fic: Any Ordinary Vehicle
Jon Walker, Tom Conrad. PATD/Empires. 594 words.
Her hand is small and curved around the unlabeled longneck that rests against her upper thigh. The bottle sweats beads of perspiration, smearing along her tan skin and drawing his eyes each time she lifts the drink away from her leg to her mouth for a pull of vodka, lips upturned and smiling around the rim. She's wearing pair of ill-fitting cutoffs and her older brother's peewee hockey jersey, the mesh material pulling tight at her shoulders and hips. Tom wants her, but that's not a new thought; something recycled like the jersey or Tom's camera or the green ginger-ale bottle they emptied to make room for Grey Goose.
"Your eyes," she says, across from him on the opposite side of the truck bed, perched precariously on the tire hump with her legs spread wide and sprawling to brace herself. The blue spandex material that her bathing suit is comprised of peeks out around the inner edges of the denim shorts, just an inch up from the moisture that paints her thigh. Jon pulls at the corners of her own eyes so the pink, wet skin of her lids gape back at him, horrible and obscene like a reminder. A warning. "you should see them right now, Conrad, they're the size of saucers."
"No, you're just drunk," he says, reaching out to snag the bottle from her loose grip and knocking it back to postpone any further conversation. His elbow stings where his sweatshirt brushes against raw skin; a prize leftover from their earlier, aborted attempt at two-person baseball. They're both shitty athletes-- the consequence of skipping gym class to hang out behind her school's storage shed and share cigarettes until the period was almost over. Tom spent many an afternoon watching with hooded eyes as Jon bent over in her ongoing, uphill battle of convincing the gym socks to stay up her legs instead of slumping down around her knobby ankles.
He relinquishes the vodka when she asks for it. Almost but not quite over-balancing while leaning forward to pass off the bottle, he catches himself with a hand on the vinyl bedding of the truck. "Nice one," she laughs at him, calling him smooth. "There's no way either of us is gonna be able to drive back now. Might as well call your folks and tell them we're camping out." Jon tosses him her cell phone; his is always lost or without charge.
"Where are we gonna sleep?" he asks, after reassuring his father that, of course they'll be perfectly safe outdoors. Sleeping bags and a tent would be nice, though, or really any actual supplies necessary for camping. She swings her legs over the side of the truck and lands with a thud, dirt flying up in a cloud at her feet. The car door's hinges scream with rust and age when she wrenches it open and climbs in though the driver's side without comment, leaving him to sit and get eaten by mosquitoes or follow in her wake.
Jon lies back on the bench seat, one arm stretched out above her head while the other rests along her side, draped over her belly. "What?" she asks, annoyed that he hasn't moved. She extends a tan leg, her foot, nudging gently into his stomach. "You're letting all the bugs in," she tells him flatly. Tom catches her by the ankle, an apology in the rub of his thumb over soft skin stretched taut over bone. Ligaments, sinew, cartilage, he recites in his head, climbing into the truck's cab and slamming the door behind him.
Well, kind of pointless and self-contained, but I thought it was a fun idea, and I enjoy these two together. They have a nice tension.
Her hand is small and curved around the unlabeled longneck that rests against her upper thigh. The bottle sweats beads of perspiration, smearing along her tan skin and drawing his eyes each time she lifts the drink away from her leg to her mouth for a pull of vodka, lips upturned and smiling around the rim. She's wearing pair of ill-fitting cutoffs and her older brother's peewee hockey jersey, the mesh material pulling tight at her shoulders and hips. Tom wants her, but that's not a new thought; something recycled like the jersey or Tom's camera or the green ginger-ale bottle they emptied to make room for Grey Goose.
"Your eyes," she says, across from him on the opposite side of the truck bed, perched precariously on the tire hump with her legs spread wide and sprawling to brace herself. The blue spandex material that her bathing suit is comprised of peeks out around the inner edges of the denim shorts, just an inch up from the moisture that paints her thigh. Jon pulls at the corners of her own eyes so the pink, wet skin of her lids gape back at him, horrible and obscene like a reminder. A warning. "you should see them right now, Conrad, they're the size of saucers."
"No, you're just drunk," he says, reaching out to snag the bottle from her loose grip and knocking it back to postpone any further conversation. His elbow stings where his sweatshirt brushes against raw skin; a prize leftover from their earlier, aborted attempt at two-person baseball. They're both shitty athletes-- the consequence of skipping gym class to hang out behind her school's storage shed and share cigarettes until the period was almost over. Tom spent many an afternoon watching with hooded eyes as Jon bent over in her ongoing, uphill battle of convincing the gym socks to stay up her legs instead of slumping down around her knobby ankles.
He relinquishes the vodka when she asks for it. Almost but not quite over-balancing while leaning forward to pass off the bottle, he catches himself with a hand on the vinyl bedding of the truck. "Nice one," she laughs at him, calling him smooth. "There's no way either of us is gonna be able to drive back now. Might as well call your folks and tell them we're camping out." Jon tosses him her cell phone; his is always lost or without charge.
"Where are we gonna sleep?" he asks, after reassuring his father that, of course they'll be perfectly safe outdoors. Sleeping bags and a tent would be nice, though, or really any actual supplies necessary for camping. She swings her legs over the side of the truck and lands with a thud, dirt flying up in a cloud at her feet. The car door's hinges scream with rust and age when she wrenches it open and climbs in though the driver's side without comment, leaving him to sit and get eaten by mosquitoes or follow in her wake.
Jon lies back on the bench seat, one arm stretched out above her head while the other rests along her side, draped over her belly. "What?" she asks, annoyed that he hasn't moved. She extends a tan leg, her foot, nudging gently into his stomach. "You're letting all the bugs in," she tells him flatly. Tom catches her by the ankle, an apology in the rub of his thumb over soft skin stretched taut over bone. Ligaments, sinew, cartilage, he recites in his head, climbing into the truck's cab and slamming the door behind him.
Well, kind of pointless and self-contained, but I thought it was a fun idea, and I enjoy these two together. They have a nice tension.