Drabble: The Death of Paulette
Fuck it, I've done my bit for Valentine's Day, bring on the vengeful gothic ladies! At some point today I'm gonna finally sort out the Femme Boosh challenge and use this to plug it there instead of the Gideon fic, becuase any kind of fic from me has been one hell of a long time coming, and I'm starting to lose faith in the Gideon fic.
Except most people probably won't care because it's not Howince, but quite frankly I don't give a fuck.
Title: The Death of Paulette
Fandom: The Mighty Boosh
Characters/pairing: Anthrax/Ebola
Table: Angst
Prompt: #1 Forsaken
Rating: PG
Warnings: Just femslash. And that isn't even particularly explicit.
Word count: 300
Summary: Ebola walks out.
Notes: This took it's time. I didn't actually want to do the prompts in order for this one, but it just so happened that the first one I wanted to write, and the first one in the narrative, was the first on the list. How odd.
Both of them are quite young here, and Anthrax at least is still in her teens. They've known each other a while, but what happens before that may (depending) become a Secret History.
And I don't own the Boosh, or Dee Plume or Sue Denim.
The look on his face is a picture of shock, and Anthrax’s eyes are drawn to every sag of skin, every stretched wrinkle, the way the mouth hangs open like it’s on a slack string, the way his eyes are dulled, but with one little glint left, a glimmer of hope that, maybe, she might be lying.
“The phone has been disconnected. We do not use the internet. Anything that arrives by post will be burned.”
Ebola savours the last word, pronouncing it with a hiss of spite. There’s a delight in it, a thrill of malice, and Anthrax shivers.
“Darling, surely… you don’t mean this?”
He’s trying to smile, but Anthrax hears it catch. It’s a false hope. He knows she means it very well.
“Tell me why I wouldn’t mean it. Why would I joke about this?”
There’s a strain on Ebola’s voice, and it’s so unusual that Anthrax almost fancies she feels nervous.
“Do I look like a person who jokes?!”
Ebola is shouting now, practically screaming. Anthrax has never even heard her raise her voice before, and it’s shrill and hysterical and strange. That quiet subdued control that Ebola exudes is gone. This almost-nervous feeling is gnawing at Anthrax’s insides.
“I won’t-”
“If you come near us, we will not call the police. We have… other allies.” She’s calmer now already, getting back her control, but she’s breathless, and not as calm as she should be.
She turns abruptly, takes Anthrax by the hand and pulls her toward the door.
“Paulette, please!”
Ebola stops and turns back. Not a full-body turn, just a disdainful incline of the head.
“Paulette is gone,” she says.
And Ebola leads Anthrax away, while her father slumps and endlessly repeats “Paulette, Paulette…” as though it might bring the dead girl back.