The Black Donnellys fic: pulling apron strings
pulling apron strings
the black donnellys, jenny (tommy/jenny), r, 1107 words, spoilers for and up to the world will break your heart, for the tbd_stpaddys challenge and for thatlldopig.
She wakes up to sirens now.
I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
Sylvia Path, Burning the Letters
;;
She wakes up to sirens now.
bang! bang! and Pops is up, again, when she remembers she forgot to hide the whisky under the sink.
;;
Where’s my kiss?- some jackass leers on her way into the market, her eyes rolling as she passes.
She isn’t sixteen anymore, but her finger still itch to flick.
;;
Jenny swings her hips to little girl, where did you come from?, fingers pasting plastic and paper- all greens- as Samson slips in with cupcakes and muffins and a nervous clearing of a smile.
It’s Pops tryin’ to say still to take a chance. He still grins lightly after he saw Samson walk her home and she shakes her head, twisting her ring around her finger even though that that’s not really it.
Doin’ anything?- Samson grins.
And she sighs, really, because it’s not like she shouldn’t but there’s an ache in her throat, burning and twisting over old words like something else.
Not today, she says tiredly, turning away.
;;
There’s a clipping on the end of the counter, pasted under bills and orders for days far after this. It’s a yellow photograph- Tommy’s the only other one that knows about it- and Molly Reilly grins when peeking over, gripping Jenny’s hand.
A headline: woman, 28, killed in St. Patrick’s Day shooting.
And there’s Jenny, young and under a baseball cap, beaming at the camera, skinny knees and ninja turtles! band aids.
This was a long time ago.
;;
Gonna head out for a bit, Pops says idly.
She nods, leaning against the counter and frowning at the paper leprechauns that refuse to stay up. She slides a cup of coffee to him, which he forgets with a tired smile.
Be careful.
Yeah.
She can see him, you know, around the corner and clutching paper-thin lilies wrapped in cream cellophane. They’ll crinkle and slip in the trash when he turns another corner, out of view, pushing the door open to Finnegan’s instead.
It’s a tradition holiday.
;;
Usually, by noon, she knows she’s waiting for Tommy.
She thinks about what she said, the thickness of the cold kissing her arms as they sat outside, on the steps, and i gotta try having something else burning her throat. Regret’s kind of funny, here and now, a longing curling dizzyingly in the pit of her stomach like before.
But by noon, she’s got no idea.
About a lot of things, really. There’s still a ring weighted around her finger, twisting on and off and creases in her skin. It’s kind of scary that she doesn’t worry anymore- it’s been months, understand, and jenny, love and vacation don’t ring the same at all.
She closes early, keeping the phone in her room.
;;
The news chuckles: a parade is underway, everybody’s Irish today!
She leans against the frame of her door, peering into her bedroom. The sheets are twisted, old, and she smiles faintly when she studies a crack in the wall.
what she remembers: We’re still reckless, he had breathes against her throat, cock pressing against her thigh. Sticky skin made her giggle lightly, her fingers in his hair, and another moan slipped as his tongue flicked against her nipple.
- oh, that? That was the first time, it’s the second that she left brushing morning customers and ohgod.
;;
At seven, she picks at Shepard’s pie from downstairs and frowns.
Tradition, tradition, tradition stings in memory, in theory, and in fear- she wonders, quietly, what would’ve happened if she had said something.
But the telephone rings a click.
Troy, she breathes tiredly.
And she can see the older man, smile sympathetic and shaking at her Dad- Dad, Daddy, Pops, everybody knows the Irish’ll break your heart.
But tradition: your dad’s in poor shape, want the boys to bring ‘im back?
She always shakes a sigh and yeah, sure.
;;
She knows the exact place in the alley.
In the corner, next to the dumpster, the blood stained the dirt and curds of brain and her hair- Ma was blonde, Jenny will tell you, and her eyes were wide and open.
Let’s tally mark the losses- at least it wasn’t Christmas.
;;
Pops slurs: be careful out there as she helps him to bed, a kiss to the forehead and her eyes closing still, for the moment.
Even though, she’s only stepping into the kitchen and out into the alley- it’s the only thing he doesn’t let her leave without. Hair spills over her eyes and she’s grippin’ the trash bag because the fucking streamers and the paper leprechauns were a pain in the ass to clean up.
So it’s okay! flung over her shoulder as she nearly knocks into the frame of the alley door but then remembers Pops is exactly where she left him. In bed, eyes closed, and molly, molly, molly foaming from his mouth. She sighs- her hands are shaking again; haven’t stop since the wake- and presses a palm to the metal.
It’s late, she says quietly.
But her eyes are closed and she, out of habit, starts to trace his form in the silence. Tommy doesn’t change, you know, hands shoved into his pocket and that same hesitant, awkward smile.
I know.
- it isn’t hopeful, but thick and empty, stretching to push a ringing in her ears. His hand seems to rise and drop on her shoulder, his fingers brushing against the arch of her neck. It says we’ll talk another day like a promise and she’s not silly enough not to believe him. She’s starting to lose her grip on the bag, her knuckles still white.
Instead, she listens to the echoes. Outside: car alarms, horns, and laughter drifting from bar to bar. One day a year the Italians aren’t stupid enough to drift this way just because everybody’s Irish! doesn’t mean guys down here won’t take extra care to rip their throats out.
And inside? Inside, well, here you are.
She says: tommy and it burns her throat.
He steps forward, shoes squeaking against the tile and another hand pressing against her hip. His fingers drift underneath her shirt, peeking over her apron as his mouth drops against her shoulder. She still won’t look at him.
It’s tradition, he murmurs lightly. And tradition stretches over her skin as it has one day, every year, starting back at fifteen.
The trash bag slips, crashing to the floor. Streams tangle in empty cups and bottles, paper leprechauns sticking with cracks to the floor. Pops might hear. Pops might not. But Jenny sighs, leaning back as she presses still against him.
It’s tradition, she agrees.
end.
1. little girl, where did you come from?, the rolling stones, she said yeah
the black donnellys, jenny (tommy/jenny), r, 1107 words, spoilers for and up to the world will break your heart, for the tbd_stpaddys challenge and for thatlldopig.
She wakes up to sirens now.
I made a fire; being tired
Of the white fists of old
Letters and their death rattle
Sylvia Path, Burning the Letters
;;
She wakes up to sirens now.
bang! bang! and Pops is up, again, when she remembers she forgot to hide the whisky under the sink.
;;
Where’s my kiss?- some jackass leers on her way into the market, her eyes rolling as she passes.
She isn’t sixteen anymore, but her finger still itch to flick.
;;
Jenny swings her hips to little girl, where did you come from?, fingers pasting plastic and paper- all greens- as Samson slips in with cupcakes and muffins and a nervous clearing of a smile.
It’s Pops tryin’ to say still to take a chance. He still grins lightly after he saw Samson walk her home and she shakes her head, twisting her ring around her finger even though that that’s not really it.
Doin’ anything?- Samson grins.
And she sighs, really, because it’s not like she shouldn’t but there’s an ache in her throat, burning and twisting over old words like something else.
Not today, she says tiredly, turning away.
;;
There’s a clipping on the end of the counter, pasted under bills and orders for days far after this. It’s a yellow photograph- Tommy’s the only other one that knows about it- and Molly Reilly grins when peeking over, gripping Jenny’s hand.
A headline: woman, 28, killed in St. Patrick’s Day shooting.
And there’s Jenny, young and under a baseball cap, beaming at the camera, skinny knees and ninja turtles! band aids.
This was a long time ago.
;;
Gonna head out for a bit, Pops says idly.
She nods, leaning against the counter and frowning at the paper leprechauns that refuse to stay up. She slides a cup of coffee to him, which he forgets with a tired smile.
Be careful.
Yeah.
She can see him, you know, around the corner and clutching paper-thin lilies wrapped in cream cellophane. They’ll crinkle and slip in the trash when he turns another corner, out of view, pushing the door open to Finnegan’s instead.
It’s a tradition holiday.
;;
Usually, by noon, she knows she’s waiting for Tommy.
She thinks about what she said, the thickness of the cold kissing her arms as they sat outside, on the steps, and i gotta try having something else burning her throat. Regret’s kind of funny, here and now, a longing curling dizzyingly in the pit of her stomach like before.
But by noon, she’s got no idea.
About a lot of things, really. There’s still a ring weighted around her finger, twisting on and off and creases in her skin. It’s kind of scary that she doesn’t worry anymore- it’s been months, understand, and jenny, love and vacation don’t ring the same at all.
She closes early, keeping the phone in her room.
;;
The news chuckles: a parade is underway, everybody’s Irish today!
She leans against the frame of her door, peering into her bedroom. The sheets are twisted, old, and she smiles faintly when she studies a crack in the wall.
what she remembers: We’re still reckless, he had breathes against her throat, cock pressing against her thigh. Sticky skin made her giggle lightly, her fingers in his hair, and another moan slipped as his tongue flicked against her nipple.
- oh, that? That was the first time, it’s the second that she left brushing morning customers and ohgod.
;;
At seven, she picks at Shepard’s pie from downstairs and frowns.
Tradition, tradition, tradition stings in memory, in theory, and in fear- she wonders, quietly, what would’ve happened if she had said something.
But the telephone rings a click.
Troy, she breathes tiredly.
And she can see the older man, smile sympathetic and shaking at her Dad- Dad, Daddy, Pops, everybody knows the Irish’ll break your heart.
But tradition: your dad’s in poor shape, want the boys to bring ‘im back?
She always shakes a sigh and yeah, sure.
;;
She knows the exact place in the alley.
In the corner, next to the dumpster, the blood stained the dirt and curds of brain and her hair- Ma was blonde, Jenny will tell you, and her eyes were wide and open.
Let’s tally mark the losses- at least it wasn’t Christmas.
;;
Pops slurs: be careful out there as she helps him to bed, a kiss to the forehead and her eyes closing still, for the moment.
Even though, she’s only stepping into the kitchen and out into the alley- it’s the only thing he doesn’t let her leave without. Hair spills over her eyes and she’s grippin’ the trash bag because the fucking streamers and the paper leprechauns were a pain in the ass to clean up.
So it’s okay! flung over her shoulder as she nearly knocks into the frame of the alley door but then remembers Pops is exactly where she left him. In bed, eyes closed, and molly, molly, molly foaming from his mouth. She sighs- her hands are shaking again; haven’t stop since the wake- and presses a palm to the metal.
It’s late, she says quietly.
But her eyes are closed and she, out of habit, starts to trace his form in the silence. Tommy doesn’t change, you know, hands shoved into his pocket and that same hesitant, awkward smile.
I know.
- it isn’t hopeful, but thick and empty, stretching to push a ringing in her ears. His hand seems to rise and drop on her shoulder, his fingers brushing against the arch of her neck. It says we’ll talk another day like a promise and she’s not silly enough not to believe him. She’s starting to lose her grip on the bag, her knuckles still white.
Instead, she listens to the echoes. Outside: car alarms, horns, and laughter drifting from bar to bar. One day a year the Italians aren’t stupid enough to drift this way just because everybody’s Irish! doesn’t mean guys down here won’t take extra care to rip their throats out.
And inside? Inside, well, here you are.
She says: tommy and it burns her throat.
He steps forward, shoes squeaking against the tile and another hand pressing against her hip. His fingers drift underneath her shirt, peeking over her apron as his mouth drops against her shoulder. She still won’t look at him.
It’s tradition, he murmurs lightly. And tradition stretches over her skin as it has one day, every year, starting back at fifteen.
The trash bag slips, crashing to the floor. Streams tangle in empty cups and bottles, paper leprechauns sticking with cracks to the floor. Pops might hear. Pops might not. But Jenny sighs, leaning back as she presses still against him.
It’s tradition, she agrees.
end.
1. little girl, where did you come from?, the rolling stones, she said yeah