#needed at the beginning of a resolution. Even a resolution being renewed for the thousandth time.)

[siena-sevenwits]

🫶

[the-revisionist]

Well, reading those was already a journey... hm, but how bout 1 or 19. Or, you know, BOTH.

Okay then, BOTH! And also harkening back to @ylizam‘s request for 19 as well. (For reference, list of prompts here.)

LTiH, Gillian/Caroline, post series 4-ish.

Note: the film that Gillian describes at length is acomplete fabrication; Night of the Lepus,I’m afraid, is the real deal.

the most important three seconds in the imaginary history of cinema 

Not unlike a great musician merging with an instrument, thetelly remote has, to Caroline’s strangely aroused dismay, become a mightyextension of Gillian’s hand. She points it with thrilling command, like D’Artagnanfacing Cardinal Richelieu in a battle for the soul of France; then throttles itviolently while cursing her son and his infernal Xbox, which she believes to bethe rightful cause of the nonfunctioning black screen that mocks them.

“That b-bloody stupid pillock, always messing about with thesetup—” Gillian snarls and gives the remote another useless shake, demonstratingthe same impatient, childlike rage at insensate objects that Caroline haswitnessed in her granddaughter, who delights in twisting and slamming arounddolls with unrepentant, rugby-player-on-steroids glee.

As Caroline waits for the temper tantrum to subside,questions as to her romantic suitability with this exquisite maniac once againarise. She notes for perhaps the thousandth time that there is no such thing asthe perfect partner and her expectations have always been loftily, unrealisticallyhigh whilst at the same time acknowledging that shagging one’s stepsister onthe side is perhaps not a personal best and more suited to a troubled but minorheadline in Woman’s Weekly. So she hasopted not to think of Gillian as Gillian per se, but rather My Nice-SmellingIllicit Secret Girlfriend Who Can Change the Oil in my Jeep But if My MotherFinds Out She Will Kill Us Both and Have a Stroke Maybe at the Same Time. Itmakes for unexpected headaches, complicated secrecy, and increased whiskeyconsumption, each aspect of the conundrum feeding off of and prompting theother.    

Courtesy of family members who have actual lives, who goplaces and do things and aren’t grumpily absorbed into demanding,time-consuming jobs, they are alone for an entire weekend. It’s Saturdayevening and the day has passed in a happy hedonistic blur of shagging, eating,drinking, and going for a long walk. Over dinner Gillian proposed watching afilm afterward and Caroline agreed, thinking that after Round 2 (or 3, shewasn’t certain how to classify those ten minutes in the barn except to acknowledgeher culpability in startling a lamb), she was more than sexually sated for thetime being and she could endure whatever third-rate monster movie or Tarantinoretrospective thrown her way. But while cleaning up Gillian bent over toretrieve a napkin that had fallen on the floor and as far as Caroline’s criticalfaculties could discern those three seconds of glorious, blue-jeaned ass were acinematic masterpiece rivaling the complete oeuvre of Hitchcock and Kurosawaand Truffaut and any other pretentious fucker with a fancy name and Carolinedecided then and there she really didn’t need to see another movie perhaps fora long time but most certainly, definitely not tonight because with renewedvigor she was now chomping at the erotic bit for Round 3 (or 4).

Alas she finds herself in a tangled sprawl with Gillian onthe sofa as a prelude to movie-watching, her chin forlornly propped against Gillian’supper arm while the latter growls “fuckity fuck fuck fuck” at the remote, andthen Caroline arrives at the momentous decision that intervention—in the formof a long, deep, heated kiss—is required. The first time they kissed like that,Gillian dropped trou faster than the closing curtain at the last performance ofa Carrie musical revival. So sheseizes a handful of plaid shirt, pulling the startled Gillian closer, andkisses her just so. While Gillian makes the same girlish whimpering noise nowthat she did then, she does not merrily surrender all clothing as her passportto ecstasy and instead breaks off the kiss to glower again at the unresponsivetelevision.

Caroline has never been so deeply disheartened at a displayof focused willpower in her entire life.

“I know I DVR’edthis,” Gillian says, arm ramrod straight as she once again thrusts the clickerat the dead screen while furiously jabbing random buttons with her thumb.

Caroline waits for a light saber to come shooting out of theremote. When it doesn’t, she tugs at Gillian’s shirt again, engaging them inanother wet, lingering kiss. “What’s it again?” she mutters around theconfluence of the kiss.

“It’s a—psychological—suspense—thriller,” Gillian breathesinto her mouth.

“So—” Caroline initiates another kiss. “—total—shit—horror—movie.”

“No,” Gillian replies with a kiss of her own. “It’s.”Another kiss. “Not.” This time with an added nip. “It’s more than that.” Thistime longer, gentler, sweeter. “I want you to see it. It’s really good.”

Caroline shifts tactics and goes for the vulnerableerogenous zone of the ear while slipping a hand under Gillian’s shirt. “What’sit about?”

“About t-this guy, he, he gets stranded in Hungary—”

Caroline puts her moves on hold. “What kind of knobhead getsstranded in Hungary?” Quietly she curses her natural curiosity and advocacy of rational,well-planned behavior, even in fictitious characters from all parts of theworld, including Hungary. “There are maps, trains, buses—”  

“People get stranded in Hungary, where is it written thatpeople don’t get stranded in Hungary and I know what you’re up to, stop trying to undo my bra.”

Defeated, Caroline withdraws her hand. “Kissing still allright?”

Gillian pauses before uttering “proceed” in her bestJean-Luc Picard tone.

“Okay,” Caroline mumbles into Gillian’s neck as shebrilliantly conducts kissing, nibbling, and licking with the exactitude of aMozart string quartet, but then thinks maybe it’s not brilliant because she’snot getting any reaction—until she notices Gillian’s breathing has gottenawfully shallow. “So. Idiot stranded in Hungary—“

“H-he meets this mysterious family who live in a castle—”

“Vampires,” Caroline supplies confidently.

“No, not vampires. Don’t be so clichéd.”

“Werewolves.”

“Cliché.”

“Writers for the DailyMail?”

“Fuck sakes, Caz.”

“All right, sorry—so what��?”

“Satanists.”

Abruptly Caroline rears back. “That’s not clichéd?”

“They’re like a cult,” Gillian says haughtily, as if highlyorganized secretive Satanists somehow merited originality and legitimaterespect rather than the garden-variety kind of devil worshippers one mightencounter after midnight at Tesco buying candles and snacks and bottles of hotsauce for phony pentagram and animal sacrifice rituals to alarm their elderlyand easily freaked-out neighbors. “See, the whole setup, it’s kind of a modernHungarian version of The Masque of theRed Death except without dwarves or black plague or Vincent Price.”  

“Well I simply cannot commit to a film without dwarves orblack plague or Vincent Price, so perhaps we should give this a pass.”

“There’s also a psychedelic mini-musical when the countessmarries Satan. They sing ‘Kiss Them for Me’ by Siouxsie and the Banshees,messing with the lyrics—‘it’s all for me/at Satan’s gift registry.’ Wonder theydidn’t get sued. Actually, maybe they did. I should google—” Gillian lookslongingly at her mobile, which is far away on the coffee table.

Caroline sighs. “You do realize that by tomorrow morning ourentire families are going to converge on this house and we probably won’t haveanother opportunity to be completely alone until Flora and Calamity go touniversity.”

“Aw bless, I love how optimistic you are. ’Cause you knowCalam is going to be a druglord. That’s how she’s going to support me in mydotage.”

“Great, so you’ll have plenty of time in your ‘dotage’ towatch bad horror films.” She tries to pry the remote from Gillian’s hand, anexercise in futility, she knows, recalling a time she tried to reclaim analmost-empty bottle of really excellent cabernet sauvignon from Gillian anddiscovered that the woman has the iron grip of an Olympic weightlifter. Thenthe mask of her own stubborn idiocy falls away when she sees a flash of realdisappointment on Gillian’s face. “You really want to see this, don’t you?”

“More like—“ Gillian shrugs self-consciously. “I, well, justwanted to share it. Wanted you to see it.”

Caroline’s guilty conscience finally asserts itself. Shegives the remote a gentle tug. “May I?”

Curious, Gillian hands it over. Caroline sits up, pops openthe back of the remote, pulls batteries out of her pants pocket, quicklyinserts them into the empty chamber from whence they came, snaps the cover backinto place, and guiltily awaits judgment.  

Gillian’s reaction is, of course, better than any movie,including the imaginary Warholian masterpiece of three seconds of denim-coveredass: Her face encompasses a rollercoaster of reactions beginning with unbridledshock and fury, detouring through astonished admiration and reluctantamusement, and back again to hostile, narrow-eyed territory. “You. Fucking.Evil. Bitch.”

“I’m sorry. Really, I am. Really, really sorry. I was goingto make a go of watching a movie, honest, but after dinner you bent over andyou know I’m weak—”

“You sex fiend.” Gillian enunciates it with the same puritanprecision that Celia employs in saying lesbian.

“Oh, I’m a sexfiend, Great Slapper of Halifax?”

“Shut up, I so rarely get a chance to be judgmental likethis and I’d like to bloody well enjoy it.”

“It reflects very well on you, though. Or on your ass, atthe very least.”

“Piss off.” Resolute, Gillian folds her arms; glaring defiantlyat the telly screen, she sulks for an agonizingly long minute. “Despite your f-flatteryand, and okay, your evilness is weirdlyturning me on, we are watching this fucking movie. All right?”

“All right,” Caroline agrees dreamily as she watches Gillianget up and stomp to the kitchen. The things we do for—love? Lust? The perfectass, the secret girlfriend? At the present moment it’s more than she’s willingto contemplate and so she sets it aside; not out of denial, but rather sherealizes that what exists between them should remain safe, thriving until itcan withstand the glare and scrutiny of the world at large. At last, and forreasons unknown to her at the moment, she finally sees potential in what theyare.

“I might make you watch Nightof the Lepus as well,” Gillian threatens from the kitchen.  

“Surely there are more pleasurable ways of punishing me?”

This salacious salvo is ignored. “Shut up, I’m makingpopcorn.”

Caroline slumps deeper into the sofa, looks at the remote.With a few button presses she’s in the DVR menu and, cheeks burning withpleasure, smiles at what she sees listed there. “Oh ho ho. Somebody has DVR’ed University Challenge for me.”

Gillian slams a pan on the stove. “Who says it’s for you?”

“Who else in this household would watch it?”

“Raff.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Don’t read anything into it.”

“I’m totally reading everything into it,” Caroline trillstriumphantly—even though it’s completely wrong to gloat after so much badbehavior on her part. “You are smitten.”

“You are delusional.”

“Mad about me.”

“You’re mad, period.”

“You absolutely adore me.”

The tell-tale silence ends with Gillian’s softly gruntedadmission: “Maybe.”

Caroline grins.

“But you’re still a bitch.”