Fic: "One of Us (Step Right Up)," Heroes, Mohinder, Claire, R.
This is one of those bizarre fic ideas that I sometimes get. You know...the kind that spawn 21JS/VM crossovers and whatnot. At any rate, it's out of ye olde noggin now, so I can move on to the NEXT crazy project (probably a 21JS/VM crossover! LOL!).
Title: "One of Us (Step Right Up)" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: R for language
Characters: Mohinder, Claire, Bennet, others
Word Count: 2700
Disclaimer: Not my characters and only slightly my idea.
Summary: A mostly gen (shippy if you want to read it that way) AU heavily inspired by my Netflixing of Carnivale. The caravan stops just outside a little town called Odessa.
The caravan stops just outside a little town called Odessa, starts setting up the show in that efficient, no nonsense way that ensures Linderman won't be coming out of his trailer to raise a fuss. Russians, he thinks, squinting at the sun and tasting Texas grit between his teeth as he strikes a match and lights his smoke. He slouches on the platform with its faded red velvet and the divan that's seen better days, better years, watching Isaac touch up the banner that says, "Mohinder, the Mystical Hindoo." The likeness is uncanny, even if the spelling ain't.
When he tells Isaac to add a little more gold to his turban, he drawls the advice. Like any other carny raised on the circuit. Only his father, dead ten years now, ever really sounded like a Hindu... whatever that is. Mohinder isn't really mystical enough to know, since he doesn't remember India. He doesn't remember anything before this. But come 7 o'clock, he'll ape Chandra's voice like a seasoned con; he'll evoke the mysteries of the East as he pets his old, toothless cobra and blinks kohl out of his eyes because Nicole always applies too much.
Nicole. Thinking her name sends him looking straight towards the little tent in the back, a set-up so nondescript none of the fine ladies who come to the show would ever notice it... except for the line of "fine gentleman" that always ends up outside. Nicole the Amazon warrior, Monique the Louisiana quadroon, Meredith, whose nightly finale gives "fire crotch" a whole new meaning... they're all goddesses of their domain. Abandon all hope, and empty your pockets, all ye who enter there.
He still remembers the first time Pete ever caught sight of the girls in the cooch tent. Pete was 12 and he was sixteen, it was just Meredith and a couple of dancing girls they've lost to saloons along the way, and probably the highest that Flying Petrelli's ever been.
"Jesus. Mo," he'd said, eyes all wide. "*Jesus*. Do they really take all their clothes off? Do they really 'do it' if you give 'em extra dollars?"
A stupid question, considering Meredith wasn't exactly free with her favors and before she'd learned to say no to the performers and the rousties, she'd managed to give the carny its undisputed star: Claire, the Invincible Girl. Claire is near 17 now, and only her special talent keeps her from joining her mama dancing the cooch. Well, only her talents and Nathan, who seems to think he won Meredith's daddy lottery and keeps his shotgun oiled and at the ready in case anyone gets any ideas. The *other* Flying Petrelli is a man nobody wants to cross.
If he tilts his head and gives a good listen, Mohinder can hear Alejandro and Teddy working on her platform. Thirty feet, a straight dive into a shallow tub of water. Claire makes it every night, twice a night, breaks every bone in her body without breaking a sweat, and then gets up to the sound of thunderous applause.
She's the biggest draw for the show next to the Amazing Kensei, whose samurai sword act puts that of any swallower in the circuit to shame. Hiro, actually neither amazing nor named Kensei, can't speak much English and goes everywhere with his personal interpreter --his buddy or brother or something-- Ando. They joined up in Nevada. Bennet told them all that Linderman insisted. Nobody knows why. Nobody asked. Hiro's the friendliest guy in the caravan, though. Doesn't hesitate to jaw a man's ear off even if nobody can understand him. Probably makes him their biggest freak.
Mohinder still remembers a story Claude told once over a couple of beers. A better herder than a sheep dog, Claude is almost always in charge of driving the poor suckers towards the midway. One particularly loud mark complained about how this carny didn't need freaks when it had so many goddamn negros, Japs, Jews, and Mexicans. No surprise but Claude parted him from his money long before he could use it to get a gander at Nicole's charms. In addition to being a damn good herder, Claude is the best pickpocket they have. No one ever sees him coming.
Isaac stands back from his handiwork, admiring it before he runs the banner up the rope so it can dry in the stifling heat that passes for a breeze in these parts. He's been instructed to add a flourish or two to the Matthew the Mentalist banner as well, and he'll tend to it as lovingly as if he was Picasso working in oils. Sometimes, Mohinder wishes he was as easy to please as Isaac... that he wasn't restless and wondering, waiting, for some real kind of magic to find him.
Everyone at Linderman's Traveling Show has an act. All he has is his father's shadow. It slithers across his skin, old and toothless.
**
The chain on the shower is rusted near clean through, and Claire knows she's got to tell Gabriel to fix the links the next time he checks the connection to the pump. He's uncommon good at figuring out how things work. They always pull up next to a well if they can, and the outskirts of Odessa are no different. It's all dust, gravel, and the first bit of washing of it off her skin that she's been able to do in forty miles.
She'll tell Gabe when she's dressed, though, because she doesn't quite like how he looks at her. Out of all the rousties, he always looks too long… doesn't seem to fear Nathan none… and sometimes she wants to tell Bennet not to put him on cooch duty, before she remembers that Mama and the others can well take of themselves.
Besides, Bennet ain't in the business of being told, he's in the business of telling. "I've already got one daddy," she mutters, wrapping herself in her dirty shift so she can skirt back to her and Mama's trailer and get into her costume for the night. Monique'll have to help her shimmy into it, as usual, since it's pretty much stitched right down to her skin. All's so the audience can see the tears when she snaps her shoulders back into place.
Claire's almost past Uncle Pete's tent when the canvas flutters in the wind and a long, dark shape plants itself in front of her. "Oh, Christ!" she gasps, pressing her palm to her chest, even though she ought to be used to the Haitian's ways by now.
He smiles, which he really only does for her, and says nothing about her ungodly language. Truth be told, the Haitian, unlike his boss, Bennet, he ain't in the business of saying much at all. He just stares down at her, at her bare arms and legs --just newly rounded, seems like it took forever for her to bleed for the first time-- and whips off his long, dusty coat to cover her from chin to toe.
"I just *washed* for the show!" she huffs, stamping her foot. "Besides, ain't nobody interested in anything I've got."
He looks at her. Looks at 'Jandro and Teddy and, yes, Gabe out there working on her ladder.
"Okay, *fine*." She wraps the coat all the way around her, trying to keep up with him as he walks with her towards the trailer. His legs are crazy long, just like the rest of him, and in the right light he looks like a giant. That's just what they count on when they put him in the center ring with the tiger.
Shirley ain't ever hurt anyone --like most of the critters in the menagerie, she doesn't have many teeth-- but she and the Haitian are beautiful together. More beautiful than the cracking of Claire's neck and knees. Sometimes, she stands in the back during their act and watches big green eyes meet big brown ones and thinks that's how the Haitian knows what *she's* thinking… just by staring her in the face without blinking.
She can see the flags and banners lining the midway from here, knows at least three of the boys have already put up the big ol' gate welcoming one and all to Linderman's Magical, Wonderful Traveling Show. Somewhere, there's her, painted in gold and yellow and slashes of red. She looks older, powerful, and when she told Isaac, "It don't look a damn thing like me," he only laughed. He called her "Clarita," little Claire, and assured her that an artist always sees Clairely. She thinks if Linderman's ever in need of a comedy show, Isaac ought to headline… except that only he thinks he's a hoot.
Last summer, she told Mama that if Isaac ever wanted to come back to the trailer with her some night, she wouldn't even charge him. She'd give him a freebie like Nicole sometimes gives Mohinder. Mama'd slapped her as hard as she could across the face --harder than Claire's ever been hit-- and said, "No daughter of mine is selling her body or giving it away, you hear me?"
"But Mama, ain't that what I do every night?" she'd asked, feeling the sting even though the pain was long gone.
Meredith still hasn't answered that question. Claire thinks nobody at the show ever will, though sometimes Mohinder tries. When he's not too worn, too tired, he uses his 'professor' voice, the one he gives the rubes, and he tries to tell her why Mr. Linderman puts them all through their paces.
The Haitian paces her right up to her door, where Monique is already waiting, clucking, "You come on in here, cherie," like someone's auntie even though she ain't much older than Claire herself. Something about dancing, or maybe about New Orleans, made her old before her time. The Haitian doesn't smile at her… and, for the first time, Claire thinks that maybe he should. Maybe Monique could use it. Maybe they all could.
The Haitian's smile is like ice cold water, pure and clean.
Dust, gravel, and the first bit of washing of it off her skin.
**
They don't expect much of a crowd from Odessa, but some's better than none. Every night they can put the show on is a night that keeps Linderman happy, and Bennet has been on the circuit long enough to know that keeping Linderman happy is better for everybody.
Sometimes, he gets the notion in his head to ask, "What's it all for? What's going on?" It ain't escaped his notice, or anybody else's notice really, that they travel from place to place picking up people like they're adding to a collection in some fancy museum. But he knows Mr. Linderman won't answer. He'll just pet that fluffy mongrel of his like it's a woman's pussy and smile, before telling Bennet to make sure that their night's take is "secure."
He's smart enough to drop the subject every time. Smart enough to be a Pinkerton, too, except that he'd also been dumb enough to kill a man with his bare hands in a bar fight the same day he got the job. Bennet's impulse control ain't always what it should be. Sometimes, the violence bubbles up from his gut and he just can't help it. He acts. "But you do it with precision, with finesse," Linderman told him once, sounding like he actually admires it. And maybe he does. Maybe that's why Bennet's here as the oh-so-esteemed manager of a traveling carnival.
A traveling show where the cooch girls make fire on their fingertips, where a man moves so fast you can't tell he didn't really eat a sword, where a pretty little kid kills herself twice a night and two brothers have no fear of flying without a net. Where the boys who set up the tents all have their own special talents that make paint come to life, gears turn without grease, and fuel burn in empty tanks.
Mr. Linderman's Magical, Wonderful Traveling Show has freaks no bearded lady could ever compare to.
Step right up, come one, come all.
As long as there's people to gawk, at least they'll make a profit. At least *somebody* profits.
Some's better than none, he thinks as he watches the Invisible Man take position at the gates. Some's better than none any day of the week.
**
Mohinder has black smudges up and down his fingers long after the carnival shuts down for the night. His own damn fault for rubbing his eyes when he's too beat to go and wash at the pump. Light trickles in through the slats in the window and he turns his back, suddenly wishing he could just bunk down with the rousties in the dark comfort of a canvas tent instead of in what used to be Chandra's domain. Surrounded by books and silks and history that he ain't ever going to completely understand, no matter how much he takes in.
He inherited some prime territory when his old man kicked off, a fact some of the boys love to point out. When they were younger, he and Pete used to share it, bunk down together so Peter could get away from Nathan telling him what to do all the time. How high to fly, where to land, how to somersault… who needed that? Not two dumb kids acting like lords of the manor in a tin box on wheels.
But his old pal has embraced his destiny now and works in perfect unison with a man who practically knows how to touch the sun. Linderman's own personal Daedalus and Icarus, safe inside the maze. Pete has no need for escapes anymore… but it's still all that Mohinder craves.
He's a fake, he's a phony, he's a regular charlatan, and he wants out. He wants gone. He wants more than two bits in his pocket. He wants a place to belong.
Problem is, Mohinder has no idea where that is besides here.
The trailer door creaks as it opens. The floor, too. He sits halfway up, on alert in case it's someone out to steal him blind. Claude's been known to pilfer when he's drunk. Gabe's been known to do it 'cause he's just plain mean. Then, he recognizes the familiar shadow and he slouches back down again with a sigh. "Oh, Christ," his visitor mutters, before his bed sinks with her weight and she crawls under the blanket.
Claire. Of course. Getting away from whoever told her what to do today --how high to climb, where to fall, what to shatter-- or from Meredith, who's probably got some Russian in her bed hoping for a few extra dollars. Practically everybody in the show has a spot saved for the Invincible Girl when she needs it, but she mostly uses this one right here. Mohinder slings an arm around her shoulders as she snuggles into his side. One dumb man and one dumb kid playing lord and lady of the manor in the tin box.
"How'd you do tonight, Mo?" she murmurs against his cheek. Her breath is warm and sweet and drowsy and she pulls up his hand so she can inspect his fingers, huffing at their filthy condition.
"Same as always, Sweetheart," he murmurs into her hair, which smells like she's washed it again. Claire's going to drain their entire water supply one day, but he doubts anyone will complain. "You?"
"Same as always," she repeats, and he can feel her careless shrug.
Only, they both know it ain't careless. They both know it's just two shakes from misery, barely healed over from the plunge. She's a fake, she's a phony, and she's a regular charlatan, too. He hopes that Claire runs off to Hollywood some day, that *this* special talent won't all go to waste. He hopes that with every breath that isn't used up hoping she doesn't leave him here alone, because he'd miss her Christs and her cold toes and her laugh.
The undisputed star and the false mystic… what a pair they make.
She breaks his heart every night, twice night, without breaking a sweat and then gets up to the sound of thunderous applause.
-end-
March 26, 2008
Title: "One of Us (Step Right Up)" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: R for language
Characters: Mohinder, Claire, Bennet, others
Word Count: 2700
Disclaimer: Not my characters and only slightly my idea.
Summary: A mostly gen (shippy if you want to read it that way) AU heavily inspired by my Netflixing of Carnivale. The caravan stops just outside a little town called Odessa.
The caravan stops just outside a little town called Odessa, starts setting up the show in that efficient, no nonsense way that ensures Linderman won't be coming out of his trailer to raise a fuss. Russians, he thinks, squinting at the sun and tasting Texas grit between his teeth as he strikes a match and lights his smoke. He slouches on the platform with its faded red velvet and the divan that's seen better days, better years, watching Isaac touch up the banner that says, "Mohinder, the Mystical Hindoo." The likeness is uncanny, even if the spelling ain't.
When he tells Isaac to add a little more gold to his turban, he drawls the advice. Like any other carny raised on the circuit. Only his father, dead ten years now, ever really sounded like a Hindu... whatever that is. Mohinder isn't really mystical enough to know, since he doesn't remember India. He doesn't remember anything before this. But come 7 o'clock, he'll ape Chandra's voice like a seasoned con; he'll evoke the mysteries of the East as he pets his old, toothless cobra and blinks kohl out of his eyes because Nicole always applies too much.
Nicole. Thinking her name sends him looking straight towards the little tent in the back, a set-up so nondescript none of the fine ladies who come to the show would ever notice it... except for the line of "fine gentleman" that always ends up outside. Nicole the Amazon warrior, Monique the Louisiana quadroon, Meredith, whose nightly finale gives "fire crotch" a whole new meaning... they're all goddesses of their domain. Abandon all hope, and empty your pockets, all ye who enter there.
He still remembers the first time Pete ever caught sight of the girls in the cooch tent. Pete was 12 and he was sixteen, it was just Meredith and a couple of dancing girls they've lost to saloons along the way, and probably the highest that Flying Petrelli's ever been.
"Jesus. Mo," he'd said, eyes all wide. "*Jesus*. Do they really take all their clothes off? Do they really 'do it' if you give 'em extra dollars?"
A stupid question, considering Meredith wasn't exactly free with her favors and before she'd learned to say no to the performers and the rousties, she'd managed to give the carny its undisputed star: Claire, the Invincible Girl. Claire is near 17 now, and only her special talent keeps her from joining her mama dancing the cooch. Well, only her talents and Nathan, who seems to think he won Meredith's daddy lottery and keeps his shotgun oiled and at the ready in case anyone gets any ideas. The *other* Flying Petrelli is a man nobody wants to cross.
If he tilts his head and gives a good listen, Mohinder can hear Alejandro and Teddy working on her platform. Thirty feet, a straight dive into a shallow tub of water. Claire makes it every night, twice a night, breaks every bone in her body without breaking a sweat, and then gets up to the sound of thunderous applause.
She's the biggest draw for the show next to the Amazing Kensei, whose samurai sword act puts that of any swallower in the circuit to shame. Hiro, actually neither amazing nor named Kensei, can't speak much English and goes everywhere with his personal interpreter --his buddy or brother or something-- Ando. They joined up in Nevada. Bennet told them all that Linderman insisted. Nobody knows why. Nobody asked. Hiro's the friendliest guy in the caravan, though. Doesn't hesitate to jaw a man's ear off even if nobody can understand him. Probably makes him their biggest freak.
Mohinder still remembers a story Claude told once over a couple of beers. A better herder than a sheep dog, Claude is almost always in charge of driving the poor suckers towards the midway. One particularly loud mark complained about how this carny didn't need freaks when it had so many goddamn negros, Japs, Jews, and Mexicans. No surprise but Claude parted him from his money long before he could use it to get a gander at Nicole's charms. In addition to being a damn good herder, Claude is the best pickpocket they have. No one ever sees him coming.
Isaac stands back from his handiwork, admiring it before he runs the banner up the rope so it can dry in the stifling heat that passes for a breeze in these parts. He's been instructed to add a flourish or two to the Matthew the Mentalist banner as well, and he'll tend to it as lovingly as if he was Picasso working in oils. Sometimes, Mohinder wishes he was as easy to please as Isaac... that he wasn't restless and wondering, waiting, for some real kind of magic to find him.
Everyone at Linderman's Traveling Show has an act. All he has is his father's shadow. It slithers across his skin, old and toothless.
**
The chain on the shower is rusted near clean through, and Claire knows she's got to tell Gabriel to fix the links the next time he checks the connection to the pump. He's uncommon good at figuring out how things work. They always pull up next to a well if they can, and the outskirts of Odessa are no different. It's all dust, gravel, and the first bit of washing of it off her skin that she's been able to do in forty miles.
She'll tell Gabe when she's dressed, though, because she doesn't quite like how he looks at her. Out of all the rousties, he always looks too long… doesn't seem to fear Nathan none… and sometimes she wants to tell Bennet not to put him on cooch duty, before she remembers that Mama and the others can well take of themselves.
Besides, Bennet ain't in the business of being told, he's in the business of telling. "I've already got one daddy," she mutters, wrapping herself in her dirty shift so she can skirt back to her and Mama's trailer and get into her costume for the night. Monique'll have to help her shimmy into it, as usual, since it's pretty much stitched right down to her skin. All's so the audience can see the tears when she snaps her shoulders back into place.
Claire's almost past Uncle Pete's tent when the canvas flutters in the wind and a long, dark shape plants itself in front of her. "Oh, Christ!" she gasps, pressing her palm to her chest, even though she ought to be used to the Haitian's ways by now.
He smiles, which he really only does for her, and says nothing about her ungodly language. Truth be told, the Haitian, unlike his boss, Bennet, he ain't in the business of saying much at all. He just stares down at her, at her bare arms and legs --just newly rounded, seems like it took forever for her to bleed for the first time-- and whips off his long, dusty coat to cover her from chin to toe.
"I just *washed* for the show!" she huffs, stamping her foot. "Besides, ain't nobody interested in anything I've got."
He looks at her. Looks at 'Jandro and Teddy and, yes, Gabe out there working on her ladder.
"Okay, *fine*." She wraps the coat all the way around her, trying to keep up with him as he walks with her towards the trailer. His legs are crazy long, just like the rest of him, and in the right light he looks like a giant. That's just what they count on when they put him in the center ring with the tiger.
Shirley ain't ever hurt anyone --like most of the critters in the menagerie, she doesn't have many teeth-- but she and the Haitian are beautiful together. More beautiful than the cracking of Claire's neck and knees. Sometimes, she stands in the back during their act and watches big green eyes meet big brown ones and thinks that's how the Haitian knows what *she's* thinking… just by staring her in the face without blinking.
She can see the flags and banners lining the midway from here, knows at least three of the boys have already put up the big ol' gate welcoming one and all to Linderman's Magical, Wonderful Traveling Show. Somewhere, there's her, painted in gold and yellow and slashes of red. She looks older, powerful, and when she told Isaac, "It don't look a damn thing like me," he only laughed. He called her "Clarita," little Claire, and assured her that an artist always sees Clairely. She thinks if Linderman's ever in need of a comedy show, Isaac ought to headline… except that only he thinks he's a hoot.
Last summer, she told Mama that if Isaac ever wanted to come back to the trailer with her some night, she wouldn't even charge him. She'd give him a freebie like Nicole sometimes gives Mohinder. Mama'd slapped her as hard as she could across the face --harder than Claire's ever been hit-- and said, "No daughter of mine is selling her body or giving it away, you hear me?"
"But Mama, ain't that what I do every night?" she'd asked, feeling the sting even though the pain was long gone.
Meredith still hasn't answered that question. Claire thinks nobody at the show ever will, though sometimes Mohinder tries. When he's not too worn, too tired, he uses his 'professor' voice, the one he gives the rubes, and he tries to tell her why Mr. Linderman puts them all through their paces.
The Haitian paces her right up to her door, where Monique is already waiting, clucking, "You come on in here, cherie," like someone's auntie even though she ain't much older than Claire herself. Something about dancing, or maybe about New Orleans, made her old before her time. The Haitian doesn't smile at her… and, for the first time, Claire thinks that maybe he should. Maybe Monique could use it. Maybe they all could.
The Haitian's smile is like ice cold water, pure and clean.
Dust, gravel, and the first bit of washing of it off her skin.
**
They don't expect much of a crowd from Odessa, but some's better than none. Every night they can put the show on is a night that keeps Linderman happy, and Bennet has been on the circuit long enough to know that keeping Linderman happy is better for everybody.
Sometimes, he gets the notion in his head to ask, "What's it all for? What's going on?" It ain't escaped his notice, or anybody else's notice really, that they travel from place to place picking up people like they're adding to a collection in some fancy museum. But he knows Mr. Linderman won't answer. He'll just pet that fluffy mongrel of his like it's a woman's pussy and smile, before telling Bennet to make sure that their night's take is "secure."
He's smart enough to drop the subject every time. Smart enough to be a Pinkerton, too, except that he'd also been dumb enough to kill a man with his bare hands in a bar fight the same day he got the job. Bennet's impulse control ain't always what it should be. Sometimes, the violence bubbles up from his gut and he just can't help it. He acts. "But you do it with precision, with finesse," Linderman told him once, sounding like he actually admires it. And maybe he does. Maybe that's why Bennet's here as the oh-so-esteemed manager of a traveling carnival.
A traveling show where the cooch girls make fire on their fingertips, where a man moves so fast you can't tell he didn't really eat a sword, where a pretty little kid kills herself twice a night and two brothers have no fear of flying without a net. Where the boys who set up the tents all have their own special talents that make paint come to life, gears turn without grease, and fuel burn in empty tanks.
Mr. Linderman's Magical, Wonderful Traveling Show has freaks no bearded lady could ever compare to.
Step right up, come one, come all.
As long as there's people to gawk, at least they'll make a profit. At least *somebody* profits.
Some's better than none, he thinks as he watches the Invisible Man take position at the gates. Some's better than none any day of the week.
**
Mohinder has black smudges up and down his fingers long after the carnival shuts down for the night. His own damn fault for rubbing his eyes when he's too beat to go and wash at the pump. Light trickles in through the slats in the window and he turns his back, suddenly wishing he could just bunk down with the rousties in the dark comfort of a canvas tent instead of in what used to be Chandra's domain. Surrounded by books and silks and history that he ain't ever going to completely understand, no matter how much he takes in.
He inherited some prime territory when his old man kicked off, a fact some of the boys love to point out. When they were younger, he and Pete used to share it, bunk down together so Peter could get away from Nathan telling him what to do all the time. How high to fly, where to land, how to somersault… who needed that? Not two dumb kids acting like lords of the manor in a tin box on wheels.
But his old pal has embraced his destiny now and works in perfect unison with a man who practically knows how to touch the sun. Linderman's own personal Daedalus and Icarus, safe inside the maze. Pete has no need for escapes anymore… but it's still all that Mohinder craves.
He's a fake, he's a phony, he's a regular charlatan, and he wants out. He wants gone. He wants more than two bits in his pocket. He wants a place to belong.
Problem is, Mohinder has no idea where that is besides here.
The trailer door creaks as it opens. The floor, too. He sits halfway up, on alert in case it's someone out to steal him blind. Claude's been known to pilfer when he's drunk. Gabe's been known to do it 'cause he's just plain mean. Then, he recognizes the familiar shadow and he slouches back down again with a sigh. "Oh, Christ," his visitor mutters, before his bed sinks with her weight and she crawls under the blanket.
Claire. Of course. Getting away from whoever told her what to do today --how high to climb, where to fall, what to shatter-- or from Meredith, who's probably got some Russian in her bed hoping for a few extra dollars. Practically everybody in the show has a spot saved for the Invincible Girl when she needs it, but she mostly uses this one right here. Mohinder slings an arm around her shoulders as she snuggles into his side. One dumb man and one dumb kid playing lord and lady of the manor in the tin box.
"How'd you do tonight, Mo?" she murmurs against his cheek. Her breath is warm and sweet and drowsy and she pulls up his hand so she can inspect his fingers, huffing at their filthy condition.
"Same as always, Sweetheart," he murmurs into her hair, which smells like she's washed it again. Claire's going to drain their entire water supply one day, but he doubts anyone will complain. "You?"
"Same as always," she repeats, and he can feel her careless shrug.
Only, they both know it ain't careless. They both know it's just two shakes from misery, barely healed over from the plunge. She's a fake, she's a phony, and she's a regular charlatan, too. He hopes that Claire runs off to Hollywood some day, that *this* special talent won't all go to waste. He hopes that with every breath that isn't used up hoping she doesn't leave him here alone, because he'd miss her Christs and her cold toes and her laugh.
The undisputed star and the false mystic… what a pair they make.
She breaks his heart every night, twice night, without breaking a sweat and then gets up to the sound of thunderous applause.
-end-
March 26, 2008