(no subject)
a kiss with a fist is better than none
Zombieland, Little Rock/Tallahassee, R for language, 1,300 words, spoilers for the film. Little Rock's got a crush, and no one's more surprised about it than she is.
The first time she gets cornered alone, she's fifteen.
Three years in and she's never taken so much as a piss without someone standing on the other side of the stall, keeping an eye out and a gun cocked. It's one of Columbus' rules, but she's seen enough bloody remains in gas station restrooms across the country to know better. It's strange, she thinks, rules in a world of chaos, but maybe there's a reason for them.
Maybe they're the only things that keep them all human.
She's got a sawed-off in her hand and four of them on her tail as she runs, the rubber of her sneakers slapping against the pavement. There's a technique to this - the winding in and out of overturned cars, or slowing down so they're close enough to lick her before her second wind kicks in and she leaves them in the dust. She's got three left and one in her pocket to reload for and even though Columbus always says you shouldn't be stingy with your bullets, that's less than she'd like and she's not about to wind up somebody's meal because of it.
She figures she's got enough space between her and them to swivel around, and so she does. The first one drops as she shoots and the second takes one between the eyes, brains and black shooting out the back of his head. The third gets clipped in the knee and keeps limping on, dragging his useless leg behind. They don't seem to feel much, though by the sounds they make, you'd think they were in agony.
Three years in and she knows what that sound is.
Hunger.
Third one goes down with a shot and the fourth one gets too close as she moves to reload, too close, and she doesn't have enough time --
She jerks the gun around, smashing the butt into his face, greeted with the sound of breaking bone. He drops back and the barrel finds her palm, warm and familiar, and she cocks it shut and aims.
"Nut up or shut up," she murmurs.
She exhales slowly, and fires.
-
Six years in and she's in need of new sizes. They stop at a Salvation Army outside Miami and she and Wichita disappear inside.
"We don't have time for you two to go off playin' looky-loo," Tallahassee calls out after them.
He doesn't say much when they're back inside of fifteen minutes and she's traded baggy jeans for cutoffs, a sweatshirt for a vest she's using for a shirt. She's even taken to wearing some of Wichita's eyeliner, lately, but the last time they'd pull over at a pharmacy she'd pocketed one of her own.
"What in the hell is that?"
He eyes her from underneath the brim of his hat.
"It's aerodynamic," she explains, snagging a place in the front seat and hoisting her legs up onto the dash. Black cowboy boots thunk against the interior.
"Those things better not scuff my dash," he warns, and then turns his head to spit out the window.
"Fuckin' boots," he grumbles, and when she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the sideview mirror, she smirks.
-
Mexico's hotter than a lot of places right now, but the borders have done a decent-enough job of keeping most of the infected out - "and on the bright side," Tallahassee points out, as the truck smashes through the abandoned barrier, "free tequila."
It's the reason why they pull over at the first sign of Cuervo inside, even though the power's been out long since, plenty of time for things to turn sour. Columbus and Wichita watch outside and she follows him in, winding up and down the aisles, stepping over broken glass and spilled beer, and he lets out a cry when he finds the bottle, hoisting it up like a newborn baby.
"Now this, right here," he says, "this is liquid gold. We're takin' it all."
He holds out a bottle to her, and curiously, she opens it up, sniffs experimentally. One look to Tallahassee and there's something in her that says she should.
"Bottoms up," she says, and takes a swig.
Immediately, it's fire - burning in the back of her throat, stinging in her nose, and she pinches it shut to make herself swallow, sticking out her tongue and groaning once it's down.
"Damn, girl," he mumbles, moving to take the bottle away from her. "You gotta take it easy with this stuff, or it'll wreck ya."
"I'm fine," she insists, and refuses to let go until he does. He gives her a strange look then, but she turns away, forcing down another sip with her back turned.
The third time, with her legs draped out the window and her head lolling against the back of the seat, it's easier.
-
He's drunk. They all are.
They find an abandoned hotel on the beach, take a room on the fifty-second floor. One thing that still rings true for zombies: they've never much cared for heights. Up here, looking out into the ocean, it's almost easy to pretend that things haven't been as fucked-up as they are for the past ten years.
The bottle of Cuervo is half-empty in one hand, the Cuban cigar half-smoked in the other. She closes her eyes against the ocean breeze and blocks out the sound of their laughter through the sliding glass door. It grows louder just as Tallahassee steps out, swaying back and forth. One foot's out of a boot, his white sock stark and clean against gray-blue concrete.
"Told those two to fuckin' get a room," he mutters. "Guess I didn't say which one."
Wichita squeals, high, like when she's being tickled, and Little Rock doesn't even have to keep her eyes closed to picture it: the two of them, Columbus with his hands under her shirt and hers in his hair. The image blurs in her mind when she takes another swig of tequila, and she comes out of it to see that Tallahassee's standing next to her, a knowing smirk on his face.
"I can't say I blame them," he adds. "I mean, if you had the chance to get some, wouldn't you?"
"My options are kinda limited."
He reaches out to slide fingertips, blunt and callused, through the ends of her hair. She lets him.
"I don't blame them, either," she says, and kisses him softly.
It's clumsy. His teeth worry at her lower lip; her palm rubs harsh against the stubble on his cheek. He tastes like tequila and the scent of leather fills her nose. It goes on too long and ends too soon, and when she pulls away, she lets her forearms rest on the cool metal of the balcony's edge. She looks straight down and it's almost like the ground comes rushing up to meet her, and for a second she's reminded of a drop tower ride and zombies running under her feet.
They stand like that for a while. She finishes the bottle and lets it drop over the side. It's a good five seconds before they both hear the sound of it shatter below. She passes him the cigar. The end turns orange, then yellow as he inhales, the smoke dark when he breathes out through his nose. He passes it back. Their fingers brush. She doesn't meet his eyes right away, but when she looks up, he's gone back inside.
-
Six years in and it's the first time they've seen a convenience store intact.
They go inside without hesitating, because even before they stop, everyone knows the reason.
Five minutes later, Tallahassee storms out, one hand gripped into a fist.
"Goddamnsonofabitchjesus--"
The curse words blur together in a stream right up until the moment she presses something into his other hand.
It crinkles.
Zombieland, Little Rock/Tallahassee, R for language, 1,300 words, spoilers for the film. Little Rock's got a crush, and no one's more surprised about it than she is.
The first time she gets cornered alone, she's fifteen.
Three years in and she's never taken so much as a piss without someone standing on the other side of the stall, keeping an eye out and a gun cocked. It's one of Columbus' rules, but she's seen enough bloody remains in gas station restrooms across the country to know better. It's strange, she thinks, rules in a world of chaos, but maybe there's a reason for them.
Maybe they're the only things that keep them all human.
She's got a sawed-off in her hand and four of them on her tail as she runs, the rubber of her sneakers slapping against the pavement. There's a technique to this - the winding in and out of overturned cars, or slowing down so they're close enough to lick her before her second wind kicks in and she leaves them in the dust. She's got three left and one in her pocket to reload for and even though Columbus always says you shouldn't be stingy with your bullets, that's less than she'd like and she's not about to wind up somebody's meal because of it.
She figures she's got enough space between her and them to swivel around, and so she does. The first one drops as she shoots and the second takes one between the eyes, brains and black shooting out the back of his head. The third gets clipped in the knee and keeps limping on, dragging his useless leg behind. They don't seem to feel much, though by the sounds they make, you'd think they were in agony.
Three years in and she knows what that sound is.
Hunger.
Third one goes down with a shot and the fourth one gets too close as she moves to reload, too close, and she doesn't have enough time --
She jerks the gun around, smashing the butt into his face, greeted with the sound of breaking bone. He drops back and the barrel finds her palm, warm and familiar, and she cocks it shut and aims.
"Nut up or shut up," she murmurs.
She exhales slowly, and fires.
-
Six years in and she's in need of new sizes. They stop at a Salvation Army outside Miami and she and Wichita disappear inside.
"We don't have time for you two to go off playin' looky-loo," Tallahassee calls out after them.
He doesn't say much when they're back inside of fifteen minutes and she's traded baggy jeans for cutoffs, a sweatshirt for a vest she's using for a shirt. She's even taken to wearing some of Wichita's eyeliner, lately, but the last time they'd pull over at a pharmacy she'd pocketed one of her own.
"What in the hell is that?"
He eyes her from underneath the brim of his hat.
"It's aerodynamic," she explains, snagging a place in the front seat and hoisting her legs up onto the dash. Black cowboy boots thunk against the interior.
"Those things better not scuff my dash," he warns, and then turns his head to spit out the window.
"Fuckin' boots," he grumbles, and when she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the sideview mirror, she smirks.
-
Mexico's hotter than a lot of places right now, but the borders have done a decent-enough job of keeping most of the infected out - "and on the bright side," Tallahassee points out, as the truck smashes through the abandoned barrier, "free tequila."
It's the reason why they pull over at the first sign of Cuervo inside, even though the power's been out long since, plenty of time for things to turn sour. Columbus and Wichita watch outside and she follows him in, winding up and down the aisles, stepping over broken glass and spilled beer, and he lets out a cry when he finds the bottle, hoisting it up like a newborn baby.
"Now this, right here," he says, "this is liquid gold. We're takin' it all."
He holds out a bottle to her, and curiously, she opens it up, sniffs experimentally. One look to Tallahassee and there's something in her that says she should.
"Bottoms up," she says, and takes a swig.
Immediately, it's fire - burning in the back of her throat, stinging in her nose, and she pinches it shut to make herself swallow, sticking out her tongue and groaning once it's down.
"Damn, girl," he mumbles, moving to take the bottle away from her. "You gotta take it easy with this stuff, or it'll wreck ya."
"I'm fine," she insists, and refuses to let go until he does. He gives her a strange look then, but she turns away, forcing down another sip with her back turned.
The third time, with her legs draped out the window and her head lolling against the back of the seat, it's easier.
-
He's drunk. They all are.
They find an abandoned hotel on the beach, take a room on the fifty-second floor. One thing that still rings true for zombies: they've never much cared for heights. Up here, looking out into the ocean, it's almost easy to pretend that things haven't been as fucked-up as they are for the past ten years.
The bottle of Cuervo is half-empty in one hand, the Cuban cigar half-smoked in the other. She closes her eyes against the ocean breeze and blocks out the sound of their laughter through the sliding glass door. It grows louder just as Tallahassee steps out, swaying back and forth. One foot's out of a boot, his white sock stark and clean against gray-blue concrete.
"Told those two to fuckin' get a room," he mutters. "Guess I didn't say which one."
Wichita squeals, high, like when she's being tickled, and Little Rock doesn't even have to keep her eyes closed to picture it: the two of them, Columbus with his hands under her shirt and hers in his hair. The image blurs in her mind when she takes another swig of tequila, and she comes out of it to see that Tallahassee's standing next to her, a knowing smirk on his face.
"I can't say I blame them," he adds. "I mean, if you had the chance to get some, wouldn't you?"
"My options are kinda limited."
He reaches out to slide fingertips, blunt and callused, through the ends of her hair. She lets him.
"I don't blame them, either," she says, and kisses him softly.
It's clumsy. His teeth worry at her lower lip; her palm rubs harsh against the stubble on his cheek. He tastes like tequila and the scent of leather fills her nose. It goes on too long and ends too soon, and when she pulls away, she lets her forearms rest on the cool metal of the balcony's edge. She looks straight down and it's almost like the ground comes rushing up to meet her, and for a second she's reminded of a drop tower ride and zombies running under her feet.
They stand like that for a while. She finishes the bottle and lets it drop over the side. It's a good five seconds before they both hear the sound of it shatter below. She passes him the cigar. The end turns orange, then yellow as he inhales, the smoke dark when he breathes out through his nose. He passes it back. Their fingers brush. She doesn't meet his eyes right away, but when she looks up, he's gone back inside.
-
Six years in and it's the first time they've seen a convenience store intact.
They go inside without hesitating, because even before they stop, everyone knows the reason.
Five minutes later, Tallahassee storms out, one hand gripped into a fist.
"Goddamnsonofabitchjesus--"
The curse words blur together in a stream right up until the moment she presses something into his other hand.
It crinkles.