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open post v. 3.0
open post v. 3.0 |
Ten different suburbs and I could still navigate with my fucking eyes closed.
( jd huffs out a laugh at the stupid sameness of it all, lifting his head to look up at the sky, quickly darkening after sunset. they stayed at school late today – kate, to the library, to work on some banal, time-consuming essay; jd, to the library as well, for company -- if sitting next to her, rocking as far back in his wobbly wooden chair as he possibly can just because, reading aloud the lines from hamlet that he finds to be completely enlightening, and likely being distracting overall can be considered company.
well, at the very least, he's offered to walk kate home, which isn't entirely a new concept. the last dregs of the scorching texas summer and homecoming and all that other stupid shit seem pretty far away now that the temperature's settled down a little and jd's stopped looking as out of place in his dark trenchcoat. surprisingly enough, this school year's been ... not as bad as he'd expected, thanks to a few people, places, and/or things here and there. then again, his expectations of his return to texas had been utterly cataclysmic.
so maybe he's a little less focused on all of his raging inner turmoils. so maybe he has a friend or something now. so what. )
( jd huffs out a laugh at the stupid sameness of it all, lifting his head to look up at the sky, quickly darkening after sunset. they stayed at school late today – kate, to the library, to work on some banal, time-consuming essay; jd, to the library as well, for company -- if sitting next to her, rocking as far back in his wobbly wooden chair as he possibly can just because, reading aloud the lines from hamlet that he finds to be completely enlightening, and likely being distracting overall can be considered company.
well, at the very least, he's offered to walk kate home, which isn't entirely a new concept. the last dregs of the scorching texas summer and homecoming and all that other stupid shit seem pretty far away now that the temperature's settled down a little and jd's stopped looking as out of place in his dark trenchcoat. surprisingly enough, this school year's been ... not as bad as he'd expected, thanks to a few people, places, and/or things here and there. then again, his expectations of his return to texas had been utterly cataclysmic.
so maybe he's a little less focused on all of his raging inner turmoils. so maybe he has a friend or something now. so what. )
( 1/5 )
Gross.
( 2/5 )
Well, that depends.
( 3/5 )
What kind of daddy are we talking here? Like some creepy baby fetishist daddy, or like a sugar daddy that's gonna pay for all of my college loans? Or like a "son, go to your room and think about what you've done" daddy?
( 4/5 )
Wait, would this make the person in question Jesus in this scenario?
( 5/5 )
I have so many questions that need answering, Goodman.
Gross.
( 2/5 )
Well, that depends.
( 3/5 )
What kind of daddy are we talking here? Like some creepy baby fetishist daddy, or like a sugar daddy that's gonna pay for all of my college loans? Or like a "son, go to your room and think about what you've done" daddy?
( 4/5 )
Wait, would this make the person in question Jesus in this scenario?
( 5/5 )
I have so many questions that need answering, Goodman.
( two feet -- two fuckin' feet -- of snow in new haven. it's not that gideon even minds the snow, per se. snow doesn't really accumulate at sea so it isn't any different than dealing with rain. here, though, on land, in this capacity? at least in wallsend they'd only ever seen a few inches at a time. this is a little extreme, though he supposes that extreme is what america does best.
quinn's suggestion that they should go out and play in the snow draws quite the laugh from him until he realizes that she's being dead serious. his hesitations are met with accusations of being a boring old man, to which he staunchly disagrees. that's how gideon finds himself in the middle of the new haven green (though it's anything but green right now), somewhat inappropriately dressed for the weather in his hoodie and leather jacket and the knit cap tugged over his head. the bottoms of his trousers are already wet from traipsing through said mountains of snow to even get here in the first place, but it's not a totally unfamiliar feeling and thankfully his trusted boots have done their job well enough.
city buildings and the colleges and the like are decidedly closed, many local businesses deciding to follow suit. the snow brings a serene sort of quiet about the whole town, though the antics of children and children at heart who've decided to come here for some fun are anything but. gideon finds himself swept up in it all, a finely packed snowball already threatening to melt in his bare hand, but first he has to get his particular blonde target in sight before launching it, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, just having to hope that it doesn't actually hit a stray snowsuit-clad child as it coasts through the air and towards her. )
quinn's suggestion that they should go out and play in the snow draws quite the laugh from him until he realizes that she's being dead serious. his hesitations are met with accusations of being a boring old man, to which he staunchly disagrees. that's how gideon finds himself in the middle of the new haven green (though it's anything but green right now), somewhat inappropriately dressed for the weather in his hoodie and leather jacket and the knit cap tugged over his head. the bottoms of his trousers are already wet from traipsing through said mountains of snow to even get here in the first place, but it's not a totally unfamiliar feeling and thankfully his trusted boots have done their job well enough.
city buildings and the colleges and the like are decidedly closed, many local businesses deciding to follow suit. the snow brings a serene sort of quiet about the whole town, though the antics of children and children at heart who've decided to come here for some fun are anything but. gideon finds himself swept up in it all, a finely packed snowball already threatening to melt in his bare hand, but first he has to get his particular blonde target in sight before launching it, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, just having to hope that it doesn't actually hit a stray snowsuit-clad child as it coasts through the air and towards her. )
( the nights are always the hardest, when the baby and the boyfriend are both asleep and the house is silent. it won't last, people tell her. enjoy it while it does, the doctor says. he may sleep through the night now, but that's likely to change as he gets bigger, and then the chances of her managing to catch a little shut eye drop drastically. heather doesn't know how to tell any of them that she doesn't really sleep anyway.
during the day, life is one giant distraction. the restaurant is understanding, if not entirely accepting, of the change in her availability, and she's able to keep her daytime hours though it isn't without a fight. every morning she drops the baby off with will, or her mother, and tries to pretend like it doesn't feel as if she's dying a little bit each time she does.
there's the new apartment, still pretty barren, all things considered. the most important things have been put away, the kitchen is clean and she's got her clothes and everything else required to survive on a day to day basis, but the rest is still shoved in boxes stacked up in the living room and along the hallway. things she hasn't had the time or the energy (or both) to go through and attempt to find a place for. this place is smaller than the old house, which isn't actually saying much, and some days she's not entirely sure how they're going to fit. how they're going to make it work.
and kyle, he seems so badly to want to make it work. he tries to help as much as he can, changes diapers when heather's in the middle of making dinner and can't get to it, brings home takeout when he knows she's too drained to cook. on those rare days when she does manage to get some sleep, he rubs her back until she does, and he doesn't get upset (or at least hides it well) when she constantly brings up will. sometimes accidentally, sometime on purpose, but a day doesn't usually pass without him being brought up at least once. (a part of her life she couldn't let go of now even if she wanted to. ) he's sweet and wonderful, and anymore she doesn't know what to do with that. it's exactly what she wanted, but nowhere near how she wanted it.
the tiny apartment feels claustrophobic tonight. like the walls are closing in, and she struggles just to breathe. lays sleepless in the bed, shadows creeping slowly across the ceiling while kyle snores softly next to her. it's overwhelming, crushing, and before she can think better of it, she slips out from beneath the blankets. grabbing her cellphone from the nightstand and padding softly out to the living room, not bothering to turn on any of the lights. even the crap left where it was set down the day she moved in has been there long enough now that she can navigate without seeing. this is an awful idea. sleeping soundly in the bedroom is a boy who seems to really are about her and this sad, broken little family that he found, and if she were any sort of decent, she'd crawl back into the bed with him and give sleep another go. but heather isn't a good person, and there's only one person who's voice she's interested in hearing right now. the only person she knows who'll still be awake at 2:47 in the morning.
just so long as he doesn't see the number and choose to ignore the call. she wouldn't blame him if he did. )
( will doesn't know if he had ever expected him, johnny, and tunny to ever reunite, at least not here in jingletown. never really thought about what it might be like, for the trio that was once inseparable, to come together again after such a painful separation. if he had to hazard a guess, he figures the three of them would just... go back to normal. sit around at the 7-eleven and tell stories, talk shit, drink beer and smoke until everything is funny and nothing makes sense, like nothing had ever happened between them. but it isn't like that at all.
johnny's... johnny. he talks about how much game he had in the city, all the girls he had, all that shit, with his usual grand bravado. impresses his crowd of admirers in the parking lot, at least for the first few times they all try to hang out again. he's known the dude since he was five, though. knows when he's bullshitting. privately, will gathers that there's a lot more that happened in the city than johnny lets on, at least figures out (he thinks) that there was only really one girl, not the dozens he'd talked up. johnny has always been an antsy little shit as long as he's known him, but will sees how goddamn anxious he seems now, frantically looking over his shoulder sometimes like he's seen a ghost, the way his whole body seems to tremble which he thinks nobody's noticed. will asked him about it a grand total of one time, just wanted to know if he was okay, at least, and johnny shut him down, refuses to talk about it.
and tunny -- well, tunny's got his girl, his nurse, brought home with him from the middle of the fucking desert. he's seen how she acts around tunny, how she bristled off to the side when johnny tried pulling his usual antics when reunited with him, after tunny left him alone in the city or whatever. gave johnny a single warning glance when the two were formally introduced. tunny has always been the toughest, most guarded of the three of them, and seeing someone care so deeply about him -- rather, seeing him allow someone to care so deeply about him is a strange thing for will. the two of them pretty much seem to be in the honeymoon phase, despite the difficulties they have to overcome with their relationship. will doesn't want to interfere. doesn't want to seem so fucking bitter, or jealous of what they have, because he's not sure if he'd be able to keep it inside of himself.
right. heather. their relationship is ... tricky. he'd say nonexistent, but things have improved at least a little. they talk a little bit now, a trickle of light into his life after she left him, but it's mostly about their kid -- who, for the record, he is beginning to get used to. baby steps (hah), even though it's kind of too little too late at this point. she lets will watch him during the day sometimes, and even if it's probably only out of necessity because her mother can't or something, it's actually kind of okay. he's (almost) an expert at diaper-changing by now, even if he does prefer when the kid decides to spend the day asleep in his pop-up crib next to the couch to days when he's fussy and will has to attempt figuring out how to get him to calm down, trying to break himself of how awkward he feels sometimes when he cradles the baby in his arms.
the house is cold and lonely without him and heather and he hates it. absolutely hates it. can't even bear to sleep in their (yes, he still considers it theirs, despite everything) bedroom and has all but set up shop in the living room for good. the couch is familiar and, weirdly, one of the few constants left in his life. will lays there now, well-worn burnt orange blanket haphazardly pulled over his body, wide awake -- as per usual -- in the depths of the morning.
his phone buzzes on the coffee table, a constant sound, and he reaches lazily for it, sighing as he anticipates some drunk, rambling phone call from johnny when all he wants to do is try sleeping. instead, he sees her name -- heather's. he can't help but squint in disbelief, glance at the time, and back at the name again. he's definitely, definitely not drunk or high or a combination of the two, having some fucked up fantasy of heather calling him to beg for forgiveness for leaving, abandoning him like everyone seems to, to tell him that she's finally coming home...
no, no, she definitely wouldn't be calling right now -- at two-fucking-forty-seven in the morning -- if it wasn't serious. finally, he has the brilliant thought to brush his thumb over the "answer" button at probably the absolute last possible ring, shove his phone against his ear, hastily answer with a scratchy: ) Heather. Is everything okay with --
( simba (their initial joke of a name for their future unborn child while marathoning disney movies one night turned into a very, very real nickname). but he doesn't say it, just lets the unfinished question hang in the air between them. )
johnny's... johnny. he talks about how much game he had in the city, all the girls he had, all that shit, with his usual grand bravado. impresses his crowd of admirers in the parking lot, at least for the first few times they all try to hang out again. he's known the dude since he was five, though. knows when he's bullshitting. privately, will gathers that there's a lot more that happened in the city than johnny lets on, at least figures out (he thinks) that there was only really one girl, not the dozens he'd talked up. johnny has always been an antsy little shit as long as he's known him, but will sees how goddamn anxious he seems now, frantically looking over his shoulder sometimes like he's seen a ghost, the way his whole body seems to tremble which he thinks nobody's noticed. will asked him about it a grand total of one time, just wanted to know if he was okay, at least, and johnny shut him down, refuses to talk about it.
and tunny -- well, tunny's got his girl, his nurse, brought home with him from the middle of the fucking desert. he's seen how she acts around tunny, how she bristled off to the side when johnny tried pulling his usual antics when reunited with him, after tunny left him alone in the city or whatever. gave johnny a single warning glance when the two were formally introduced. tunny has always been the toughest, most guarded of the three of them, and seeing someone care so deeply about him -- rather, seeing him allow someone to care so deeply about him is a strange thing for will. the two of them pretty much seem to be in the honeymoon phase, despite the difficulties they have to overcome with their relationship. will doesn't want to interfere. doesn't want to seem so fucking bitter, or jealous of what they have, because he's not sure if he'd be able to keep it inside of himself.
right. heather. their relationship is ... tricky. he'd say nonexistent, but things have improved at least a little. they talk a little bit now, a trickle of light into his life after she left him, but it's mostly about their kid -- who, for the record, he is beginning to get used to. baby steps (hah), even though it's kind of too little too late at this point. she lets will watch him during the day sometimes, and even if it's probably only out of necessity because her mother can't or something, it's actually kind of okay. he's (almost) an expert at diaper-changing by now, even if he does prefer when the kid decides to spend the day asleep in his pop-up crib next to the couch to days when he's fussy and will has to attempt figuring out how to get him to calm down, trying to break himself of how awkward he feels sometimes when he cradles the baby in his arms.
the house is cold and lonely without him and heather and he hates it. absolutely hates it. can't even bear to sleep in their (yes, he still considers it theirs, despite everything) bedroom and has all but set up shop in the living room for good. the couch is familiar and, weirdly, one of the few constants left in his life. will lays there now, well-worn burnt orange blanket haphazardly pulled over his body, wide awake -- as per usual -- in the depths of the morning.
his phone buzzes on the coffee table, a constant sound, and he reaches lazily for it, sighing as he anticipates some drunk, rambling phone call from johnny when all he wants to do is try sleeping. instead, he sees her name -- heather's. he can't help but squint in disbelief, glance at the time, and back at the name again. he's definitely, definitely not drunk or high or a combination of the two, having some fucked up fantasy of heather calling him to beg for forgiveness for leaving, abandoning him like everyone seems to, to tell him that she's finally coming home...
no, no, she definitely wouldn't be calling right now -- at two-fucking-forty-seven in the morning -- if it wasn't serious. finally, he has the brilliant thought to brush his thumb over the "answer" button at probably the absolute last possible ring, shove his phone against his ear, hastily answer with a scratchy: ) Heather. Is everything okay with --
( simba (their initial joke of a name for their future unborn child while marathoning disney movies one night turned into a very, very real nickname). but he doesn't say it, just lets the unfinished question hang in the air between them. )
( winter is an odd time in the seafaring world, at least along the atlantic. it's not even the temperature of it –– rather, it's the unpredictability. there's ice, of course, but that isn't even one of their main concerns. overwhelming patches of fog so thick that one can't see their own hand in front of their face, appear out of nowhere, force stoppages in a voyage just as a precautionary measure. hurricanes occur along the southern coasts, cold, wet, and bringing a whole load of unexpected issues along with them.
ships themselves can be unpredictable, too. what was supposed to be a long weekend on land in america – a simple friday thru tuesday morning ordeal - ends up being much longer. a part of the cargo ship's bow was damaged during a particularly stormy voyage from the florida keys up to new haven, and it'll take some time to repair what with the ever-persistent winter making work conditions difficult for the workers here. all of the sailors were told that they should look for longer term accommodations, leave the old motel lifestyle behind for a few weeks.
gideon isn't sure what to make of it at first, really, too used to traveling from place to place so often he hardly knows where he is. ever since he left wallsend at fifteen, his soul's been completely and utterly restless. and yet...
he finds himself with a certain spring in his step when he returns to quinn's apartment to deliver the news. there's something in the way that she smiles, eyes all lit up when she hears that makes his heart jump. said heart will probably always belong to one meg dawson, but it doesn't stop this certain ... intrigue, he supposes, of his. he likely shouldn't even bother with all this, considering he will have to leave eventually, and there's the "age thing" that he'd rather do anything but discuss, but there is something about her, a magnetic quality, that he can't seem to shake. can't even seem to avert his eyes half the time, to be perfectly honest.
it's a saturday night, and they'd gone to a local pub earlier for a few pints and, okay, maybe a few shots, but it was hardly anything compared to the type of alcohol gideon fletcher can normally down on an average night out. he thinks himself buzzed at absolutely best, though his alcohol tolerance is fairly strong. they'd returned to quinn's apartment after a few hours, telling stories and laughing and generally having a good time.
that's how gideon finds himself here in quinn's bedroom -- a place he's only dared enter maybe three times in the days he's stayed here on her couch. now, though, he stands straight up, grins widely, flips a switch on the small stereo quinn has atop a dresser, allowing whatever the hell it is that she's got in that cd player of hers play. ) C'mon, Quinn. You've turned me down for a dance before, but your time has come. Time to face the music, love. And don't ya dare pull any of that "I'm no good" shite, because I know you're perfectly capable. Besides, it's only me we're talkin' here.
( he's never exactly been shy -- understatement of the century -- and he isn't about to start now. gideon extends a hand, lets his fingers ghost along her inner wrist and to her palm, featherlight and surprisingly gentle despite the roughness of his fingertips, and takes her hand within his own in a last ditch effort to get quinn to indulge him, if only for a few seconds. ) What do you say, mm?
ships themselves can be unpredictable, too. what was supposed to be a long weekend on land in america – a simple friday thru tuesday morning ordeal - ends up being much longer. a part of the cargo ship's bow was damaged during a particularly stormy voyage from the florida keys up to new haven, and it'll take some time to repair what with the ever-persistent winter making work conditions difficult for the workers here. all of the sailors were told that they should look for longer term accommodations, leave the old motel lifestyle behind for a few weeks.
gideon isn't sure what to make of it at first, really, too used to traveling from place to place so often he hardly knows where he is. ever since he left wallsend at fifteen, his soul's been completely and utterly restless. and yet...
he finds himself with a certain spring in his step when he returns to quinn's apartment to deliver the news. there's something in the way that she smiles, eyes all lit up when she hears that makes his heart jump. said heart will probably always belong to one meg dawson, but it doesn't stop this certain ... intrigue, he supposes, of his. he likely shouldn't even bother with all this, considering he will have to leave eventually, and there's the "age thing" that he'd rather do anything but discuss, but there is something about her, a magnetic quality, that he can't seem to shake. can't even seem to avert his eyes half the time, to be perfectly honest.
it's a saturday night, and they'd gone to a local pub earlier for a few pints and, okay, maybe a few shots, but it was hardly anything compared to the type of alcohol gideon fletcher can normally down on an average night out. he thinks himself buzzed at absolutely best, though his alcohol tolerance is fairly strong. they'd returned to quinn's apartment after a few hours, telling stories and laughing and generally having a good time.
that's how gideon finds himself here in quinn's bedroom -- a place he's only dared enter maybe three times in the days he's stayed here on her couch. now, though, he stands straight up, grins widely, flips a switch on the small stereo quinn has atop a dresser, allowing whatever the hell it is that she's got in that cd player of hers play. ) C'mon, Quinn. You've turned me down for a dance before, but your time has come. Time to face the music, love. And don't ya dare pull any of that "I'm no good" shite, because I know you're perfectly capable. Besides, it's only me we're talkin' here.
( he's never exactly been shy -- understatement of the century -- and he isn't about to start now. gideon extends a hand, lets his fingers ghost along her inner wrist and to her palm, featherlight and surprisingly gentle despite the roughness of his fingertips, and takes her hand within his own in a last ditch effort to get quinn to indulge him, if only for a few seconds. ) What do you say, mm?
( it's difficult to pinpoint the moment it became less about a sense of professionalism than it did a game of one-upping personal strangers. fans, even. gideon doesn't lack any small amount of talent, but his attention span leaves something to be desired, attentions constantly straying to every girl who catches his eye. which, it quickly becomes obvious, is every girl close enough to the stage for him to make out. winking suggestively, singing to them --or mouthing the words to them. it doesn't take her long to realize he rarely if ever truly sings--.
the attention and adoration of the fans is intoxicating. she understands that just as well as he does. wouldn't feel the need --much-- to hold the desire to revel in it against him if it weren't starting to cause disruptions in the show. the kinds of things their fans never seem to notice, but that grate at her each time. chords wrong or missed entirely. launching headlong into a completely different song, despite the fact that there's always a fresh and cleanly written set list at his feet. despite the fact that he wrote all of their songs, supposedly lived them all.
quinn yells after every show. yells and threatens, as if there's anything she can actually do to him other than yell some more.
it isn't selfish, she tells herself in the beginning. it's an experiment. when she struts onto the stage in a skirt that just barely covers the curve of her ass, a shirt that could only very charitably really be given that title, exposing far more skin than it covers, it's a power play. the first chord he misses, gaze heavy, boring into the back of her head, she practically stops mid-song to laugh. instead turns and flashes the same flirty little wink he's tossed to endless girls. throws herself into the performance with even more energy than before, all raspy voice and swiveling hips and a pleased little grin she couldn't wipe away if she tried.
maybe it wasn't a competition, but she's still pretty positive she just won.
or if she wasn't before, then she sure as shit is at the afterparty. waiting by the bar for her drink when he finally catches up to her --she had wondered how long it would take. practically beaming up at him, all sweetness and innocence, slightly tarnished by the fact that she's still wearing the same outfit from earlier. tight and black, faintly iridescent and almost sheer in places that it probably shouldn't be. the sort of outfit that would have made her former self, the president of the celibacy club and good little christian girl, faint on the spot. )
It was a great show tonight, wasn't it? ( she speaks up before he can get a word out. still playing her part, taking a little too much enjoyment from this particular role. ) The crowd was amazing. ( did he even notice? pathetically, selfishly, she hopes not. ) And you were really on fire out there.
( the first time it happens –- quinn catching him off guard -– really rattles gideon. yeah, he fucks up his chord, eyes too busy taking in the curve of her ass as that little skirt of hers swishes to and fro, brain too busy thinking about what lies underneath. he plays it off as nothing, as per usual, other than a little shake of his head to try to clear the mess of thoughts from his mind. even attempts to mouth along the lyrics to a song he doesn't actually sing or harmonize in, keep him focused on the task at hand.
it's the wink nearly sends him straight over the edge, straight into nothing short of ripping the strap of his guitar over his head and letting the instrument clatter to the stage uselessly, straight into kissing her fearlessly, body pressing against hers in front of this whole fucking crowd of people. -- right, the people. the fans. he can hardly see them tonight -- can hardly see anything but quinn fabray. can't think of much else, either -- certainly not some bloody set list even as it lies at his feet, clear as day. he tries, again, to compose himself, wipes the sweat from his brow that must be more from the heavy stage lights than anything with his forearm, rolls up his sleeves, ready to get down to business.
except then he launches headlong into the completely wrong song, one that isn't supposed to happen until second to last, according to the perfectly printed list he's inadvertently chosen to ignore, letting the fast-paced opening chords fly from his calloused fingers so hard he feels the tip of the plectrum clenched between his thumb and index finger splinter right off. it takes their tour drummer only a split second to realize what's happening and catch up with gideon, their bassist following suit only half a moment after. truthfully, they're really fucking lucky that they found two musicians who have their shit together, at least more than his ass does.
the show, as a whole, is kind of a mess for him. feels more like an exercise in self-control, honestly, which is something that gideon possesses very little of. when they're finished with their last encore, his bow is hardly more than a nod of his head before he practically flees the stage with his tail between his legs, relieved as all hell that it's over.
well, the show may be over, but his torment is not, considering when he finally rolls up to the afterparty, alone for a change, the first thing is hones in on -- despite the crowd and the bar and the music -- is quinn, still looking absolutely beyond in that tiny outfit of hers. )
I was absolute shit tonight. ( putting himself down? certainly a rarity, coming from gideon's mouth, punctuated by a harsh sip from his bottle of beer, immediately handed to him when he walked through the door. he finds his eyes darting to the hem of her skirt, high up against the smooth skin of her thigh, and it's probably far too obvious for his own good. fucking hell.
in a feeble attempt at composing himself for the third time this evening, he forces himself to glance elsewhere, decides to stand next to her instead of in front of, leans his elbows back against the bar, slouches with some vague resemblance to his usual confident swagger. looks straight ahead when he speaks again, otherwise he just knows that his mind will wander to that sheer red shrug that does nothing but accentuate the way that fucking top of hers pushes her breasts up, tantalizing, and just how much he'd like to rip it off of her, fingers carelessly tearing through its thin fabric.
... what was that about his mind wandering? ) Glad it's over.
it's the wink nearly sends him straight over the edge, straight into nothing short of ripping the strap of his guitar over his head and letting the instrument clatter to the stage uselessly, straight into kissing her fearlessly, body pressing against hers in front of this whole fucking crowd of people. -- right, the people. the fans. he can hardly see them tonight -- can hardly see anything but quinn fabray. can't think of much else, either -- certainly not some bloody set list even as it lies at his feet, clear as day. he tries, again, to compose himself, wipes the sweat from his brow that must be more from the heavy stage lights than anything with his forearm, rolls up his sleeves, ready to get down to business.
except then he launches headlong into the completely wrong song, one that isn't supposed to happen until second to last, according to the perfectly printed list he's inadvertently chosen to ignore, letting the fast-paced opening chords fly from his calloused fingers so hard he feels the tip of the plectrum clenched between his thumb and index finger splinter right off. it takes their tour drummer only a split second to realize what's happening and catch up with gideon, their bassist following suit only half a moment after. truthfully, they're really fucking lucky that they found two musicians who have their shit together, at least more than his ass does.
the show, as a whole, is kind of a mess for him. feels more like an exercise in self-control, honestly, which is something that gideon possesses very little of. when they're finished with their last encore, his bow is hardly more than a nod of his head before he practically flees the stage with his tail between his legs, relieved as all hell that it's over.
well, the show may be over, but his torment is not, considering when he finally rolls up to the afterparty, alone for a change, the first thing is hones in on -- despite the crowd and the bar and the music -- is quinn, still looking absolutely beyond in that tiny outfit of hers. )
I was absolute shit tonight. ( putting himself down? certainly a rarity, coming from gideon's mouth, punctuated by a harsh sip from his bottle of beer, immediately handed to him when he walked through the door. he finds his eyes darting to the hem of her skirt, high up against the smooth skin of her thigh, and it's probably far too obvious for his own good. fucking hell.
in a feeble attempt at composing himself for the third time this evening, he forces himself to glance elsewhere, decides to stand next to her instead of in front of, leans his elbows back against the bar, slouches with some vague resemblance to his usual confident swagger. looks straight ahead when he speaks again, otherwise he just knows that his mind will wander to that sheer red shrug that does nothing but accentuate the way that fucking top of hers pushes her breasts up, tantalizing, and just how much he'd like to rip it off of her, fingers carelessly tearing through its thin fabric.
... what was that about his mind wandering? ) Glad it's over.
( it isn't an especially inspired idea as far as photoshoots go, but that way that everyone reacts when she steps onto the set for the first time, in a heightened version of what was already a highly sexualized outfit (god bless the perv that invented these), one might be forgiven for thinking otherwise. a former high school cheerleading captain posing as gasp a high school cheerleader. it may just as well be the height of creativity for the way people talk. hair and makeup people constantly trailing after her, finding some new flaw to correct each time she so much as blinks or turns her head.
this must bring back so many memories for you is proclaimed loudly and repeatedly by so may people that she begins to wonder if the intent behind them isn't a bit of a jab. you aren't getting any younger, you know. she smiles, polite and democratic. tells them it's just like walking back into mckinley. somehow resists the urge to roll her eyes and point out everything that's wrong with the wardrobe they've chosen for her. all of which, when put together, barely consists of enough fabric to make an actual outfit.
it's the first real photoshoot she's done on her own, and while it doesn't bother her, it's disconcerting not to have him by her side. makes things feel just a little unbalanced when she's in front of the camera, blinded by the rapid flash, adapting to each shouted command and switching easily from sultry and mysterious to the wild child schoolgirl that, she can't help thinking, only really appeals to middle aged men who don't remember what high school was actually like. hangs on the handsome model hired as the quarterback stand in (every captain needs her quarterback, after all) just like she used to with finn and sam. laughs at every charming little thing he never actually says, flirty glances and smiles that are not so much high school innocence as janitor's closet makeout sessions, and kisses his cheek so much that lipstick has to be reapplied every few minutes.
in between set ups, whether he's awake to see them or not, a flurry of text messages are sent his way. the only true sign of exactly how out of place she feels underneath the quiet confidence. )
How exactly did you get out of this again?
If one more person mentions the "glory days" I might actually kill someone.
Are you actually ignoring me, or are you still just passed out?
Seriously, it's 2pm, you can't still be asleep.
You could come keep me company and help prevent a possible murder.
What else do you have to do today?
Believe it or not I was actually doing this little thing called "writing" until this bloody phone of mine started buzzing fifty times in a minute.
I can't reveal how but I got out of it so why would I want to subject myself to that on my day off?
Besides it sounds like you're having quite a time without me, love. ;)
( which are sent not too long after hers, despite the mild complaints that she'd -- god forbid -- interrupted gideon working. truthfully, he's been staring at a notebook page that's blank, save for its light blue horizontal lines, for the past hour or so. maybe it's because he's vaguely hungover -- which which is kind of a surprise to him, considering his usual tolerance level for them, regardless of however much or little he drinks the night before. maybe he's simply run himself dry; there's only so many times a person can compare their heart to the raging tides of the sea, after all.
maybe he just needs to get the fuck off of this disproportionately small couch fit into the wall of their tour bus.
so, despite his protestations, that's how he ends up at quinn's shoot all of ten minutes later, walks onto set ever so casually with his notebook in hand. arrives with the mindset that a fresh environment will offer new inspiration, plus he'll be able to make quinn happy, on top of that. there's something to be said for efficiency, right? killing two birds with one stone, or something like that?
which was a nice thought, initially, as he comes to the realization that quinn must already be back to work, deciding to plant his ass in the fold out chair nearby that he can only assume is meant to be hers and opening his notebook purposefully in his lap. finally, he glances up, decides to wordlessly give her a hello, some indication that he's here, only to stop dead as he takes in the scene that unfolds before the camera: quinn, some tiny fucking cheerleader uniform clinging to her body in all the right places, practically wrapped around some male model clad in typical american footballer gear, looking more stereotypically beautiful than manly. he swallows hard, pretends internally that he can't see a peek of her ass beneath her skirt as quinn wraps a leg around the model's waist, presses a deep red kiss to his chiseled face.
now, gideon hardly had an eye for the few cheerleaders that roamed the halls of his school when he was a kid, having had far too much of a one-track mind in regards to a certain redhead, but now? he can damn well understand the appeal, especially when they're dressed like this. perhaps it's the middle aged man in him talking.
so much for writing. )
I can't reveal how but I got out of it so why would I want to subject myself to that on my day off?
Besides it sounds like you're having quite a time without me, love. ;)
( which are sent not too long after hers, despite the mild complaints that she'd -- god forbid -- interrupted gideon working. truthfully, he's been staring at a notebook page that's blank, save for its light blue horizontal lines, for the past hour or so. maybe it's because he's vaguely hungover -- which which is kind of a surprise to him, considering his usual tolerance level for them, regardless of however much or little he drinks the night before. maybe he's simply run himself dry; there's only so many times a person can compare their heart to the raging tides of the sea, after all.
maybe he just needs to get the fuck off of this disproportionately small couch fit into the wall of their tour bus.
so, despite his protestations, that's how he ends up at quinn's shoot all of ten minutes later, walks onto set ever so casually with his notebook in hand. arrives with the mindset that a fresh environment will offer new inspiration, plus he'll be able to make quinn happy, on top of that. there's something to be said for efficiency, right? killing two birds with one stone, or something like that?
which was a nice thought, initially, as he comes to the realization that quinn must already be back to work, deciding to plant his ass in the fold out chair nearby that he can only assume is meant to be hers and opening his notebook purposefully in his lap. finally, he glances up, decides to wordlessly give her a hello, some indication that he's here, only to stop dead as he takes in the scene that unfolds before the camera: quinn, some tiny fucking cheerleader uniform clinging to her body in all the right places, practically wrapped around some male model clad in typical american footballer gear, looking more stereotypically beautiful than manly. he swallows hard, pretends internally that he can't see a peek of her ass beneath her skirt as quinn wraps a leg around the model's waist, presses a deep red kiss to his chiseled face.
now, gideon hardly had an eye for the few cheerleaders that roamed the halls of his school when he was a kid, having had far too much of a one-track mind in regards to a certain redhead, but now? he can damn well understand the appeal, especially when they're dressed like this. perhaps it's the middle aged man in him talking.
so much for writing. )
( it's like being punched in the stomach without any sort of warning. all the air leaves her lungs in a heavy rush and she can only stare, wide eyed and jaw clenched. her brain, and any faint hope of diffusing the situation or playing it off as the pathetic lie of some insignificant someone from her former life, bursting into a static haze in her head. one name, that's all it takes. harmless and seemingly inconsequential, but as the reporter's scarlet painted lips turn upwards (gotcha!) quinn is suddenly back in high school. standing in the hall and clinging to her boyfriend's letterman jacket, sobbing into his chest while he whispers --without any real feeling-- that everything is going to be okay and people who, just that morning, viewed her as the undisputed queen bitch, worshiped and adored, now went out of their way to avoid getting too close. as if pregnancy were a disease that could be spread through simple contact. )
W-what did you you say? ( timid and entirely unlike her. quinn fabray is a rock star, overconfident nearly to a fault --at least to the public eye--, but underneath the bravado and barely there stage outfits, she is still sad little lucy, alone on the playground. )
Is that wrong? ( the woman sitting across from them asks, with an arched brow and smug superiority that says she knows it isn't. ) We've heard from several sources, all very reliable, that you had a child in high school. A little girl, I believe. ( she peers at her paperwork, squints and flips through pages of her notepad while quinn practically comes out of her skin. clings to the arms of her chair, the only thing holding her in place, too numb even to reach for his hand, though she can feel him next to her. every time his gaze shifts back to her. can't bring herself to look at him for fear she might lose the small semblance of control she's still somehow managing to maintain. for now. ) It's Beth, isn't it?
( another blow to the stomach, and this time she nearly doubles over. has to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek just to stave off the tears threatening to well in her eyes. an instinct reaction, and one she hasn't had since high school. some things never change. ) That's right, our sources tell us- ( but she doesn't wait around this time, to find out what's being said. doesn't even think to question who exactly these trusted sources are. puck, shelby, jacob ben israel. it doesn't matter.
there's no hope now of saving face, the damage has been done and the story is going to run no matter what she says about it. the only thing she can do now is end it before things get worse. before the story turns into one about a sobbing wreck of a girl. not a bold, strong woman but an empty shell. a child having her own child and never managing to grow up, breaking down and weeping at the sound of her little girl's name. no, her dignity may have taken a pretty fair beating in the last few minutes, but she has more than enough to push herself out of the chair without a word of explanation, though it takes all her willpower to walk out calmly instead of bolting for the door, which is what she truly wants to do. she walks with her chin held high. a faint attempt to mask the fact that she's crumbling inside.
walks without slowing, or glancing behind her. carefully focuses on each measured step and mentally tries to calculate how far away the door is, how long it will take to reach the safety of the bus where she can finally allow herself to break. 100 feet? 200 feet? a pointless exercise maybe, but it gives her something else to focus on. a goal she can accomplish, even with her mind scattered, as it is, to a million different places.
just make it to the bus, and everything will be okay. make it to the bus, and she can figure this out. )
W-what did you you say? ( timid and entirely unlike her. quinn fabray is a rock star, overconfident nearly to a fault --at least to the public eye--, but underneath the bravado and barely there stage outfits, she is still sad little lucy, alone on the playground. )
Is that wrong? ( the woman sitting across from them asks, with an arched brow and smug superiority that says she knows it isn't. ) We've heard from several sources, all very reliable, that you had a child in high school. A little girl, I believe. ( she peers at her paperwork, squints and flips through pages of her notepad while quinn practically comes out of her skin. clings to the arms of her chair, the only thing holding her in place, too numb even to reach for his hand, though she can feel him next to her. every time his gaze shifts back to her. can't bring herself to look at him for fear she might lose the small semblance of control she's still somehow managing to maintain. for now. ) It's Beth, isn't it?
( another blow to the stomach, and this time she nearly doubles over. has to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek just to stave off the tears threatening to well in her eyes. an instinct reaction, and one she hasn't had since high school. some things never change. ) That's right, our sources tell us- ( but she doesn't wait around this time, to find out what's being said. doesn't even think to question who exactly these trusted sources are. puck, shelby, jacob ben israel. it doesn't matter.
there's no hope now of saving face, the damage has been done and the story is going to run no matter what she says about it. the only thing she can do now is end it before things get worse. before the story turns into one about a sobbing wreck of a girl. not a bold, strong woman but an empty shell. a child having her own child and never managing to grow up, breaking down and weeping at the sound of her little girl's name. no, her dignity may have taken a pretty fair beating in the last few minutes, but she has more than enough to push herself out of the chair without a word of explanation, though it takes all her willpower to walk out calmly instead of bolting for the door, which is what she truly wants to do. she walks with her chin held high. a faint attempt to mask the fact that she's crumbling inside.
walks without slowing, or glancing behind her. carefully focuses on each measured step and mentally tries to calculate how far away the door is, how long it will take to reach the safety of the bus where she can finally allow herself to break. 100 feet? 200 feet? a pointless exercise maybe, but it gives her something else to focus on. a goal she can accomplish, even with her mind scattered, as it is, to a million different places.
just make it to the bus, and everything will be okay. make it to the bus, and she can figure this out. )
Edited (anyway, here's wonderwall) 2015-03-27 04:00 (UTC)
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