have sex. First night on the run she wakes him, pulls him out to the car and they fuck in the backseat like furtive teenagers. His back sticks to the leather seat, painful as she rides him, nails pinching his shoulders and her hair getting in his mouth. They make a practice of it, and he really has no idea what they’re doing but they’re running, and in the daylight there is sand and sun and phone calls and post offices and endless road, and in the dark there is Nancy, sticky and soft and heavy, and maybe, in the most monumentally fucked-up way, he’s happy.
He wakes up one morning and her face is close to his, her hand pushing his hair back from his forehead, and she’s whispering something.
What?
A refrigerator, she’s saying, I want a refrigerator.
This is the day they stop running. Andy buys a calendar and the next morning he draws an X through August 23rd, day one, and no, he’s not stupid enough to think that this can possibly last, but it’s what they have, for now, and maybe they are something kind of close to okay, and maybe he’s learned that that’s all he can ask for out of this life, their life, their story.
At least they have a story; and maybe he’s the hero.