ficlet: Dollhouse
Title: Outskirts
Fandom/pairing: Dollhouse ; Boyd, vague Claire/Boyd.
Word count: 500
Notes: vague spoilers for Epitaph One. Written for whedonland.
Extended notes: There is probably never going to be a time when the Epitaph One-verse does not fascinate me entirely. I thank whedonland for giving me the push I needed to start writing about it. Hopefully, this will not be the last time. Likewise, I find myself hypnotized by the idea of Claire/Boyd. This is definitely not the last time I write about them. Feedback is always loved!
Where there’s people, there’s gonna be unhappy people, desperate people, people craving some kind of escape. Where there’s people, and disasters dogpiling every day of the week, not a soul to trust, a gun in every other hand and folks thinking hey just maybe it really is the end this time -
There’s gonna be a need for some good liquor.
Or just for liquor, really.
That’s where she comes in.
Listen, she was raised to make the best of situations, so don’t you start thinking you can judge her. The way she sees it, she’s providing a service. Not just the alcohol, either; folks know, they come to her place, they’re safe awhile. Out of the way walk a mile out from a grimy town on the road to empty, ain’t no one coming around looking to take you away from your body out here. Even if there was a signal, those with the tech are likely to know: they got a snowball’s chance in hell of finding a body worth stealing around here. Her clientele are just about as tumbledown as her establishment, on the whole. Those that’ve lost their families, mostly, or those with secrets and sins they’d rather wash outta their minds. Men who’ve got no more reason to live but lack the courage to die; sometimes, a soul who’s sticking around for that one last wispy hope.
This one man, one particular night. Stumbles in well past ten, and the only way she can tell he’s not empty is the despair in his eyes. Limping, looks like he hasn’t had a wink’s sleep in days, and he pushes a crumpled bill across the counter without looking at it. It’s not enough. She hands him a drink anyway, and it’s gone before he hits the stool.
An hour he sits there, drinks, and she keeps an eye on him as she tends to the others. Another hour, and the day has turned when he starts to speak.
“I would imagine you hear a lot of stories.” He addresses his glass, but he means her.
“Fair few, yeah.”
“Not like mine.”
She waits.
“I was there. At the beginning. I was there when it all came - whoosh - crumbling down. It was more sudden than you would think.” He downs his drink and holds out his glass. “Took a bullet to the side the first day they came. It was a warning, it - they knew. They knew that we weren’t… following along, that. Knew that we knew. Caroline.”
His eyes are closing and he’ll be out, she can tell, and she’ll leave him there because that’s what happens. Police lost their meaning, seems like an age ago. Come morning, he’ll be gone. On to the next place, and the next, until he’s not anymore. She knows how this goes.
His voice drops. “I couldn’t save her.” He tilts his empty glass her way. “Whiskey.”
His head hits the counter. She turns out the lights and leaves him to the night.
Fandom/pairing: Dollhouse ; Boyd, vague Claire/Boyd.
Word count: 500
Notes: vague spoilers for Epitaph One. Written for whedonland.
Extended notes: There is probably never going to be a time when the Epitaph One-verse does not fascinate me entirely. I thank whedonland for giving me the push I needed to start writing about it. Hopefully, this will not be the last time. Likewise, I find myself hypnotized by the idea of Claire/Boyd. This is definitely not the last time I write about them. Feedback is always loved!
Where there’s people, there’s gonna be unhappy people, desperate people, people craving some kind of escape. Where there’s people, and disasters dogpiling every day of the week, not a soul to trust, a gun in every other hand and folks thinking hey just maybe it really is the end this time -
There’s gonna be a need for some good liquor.
Or just for liquor, really.
That’s where she comes in.
Listen, she was raised to make the best of situations, so don’t you start thinking you can judge her. The way she sees it, she’s providing a service. Not just the alcohol, either; folks know, they come to her place, they’re safe awhile. Out of the way walk a mile out from a grimy town on the road to empty, ain’t no one coming around looking to take you away from your body out here. Even if there was a signal, those with the tech are likely to know: they got a snowball’s chance in hell of finding a body worth stealing around here. Her clientele are just about as tumbledown as her establishment, on the whole. Those that’ve lost their families, mostly, or those with secrets and sins they’d rather wash outta their minds. Men who’ve got no more reason to live but lack the courage to die; sometimes, a soul who’s sticking around for that one last wispy hope.
This one man, one particular night. Stumbles in well past ten, and the only way she can tell he’s not empty is the despair in his eyes. Limping, looks like he hasn’t had a wink’s sleep in days, and he pushes a crumpled bill across the counter without looking at it. It’s not enough. She hands him a drink anyway, and it’s gone before he hits the stool.
An hour he sits there, drinks, and she keeps an eye on him as she tends to the others. Another hour, and the day has turned when he starts to speak.
“I would imagine you hear a lot of stories.” He addresses his glass, but he means her.
“Fair few, yeah.”
“Not like mine.”
She waits.
“I was there. At the beginning. I was there when it all came - whoosh - crumbling down. It was more sudden than you would think.” He downs his drink and holds out his glass. “Took a bullet to the side the first day they came. It was a warning, it - they knew. They knew that we weren’t… following along, that. Knew that we knew. Caroline.”
His eyes are closing and he’ll be out, she can tell, and she’ll leave him there because that’s what happens. Police lost their meaning, seems like an age ago. Come morning, he’ll be gone. On to the next place, and the next, until he’s not anymore. She knows how this goes.
His voice drops. “I couldn’t save her.” He tilts his empty glass her way. “Whiskey.”
His head hits the counter. She turns out the lights and leaves him to the night.