Fic: You May Be Offended, And You May Be Afraid (Weeds, Celia/Nancy)
And on with the thing where I said I'd be popping in to post ficathon stories as they came due. femslash06 has just gone live, so I'm posting my stories (more on that in the next post). If you're fond of femslash, or you just want to know what callmesandy and I have been up to for the past few months, drop by the community, femslash06, for many exciting stories in many exciting fandoms.
Title: You May Be Offended, And You May Be Afraid
Fandom: Weeds
Pairing: Celia/Nancy
Spoilers/Continuity: Takes place soon after the first season finale.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The only people in Agrestic who walk.
Word Count: about 1,500.
Disclaimer: Weeds is the intellectual property of Lions Gate, Tilted Productions, and Showtime. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2006 Mosca. This story is a labor of love, not money, so it's protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. A box full of suggestions for your possible heart.
Notes: Thank yous to distraction77 and callmesandy for beta reading. Title and inspiration are from "Land Locked Blues," a song by Bright Eyes. Written for trixiesfic for femslash06.
Celia had the best tits in Agrestic. They weren't real, but whose were? She also had the best excuse for fake tits of anyone in Agrestic. That was why they were so good. The insurance had covered them, so she'd booked herself an appointment with the Breast Implant King of Beverly Hills and made the hour-long drive down to the city. Her breasts were pleasantly bouncy, firm but natural in texture, and realistic in their contours. The Breast Implant King had even managed to make it so there wasn't that chasm in her cleavage that screamed "fake tits." They projected the illusion of youth, an important illusion since the chemo had chiseled deep lines in the corners of her eyes and mouth.
The chemo had also made her sensitive to light. Now that she'd finished, she appreciated the California sunshine for the first time in her life. She slathered sunscreen on her face and arms and ran her fingers through her hair, which had grown back in just enough to be suitable for public appearances without a wig. She was thinking of keeping it short. It made her look like some kind of angry dyke art teacher.
People didn't take walks in Agrestic. The whole community -- the whole state, really -- had been designed so that nobody had to walk anywhere, even to places where anyone in their right mind would prefer to walk. You practically had to drive to your own mailbox. This was precisely why Celia had taken to strolling the neighborhood like a one-woman enforcement agency. Dean had once jokingly referred to her walks as "constitutionals," and that was what she called them now, mostly so that when her neighbors asked her what in the world she was doing out on the loose without an SUV in sight, she could tell them that she was on her daily constitutional and then stalk away while they stared at her quizzically.
She slowed at the rare sight of a group of boys playing in the front yard of a house. They'd found some tree branches to use as toy guns. As hard as the citizens of Agrestic worked to schedule their kids' activities until all the creativity was brainwashed out of them, these children insisted on hanging on to the vestiges of an imagination. Impressed, she raised up her hands, playing surrender. The damn kid shot her anyway.
She crumpled to the ground, spaghetti-Western style, hands clasped against the best tits in Agrestic. When the kids returned to their game, she got up, but one of the kids spotted her. "Hey," he said. "You can't move. You're dead."
"And the oncologist quoted me such good odds," she said, smoothing the dirt off her jeans. She moved on without looking back at the kids. She knew what kind of expression they had on their faces.
Celia was almost home when she ran into Nancy, who was carrying a gigantic red shopping bag. The bag contained something rectangular and foil-wrapped that reflected the sunlight in jagged, blinding pinks and blues. Nancy cocked her head to the side suspiciously. "Did something happen to your car?" she said.
"I don't think so," Celia said. "Yours?"
"I'm making a delivery," Nancy said. "It's just a few doors down, baked goods, so I thought I'd -- It's a nice day."
"It's always a nice day. We live in the desert."
"There's a breeze," Nancy said. "There's a really nice breeze."
Celia licked her finger and held it out to catch the wind. "What do you know?" she said.
"And I was getting in my car and I thought, it's a few doors down, and whoever walks anywhere? I can do my business out in the open, and people will notice less. Because nobody ever walks."
"I do," Celia said. "I walk every day."
"I've never seen you," Nancy said.
"You never walk," Celia said. "Who walks?"
Nancy switched her bag to her other hand. She hadn't seemed to be straining. But that was how she was. "Criminals, the dying, and people with dogs," she said.
"Most people with dogs just let them run around the backyard and shit under the swingset," Celia said.
"I guess they would," Nancy said. "I mean, I don't have a dog, how should I know?"
"So it's just criminals and the dying," Celia said.
"Looks that way," Nancy said. "Listen, I really have to deliver this, so--"
"Okay. It was nice running into you."
"It was," Nancy said through a fake smile. Nancy had the best fake smile in Agrestic: guileless, nonchalant, laced with mystery. There was no plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills who could give you that. Doctors were better at taking smiles away.
Celia backed off the sidewalk onto a stranger's crayon-green chemical lawn. She couldn't see Nancy's smile, but she could watch the round sway of her hips, which had the same quality: a tease, a dare, a true lie. Also, she wanted to know who had purchased such a large bag of weed-laced baked goods. A few hip swishes later, and Celia had the disappointing answer. Marnie Pearlman, with her intermittent bulimia and chronic migraines. A batch of pot brownies might soothe both at once.
The next thing Celia knew, she was lying face-up on the chemical lawn, with Nancy leaning over her. "Shit," Celia said, brushing blades from her hair. She hadn't felt dizzy or lightheaded, nothing. Wide awake and arranging her mental gossip files one minute, unconscious the next. She was weak sometimes, still. She liked to forget that.
Nancy helped Celia to her feet and led her home. No, not home: all these houses looked alike, but this was Nancy's sofa. "I should call your doctor," Nancy said.
"I'm fine," Celia said. "I just got lightheaded."
"You shouldn't let these things go," Nancy said.
"What's my doctor going to do? Tell me to stop taking walks? He's the one that told me to take them in the first place. And you know what I said when he told me that? I said, who walks in Agrestic?"
"I'll get you some water," Nancy said.
Celia sipped her water, praying that it came from a bottle and not from the faucet. She almost felt healthy again. That was when she felt healthiest: right after she'd passed out or thrown up. When she'd already lost her lunch and her dignity, so she had nothing else to lose. She finished the water and fell asleep on Nancy's sofa. It seemed like no time had passed when she woke to one of Nancy's sons shouting, "Mom, why is Mrs. Hodes asleep in our living room?"
"Because I have cancer, honey," Celia said.
"Go do your homework, Shane," Nancy yelled from the kitchen. She came into the living room, drying her hands on a towel. She hovered over Celia, saying, "Are you all right? Do you want me to drive you home?"
Celia tried to get up, but her knees wobbled. She sat back down. Nancy was wearing a daisy-print apron, and she had a little bit of cornbread batter in her hair. She looked like the wild side of Betty Crocker. "I heard you were the best fuck some woman ever had," Celia said. The words just happened. She couldn't conceive of having sex right now, with the oogy feeling in her stomach and the wet concrete sloshing in her head. It was becoming clearer and clearer, as she worked on surviving her illness, that when she was weak and defenseless, she instinctively resorted to flirting.
"What?"
"It's not important," Celia said. "It's just what I heard."
"She's a lot older now. I'm sure she's had better since. Besides, I wasn't into it. Didn't you 'hear' that, too?"
"Maybe it wasn't you," Celia said. "Maybe it was her. Was she pretty?"
"I don't remember," Nancy said. "I was stoned."
"Then maybe you ought to give it another try. Just to make sure." It was easier to stand up now. Celia reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she shivered when she only touched air.
"No," Nancy said.
"Then you should drive me home, after all," Celia said.
"Let me get my keys," Nancy said, but she said it slowly, like she was concerned that the keys might question her judgment. Celia could see the glint of Nancy's keys on the kitchen table, but she didn't go to the kitchen. She stood still, chewing her lip, hands on her hips. The sharp angle of her elbows made her arms look freakishly long. But some things, Celia mused, were sexier for being freakish. "Okay," Nancy said. "You win." She shook out her hair and reached back to untie her apron.
Title: You May Be Offended, And You May Be Afraid
Fandom: Weeds
Pairing: Celia/Nancy
Spoilers/Continuity: Takes place soon after the first season finale.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The only people in Agrestic who walk.
Word Count: about 1,500.
Disclaimer: Weeds is the intellectual property of Lions Gate, Tilted Productions, and Showtime. This original work of fan fiction is Copyright 2006 Mosca. This story is a labor of love, not money, so it's protected in the USA by the fair use provisions of the Copyright Act of 1976. All rights reserved. All wrongs reversed. A box full of suggestions for your possible heart.
Notes: Thank yous to distraction77 and callmesandy for beta reading. Title and inspiration are from "Land Locked Blues," a song by Bright Eyes. Written for trixiesfic for femslash06.
Celia had the best tits in Agrestic. They weren't real, but whose were? She also had the best excuse for fake tits of anyone in Agrestic. That was why they were so good. The insurance had covered them, so she'd booked herself an appointment with the Breast Implant King of Beverly Hills and made the hour-long drive down to the city. Her breasts were pleasantly bouncy, firm but natural in texture, and realistic in their contours. The Breast Implant King had even managed to make it so there wasn't that chasm in her cleavage that screamed "fake tits." They projected the illusion of youth, an important illusion since the chemo had chiseled deep lines in the corners of her eyes and mouth.
The chemo had also made her sensitive to light. Now that she'd finished, she appreciated the California sunshine for the first time in her life. She slathered sunscreen on her face and arms and ran her fingers through her hair, which had grown back in just enough to be suitable for public appearances without a wig. She was thinking of keeping it short. It made her look like some kind of angry dyke art teacher.
People didn't take walks in Agrestic. The whole community -- the whole state, really -- had been designed so that nobody had to walk anywhere, even to places where anyone in their right mind would prefer to walk. You practically had to drive to your own mailbox. This was precisely why Celia had taken to strolling the neighborhood like a one-woman enforcement agency. Dean had once jokingly referred to her walks as "constitutionals," and that was what she called them now, mostly so that when her neighbors asked her what in the world she was doing out on the loose without an SUV in sight, she could tell them that she was on her daily constitutional and then stalk away while they stared at her quizzically.
She slowed at the rare sight of a group of boys playing in the front yard of a house. They'd found some tree branches to use as toy guns. As hard as the citizens of Agrestic worked to schedule their kids' activities until all the creativity was brainwashed out of them, these children insisted on hanging on to the vestiges of an imagination. Impressed, she raised up her hands, playing surrender. The damn kid shot her anyway.
She crumpled to the ground, spaghetti-Western style, hands clasped against the best tits in Agrestic. When the kids returned to their game, she got up, but one of the kids spotted her. "Hey," he said. "You can't move. You're dead."
"And the oncologist quoted me such good odds," she said, smoothing the dirt off her jeans. She moved on without looking back at the kids. She knew what kind of expression they had on their faces.
Celia was almost home when she ran into Nancy, who was carrying a gigantic red shopping bag. The bag contained something rectangular and foil-wrapped that reflected the sunlight in jagged, blinding pinks and blues. Nancy cocked her head to the side suspiciously. "Did something happen to your car?" she said.
"I don't think so," Celia said. "Yours?"
"I'm making a delivery," Nancy said. "It's just a few doors down, baked goods, so I thought I'd -- It's a nice day."
"It's always a nice day. We live in the desert."
"There's a breeze," Nancy said. "There's a really nice breeze."
Celia licked her finger and held it out to catch the wind. "What do you know?" she said.
"And I was getting in my car and I thought, it's a few doors down, and whoever walks anywhere? I can do my business out in the open, and people will notice less. Because nobody ever walks."
"I do," Celia said. "I walk every day."
"I've never seen you," Nancy said.
"You never walk," Celia said. "Who walks?"
Nancy switched her bag to her other hand. She hadn't seemed to be straining. But that was how she was. "Criminals, the dying, and people with dogs," she said.
"Most people with dogs just let them run around the backyard and shit under the swingset," Celia said.
"I guess they would," Nancy said. "I mean, I don't have a dog, how should I know?"
"So it's just criminals and the dying," Celia said.
"Looks that way," Nancy said. "Listen, I really have to deliver this, so--"
"Okay. It was nice running into you."
"It was," Nancy said through a fake smile. Nancy had the best fake smile in Agrestic: guileless, nonchalant, laced with mystery. There was no plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills who could give you that. Doctors were better at taking smiles away.
Celia backed off the sidewalk onto a stranger's crayon-green chemical lawn. She couldn't see Nancy's smile, but she could watch the round sway of her hips, which had the same quality: a tease, a dare, a true lie. Also, she wanted to know who had purchased such a large bag of weed-laced baked goods. A few hip swishes later, and Celia had the disappointing answer. Marnie Pearlman, with her intermittent bulimia and chronic migraines. A batch of pot brownies might soothe both at once.
The next thing Celia knew, she was lying face-up on the chemical lawn, with Nancy leaning over her. "Shit," Celia said, brushing blades from her hair. She hadn't felt dizzy or lightheaded, nothing. Wide awake and arranging her mental gossip files one minute, unconscious the next. She was weak sometimes, still. She liked to forget that.
Nancy helped Celia to her feet and led her home. No, not home: all these houses looked alike, but this was Nancy's sofa. "I should call your doctor," Nancy said.
"I'm fine," Celia said. "I just got lightheaded."
"You shouldn't let these things go," Nancy said.
"What's my doctor going to do? Tell me to stop taking walks? He's the one that told me to take them in the first place. And you know what I said when he told me that? I said, who walks in Agrestic?"
"I'll get you some water," Nancy said.
Celia sipped her water, praying that it came from a bottle and not from the faucet. She almost felt healthy again. That was when she felt healthiest: right after she'd passed out or thrown up. When she'd already lost her lunch and her dignity, so she had nothing else to lose. She finished the water and fell asleep on Nancy's sofa. It seemed like no time had passed when she woke to one of Nancy's sons shouting, "Mom, why is Mrs. Hodes asleep in our living room?"
"Because I have cancer, honey," Celia said.
"Go do your homework, Shane," Nancy yelled from the kitchen. She came into the living room, drying her hands on a towel. She hovered over Celia, saying, "Are you all right? Do you want me to drive you home?"
Celia tried to get up, but her knees wobbled. She sat back down. Nancy was wearing a daisy-print apron, and she had a little bit of cornbread batter in her hair. She looked like the wild side of Betty Crocker. "I heard you were the best fuck some woman ever had," Celia said. The words just happened. She couldn't conceive of having sex right now, with the oogy feeling in her stomach and the wet concrete sloshing in her head. It was becoming clearer and clearer, as she worked on surviving her illness, that when she was weak and defenseless, she instinctively resorted to flirting.
"What?"
"It's not important," Celia said. "It's just what I heard."
"She's a lot older now. I'm sure she's had better since. Besides, I wasn't into it. Didn't you 'hear' that, too?"
"Maybe it wasn't you," Celia said. "Maybe it was her. Was she pretty?"
"I don't remember," Nancy said. "I was stoned."
"Then maybe you ought to give it another try. Just to make sure." It was easier to stand up now. Celia reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she shivered when she only touched air.
"No," Nancy said.
"Then you should drive me home, after all," Celia said.
"Let me get my keys," Nancy said, but she said it slowly, like she was concerned that the keys might question her judgment. Celia could see the glint of Nancy's keys on the kitchen table, but she didn't go to the kitchen. She stood still, chewing her lip, hands on her hips. The sharp angle of her elbows made her arms look freakishly long. But some things, Celia mused, were sexier for being freakish. "Okay," Nancy said. "You win." She shook out her hair and reached back to untie her apron.