fervencys

[fervencys]

continued from here. 

"   i mean, who is robbing a bank really harming?   "   she challenges, half because she thinks it and half because she wants to sound philosophical and interesting. insecurity chews at the soul of all but the most confident outcasts, and hayden was no exception. and she was no beacon of confidence either. she wants to believe it's for a reason, or at least, wants keller to believe it's for a reason, that she's an outcast in the first place. cool, smart, above it all. that, among the usual numbness, can sometimes lead to placidity   —   but here in the library with him, she perks up slightly. "   it's not like, a carjacking or something. stealing someone's grandma's expensive pearls. isn't it better that they're prepared? one psycho with a gun is way more likely to shoot a civillian than a practiced team.   "   she wonders, briefly, if he'll find the challenge annoying, grating. but curiosity is more important than anything else, even the feelings for keller marshall she's desperately trying to repress:   "   you're a fan of his, though, right? spider-man?   "   

[fervencys]

he scoffs. every hour with scarlett atkins is amateur hour   —   she's bright, and determined, not that he'd ever give her that inch. he doesn't want to in the first place, and he knows she'll take a mile.   "    really? coulda fooled me. you know, with daddy gone and all.   "   it's not precisely blackmail, because they'd both go down with that sinking ship. really, it's just taunting, frustrated  —    dick measured short. 

continuation from discord.

HE’S A NOBODY.   nobody that matters, nobody that she has to prove herself to   …   and still he presents himself as A SOMEBODY.   if not through his own volition then through hers.   because she cares   —-   not so much what he thinks of her   …   but what he believes her to be capable of.   SHE’S SO MUCH MORE:   than an ivy league graduate or a trust - fund brat.   and it’s an infuriating dick - measuring contest she’s found herself in. 

     “   you’re the one who brought it up, tony montana.   ”     she counters, exasperation in her tone.   although in the presence of him, it was a constant.     “   things are going fine.   if they didn’t, you’d be the first to know.   really, luka   —   i don’t need a babysitter.   ”

[fervencys]

continued from here.

"   my lips are sealed. promise.   "   he means it, the way andy always means promises, completely and truly. he knows, logically, that hebarelyknows her, and likely will never get the chance to namedrop france around her mother   —   but usually, andy is either making promises for his father, that he'll work harder, for the team, that he'll win, to his teachers he'll get his grades up. it feels nice to have a promise he wants to give, even if it's to a pretty girl at the drive in that andy barely knows.  of course, they know one another in the way everyone in small towns knows one another. but now, he can take france and ring pops and not liking war and being bad at dodgeball and tuck them into his pocket, to remember about her.  "   guess i don't really see the glory in stuff like that.   "   he grimaces at the idea of it all: enlistments, battlefields, bragging about mowing down the other side. he also thinks glory is the type of word that might impress her, and he sneaks a shy glance just to check.  and then he starts talking and can't stop, eyes nervously following the bored fellow youth that lazily scooped popcorn into a bucket for another patron.   "   best place to win at something is sports, you know? on the field. whatever you play. you've got two sides. and a whole bunch of people fighting for something. but at the end of the day  —   if it gets real rough, you break a bone, maybe. knock someone on the head a little too hard or something. but mostly, everyone goes home okay.   "   great, andy, make it all about football, like she doesn't already think you're a brute.  his eyes flutter down to the ring pop again, and he quickly hands the money to the cashier for the soda and the candy.   "   what is it? um, that makes you like... france's revolution, i mean.   "   note to self: go to the library and look up the french revolution. 

[fervencys]

he can tell she's being dishonest. he just isn't sure why. it strikes him first as stupid that he cares   —   that he wonders about her, and wonders even more why she stops short of confession. he tells himself it's because he's worried what else she might be lying about, tha this back stiffens and he quiets, but he accepts it, for once, without challenging her. it's easier if there's still assumed trust. not beau to letha, of course, not now: but at least, that letha thought there was something tentative and shared.   "   your dad. all that shit.   "   his family.   "   i don't even really fucking know all about it, to be honest with you. least not how it looks from your perspective.   "

it's different, she thinks, but the argument is caught in her throat, held back by beau's probing, albeit innocuous, follow ups. he dump you or something? if only it were so simple. but years worth of reassurances promise her that it's not … her fault, or about her at all. she never could decide if that made it worse. like, he gave her no thought whatsoever. her whole existence so insignificant and light it didn't sway his decision, if even a little bit.

  〝 no, he — 〞 letha is no liar. but she digs her own grave bringing up the past. because she's never been able to talk about it, earnestly or not, and it's the only reason she's sitting there … in front of a boy could not be a bigger contrast, almost forgetting that she's meant to still be grieving.

 〝 i moved. someone had to take care of pops, and that someone ended up being me.  〞 a half truth at best, a white lie at worst.  〝 a complete non event.  〞

[fervencys]

"    we've got ocean on our side the whole way down. what's special about this ocean?   "   beau is not so sure if it's genuine curiosity, a desire for understanding, or a desire to find a hole in any logic she presents to him, or both  —   though he has the sinking feeling they're tangled together. so much about letha confused him: where her passions lied, her allegiances, the fact that in spite of them she still recruited his help. it creates the burn of a remembered bruised eye, and a burn of something else in the pit of his stomach, an inkling that maybe the world around him is not so cut in dry into the haves and havenots as he's been lead. letha, at least, certainly had something.   "   unless it's about the guy by the ocean. he dump you or something? spend too much time canoodling the gators?   "

he laughs, and she believes it to be a first. one in a series of many. he should do it more often: it suits him better than that judgmental scowl, letha notes, to no one but herself. still … cheeks flush, and ears grow hot. she looks away. if she hadn't, she might have to acknowledge the elephant in the room. he's cute, too.

  〝 the ocean. 〞

a shrug, often practiced indifference on full display. she wasn't blushing, just preoccupied with the stack on her plate.

  〝 and no, there's no boyfriend. 〞 it sounds pathetic the way she says it. as if he'd really thought there was and she needed to set the record straight. of course he didn't, though. instead, he poses it like a joke: like, yeah, right. no way anybody would put up with her. its a feeling of inferiority, and a bruised ego, that pushes her one step further. 〝 anymore. 〞

[fervencys]

"   Wake up your fucking old man!   "   He shouts, loud enough to wake up the sleeping patriarch himself   —   but of course, not loud enough to alert anyone outside of the home, though stately as it is\ that might prove difficult. Despite his own protestations that he's not an intellectual, and likely the woman before him's complaints in the same vein, Luka isn't an idiot.

He knows what he's doing. 

"   And hurry! Before I'm down two bullets.   "   A shrug of his shoulder, and he reemphasizes the position of his gun, natural, in his hand now, a far cry from days where it felt like a prop in his hand, unnatural. Now it was like an extension of him, violence was, at least, even if he wanted to believe, deep down, it wasn't an intrinsic part of him. It wasn't like he sought to bring pain to others for pain's sake. Nevertheless: it was a symptom of the world he had found himself in, and when it truly came down to the nitty gritty morals of it all   —   if someone has to suffer, better anyone else than he. 

At least this time, he was being paid as handsomely as one could. 

continuation from here.

despite the rebuff, scarlett's determined to get the ending she deserves. after years of her father's neglect, and of his abuse, she's earned this. and she's owed her money's worth. an agatha christie - type ending to her new beginning. the plot twist of the century, the betrayal of a lifetime. she deserves to see the look in ray atkins' eyes as the truth is revealed, and she deserves to see his light go out with it.

    action.

a director's cue, scarlett plays the role of damsel. stumbling back, she makes a point of landing with a thump. years of athletics, cheerleading and gymnastics, have prepared her for hard falls, still she feels a bruise coming along. another piece of evidence to later back up her story.

  “ please, ” she pleads, moving away from her gun for hire, she presses up against the footboard of ray's bed. and through years of practice, scarlett's vision blurs, the salt of faux tears burning doe eyes. “ please, don't hurt me. ”

[fervencys]

he laughs: he can't help it, and he almost regrets it because they're almost, almost really and truly getting along. though he supposes an instinctive guffaw at the suggestion that beauregard rochester would ever step foot in pensacola is, at least based on this conversation, something she can expect from both beau on bad terms and beau on... whatever terms they're on now. he's not sure, and he ignores that he's not sure.

"   what the hell's even in pensacola?   "   it's a genuine question as much as it is a barb: maybe it's because they're so different    (   and both of them would be the first to tell you, thank you very much.  )   he finds himself drawn to the little idiosyncrasies that made her tick. drawn how, he isn't sure: but still. the knowledge is wanted.   "   secret boyfriend? more gators?   "

she rolls her eyes,

  of course he does.

in contrast, letha lacks the table manners to match. too preoccupied by her rumbling stomach to notice, and once pointed out, she feels her ears growing hot.

  〝 oh, 〞 instinctively, she wipes it off with the back of her hand. then, remembering the company she's in, letha reaches for a tissue. 〝 thanks. 〞

any other day and she wouldn't have cared. not enough to clean up, anyway. in fact, she would've gone overboard in response. much like a child. eating like one, and behaving like one, too. today's different, and she can't decide whether it's good or bad. itching for a topic change: she lets her plate rest, instead satiating her hunger with some water.

  〝 you ever been to pensacola before? 〞

[fervencys]

“   Maybe a delicacy to people who have never had good food before.   “   He crinkles his nose in almost instinctive disgust   —   he knows that they’re very French, and according to Letha, very southern, but his fancier tastes revolved less around actual delicacies and more about overpriced   (   and/or Michelin starred   )   classics. 

“   I eat caviar.   “   Beau does not, in fact, eat caviar, but the way she’s giggling is practically giving him war flashbacks to dinner parties and obligations to finish his plate. For most children, the subject of their ire was brussel sprouts or over-cooked chicken. For Beau, it was foie gras. 

But here, in this greasy roadside stop, he eats, a little surprised and more than a little embarrassed by how much he enjoys it. Even more horrifying: how much he enjoys her company, even if she’s chewing with her mouth full. Even the most distasteful and impolite things can be charming in the hands of the right person   —    and Beau really doesn’t want to consider whether or not Letha is one of them. Instead, he settles on brows raised in half-baked attentiveness toward her, accompanied by a gesture of the hand.   “   You’ve got syrup on your chin.   “

an insult spoken and for once, letha lacks the offence. perhaps it's the stack of pancakes set down before her, making her tummy rumble something awful, or perhaps it's progress of some kind. not that she'd dare call it that. progress indicates a desire to get somewhere—and letha newman did not wanna get anywhere with the boy at the other end of the booth. plus, it'd be jinxing it.

  “ you've never had frog legs before ?  ”  although her surprise is insincere , her judgment is not. “ it's a southern delicacy ! ”

she's only half - kidding. personally, letha's had them plenty—back when gramps was lucid, only in a way that didn't exactly scream luxury. she keeps her granddaughter-grandfather camping adventures to herself.

  “ first, you tell me no mushrooms. then, no cuisses de grenouille. what's next, no caviar ?  ” a mouth full of syrupy goodness, she goes on. “ are you sure you come from money ?  ”

[fervencys]

" They're not khakis. " They were, at the very least, khaki adjacent. " But you're right. I'm sure as fuck not frog hunting. " He says it as if Letha has just suggested he shit in his hands and clap, or stripped down to streak in front of her and the diners. Okay, one other diner. Plates are set in front of them, their food greasy and so hot steam is still coming off of it, and he carefully passes Letha the carafe of syrup for her pile of pancakes, a baby step to general decency between them. If the rapport remains friendly, they might even agree to something to put on the radio. " If you see any sign that says live bait while we drive, we can stop and get you and your friends a snack. " Words lack characteristic bite, even as their content is mean. It's almost jestful.

letha had always done better with animals. and kids. but they were sort of like animals, in a way. small, wild, unable to communicate their snack preferences. people, she was less interested in. it made her current occupation a downgrade. but at least she's getting paid to lounge out in the sun: sunscreen on cherub cheeks, sand sticking to tanned legs.

  “ because you're such an expert.  ” she argues but her tone remains light.   “ very likely. usually, they stay with the momma 'round two years. but because of those asshole poachers … not an option. ”

if letha had known who was responsible for orphaning the hatchlings, their day would've looked a lot different. still finding them a home, with a slight detour to slash some tires. though she doubts beauregaurd rochester would've been down with playing vigilante, let alone with her.

  “ trust me, they're a lot safer with us than out there. ” a pause, she sizes him up.  “ but we should probably see if there's a bait shop on the way. i would suggest saving a buck 'nd going frog hunting but i'm guessing that's not bougie enough for you. wouldn't wanna get your khakis wet. ”

[fervencys]

“   didn’t say you were.    “   thought it, maybe, but even then, not really. he hadn’t envisioned real employment, but her dedication to protecting the gators and the knowledge she’d already shown made it easier to imagine her pouring over books or spending all day at some kind of sanctuary, even if just as a guest. beau wished he was passionate about something, something like that   —   though he’d not admit it to himself, half-ashamed of his own cowardice, he thinks he prefers the passion she has over that of his father and grandfather and all the ones before him. the kind that fuels hate.

yeah, he thinks. he likes the gators better.

“   what the likelihood any of them make it to this friend of yours at the sanctuary anyway?   “   maybe he should have asked that before they left. the waitress approaches, takes the orders they’d already confessed to one another, and he continues, maybe only speaking to himself.   “   you seem... out of practice.   “

continuation from this.

like a fish out of water, letha flounders: unsure of her next move, following her gut as oxygen cuts off. it's a theatrical way to describe this " hang out, " but anything entailing beau rochester is bound to be.

  “ little late for that. ” a shrug.

all bark, no bite - he's always been that way. then again, so has she. a constant bickering, leading nowhere. if you discount the day she'd broken his nose, allegedly. she hadn't meant to bite, then. only wanted to. suppose mind and body are more in tune than she'd thought. still, this bark didn't startle. if she could even call it that.

  “ worked at a rescue back on the coast. ” she admits, a fact not kept from him but not eagerly disclosed either. not much about herself is. “ i'm not jus' winging it, you know. ”

[fervencys]

NEWMAN, LETHA.

it’s embarrassing, how quickly a smile creeps up on her face. a genuine, too. and not brought forth by petty banter, or a soaked beauregard at the summer fair, but how seems to know her so well after all. 

      “  lucky guess.  ”   downplaying the accomplishment, she leans back in her seat.   “  but no bacon this time. not for me anyway.  ”   finishing, she cocks her head towards the truck, and it’s bed of baby alligators. 

still stuck on his words, beau made it impossible not to make note of. because the menu was bountiful, and she was no stranger. a lucky guess would require either, she believes. leaving her wondering, cheesing, and playing with the hair tie circling her wrist. 

     “  what was the half-credit for?  ”

He shrugs: there’s a amusement there, surely, though vaguer than hers. But it’s the kind that makes him think maybe being with Letha Newman for more than five seconds isn’t the sort of teeth-pulling is preferable type of excursion he’s made it out to be. He wouldn’t admit it: not to her, and not even to himself, not now. But in the moment, he can look at her grin and appreciate it, for the way it lights up her face, narrowing her eyes slightly and rounding out her cheeks, colored pink & freckled by the sun. If it had been anyone but Letha, Beau might’ve thought she looked pretty.

“   I get an omelette. Ham & tomato.   ”   He says.   “   Everything else, I wouldn’t go into investigative work, let’s just say that.   ”   He looks outside, at the alligators, before back at Letha. Still a barb, but one considerably less jagged, a thin thread of good nature streaking through:   “   Or conservation.   ”

[fervencys]

NEWMAN, LETHA.

unlike him, letha’s mood isn’t easily soured by dingy diners and dirt roads. for her, the sticks are a place of comfort — reminding her of childhood escapades and hunting with her grandfather (back when he was in a state to). there’s a modicum of guilt at leaving him on his own, even as their closest neighbour and her niece are at his beck and call. but she hasn’t been out of eden since abandoned at his door step. she needed this. even if the company was to debated. 

     “   s’long as they have food.   ”

pushing the door open, welcoming bells rattle above. there’s a waitress at the counter, and a trucker at its edge. but beside them, and what she suspects is an overworked cook in the back, the diner seems desolate. having her pick of the litter, she then chooses a booth at its centre. it’s clean enough, and the waitress stops by within moments. letha, smiling brightly, an expression rare in the presence of beau rochester, accepts menus with a sunny thank you, ma’am. one handed to him, and her own set down on the table, tanned arms fold atop of it. 

      “   let me guess… two french toast, with canadian bacon. a mushroom omelette. aaand coffee, black.   ”

He’s almost sullen, that the plans worked out, that they’re now stuck here, though the pain of hunger wrings his stomach   —   he remembers to grumble a thank you when the waitress gives them their menus, and then shoots Letha a look as she attempts to analyze his order.   “   Wrong. Wrong. Half-credit, and wrong.   ”   He doesn’t recite his order, instead studying her for a moment, before placing his own bets.   “   Pancakes, blueberries and chocolate chips. Two eggs, sunny side up, with extra crispy bacon when you’re alone and don’t feel like saving the planet that day. Coffee, cream and sugar.   ”

[fervencys]

LETHA.

it’s going to be a long ride.   but she gets in the car nonetheless   —   strapping herself in as continues their banter.   one thing she could always count on.   and strangely, a comfort.   in the life of letha newman, few things stuck around   —   people even less.   so between the runaway mother and the absent father, it was nice to know there was something that’d stick.   even if that something was beau rochester.

    “   caught me.   i try to designate at least two hours of my every day to practice absolutely annihilating you in a battle of wits.   you think that one’s good?   just wait ‘till we’re on the road.   i got a couple great ones up my sleeve   …   but they kinda require us to pass one or two roadkill.   opossums, preferably.   you know, observational humour.   ”

unfortunately the statement bordered on true.   more than a couple of times she’d been caught arguing with herself   —   the little voice in her head an inadequate stand-in for beau.   and every point made absolute by the time they meet again.   it was a decent pastime, though.

    “   y’mind if we stop for a bite?   i’m buying.   ”

“   If you’re that fucking desperate to spend more time with me.   ”   He mutters, annoyance laced in his tone. But he hits his turn signal nonetheless, and soon they’re down a tiny road, one he doesn’t recognize. And why would he? There’s in hick country now   (read: anything but a well-to-do suburb, at least according to Beau)   and the dinky sign that says DINER, half-worn off, and pointing down the winding street is a far cry from Michelin stars and months on months out reservations.

“   This good enough for you, Newman?   ”   He asks, and though voice is similarly seemingly exhausted with her presence, the fact that it’s not some quip on class or an assumed familiarity because of it is effort enough exerted to be nice. Nicer. He’s still Beau, she’s still Letha. But it’s a start, or a start to a start.

The car rolls to a stop outside the building, where only two other cars, both worn, sit int he dusty excuse for a parking lot. He’s hungry too, though he won’t admit it, even if Beau can’t remember the last time he’d scarfed down a greasy burger, especially not stone cold sober. He peers at the peeled paint on the door, and though there’s a red and white paper sign flipped in the door’s window to indicate it’s so, he still asks:

“   They even open?   ”

[fervencys]

NEWMAN, LETHA.

like always, beau manages to view his acts of basic human decency as as martyrdom. and hadn’t this inflated sense of self importance been so grating, letha might have found more comedy in the whole thing. biting her tongue, she takes the high ground — a sacrifice seen as true martyrdom in her eyes. maybe one of these days, the traits they shared would be acknowledged rather than condemned, but until then… 

     “   no.   ”   she shoots back, resisting the urge to lecture him on the road omelette their precious cargo would’ve turned into had he been in charge.   “   but maybe we should be getting you a booster.   ”

“   Sick comeback, Newman. You practice that one in the mirror?    ”   Brow quirks, but he doesn’t add anything else to the conversation  —   for once, moving forward instead of engaging in a back and forth of useless barbs with the woman in front of him.

“   Are you ready to get going or not?   ”   His hand fits around the handle of the car door, eyeing her from across the hood of the car, where fingers drum absently, waiting.   “   We’re burning daylight here, and I charge by the hour.   ”   As if he had anywhere better to be, anything better to do. The truth is: even with Letha by his side, Beau would likely feel a lot freer with the expanse of road in front of them and the town behind them than he would in its clutches. No matter how temporary.