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"Well, I won't have to think about doing 'kegels' even once, I will just rely on the amazing hydraulic press I'll build into my robotic vagina."
“And I'm sure you’ll have every man here at your beck and call even if it’s powerful enough to crush.”
"That's how I'll build my power base. Yes, put your dick in right there - vrrt - you don't want to lose it? Swear your loyalty, then."
“Genius,” she replies. “Move it to the top of the priority list. Who needs an eyeball?”
"You're right. I was thinking too small before. I will bring it up to Rhys posthaste. Thanks for the brainstorming session, Tess!"
“Glad I could be useful.”
She grins.
“Good luck to whoever ends up being your guinea pig for fine tuning.”
She grins.
“Good luck to whoever ends up being your guinea pig for fine tuning.”
Did you wanna threaten me? [ He sounds open to it. ]
[Terse and tight and wound the fuck up:]
Cannot begin to tell you how fucking not-in-the-mood I am, William.
[So: yes.]
Cannot begin to tell you how fucking not-in-the-mood I am, William.
[So: yes.]
Edited 2020-07-26 02:28 (UTC)
[ A pause. With no discernible shift in tone: ] Wanna come over here?
You know where it is. [ Time to shove a knife in his boot and make the bed. ]
"I'll just steal a hot dog from the dining hall. There's no need to be cruel." Said with the most devious possible smirk.
Tess laughs. There could have been a hundred ways this conversation went, and this one is the best.
“The guys’ll thank you.”
“The guys’ll thank you.”
As intimated, the door doesn't invite knocking—wrought iron over frosted glass—but there's nothing to stop her from pounding on the wall. The interior has nothing in common with his counterpart's room: a large gently lit bedroom, lavish without being excessive, the colors muted—browns, golds, a little blue. The furnishings are abundant, the flourishes elegant. Mirrors and so forth.
There's a clutter of personal effects on the dresser, some books on the nearest nightstand (it's the other nightstand that has the framed pictures). William, dressed as he usually is save for the hat, steps aside without a word. Keeps an eye out for blood, gauges how she holds herself.
“Who started it?” he asks, wry but not unsympathetic.
There's a clutter of personal effects on the dresser, some books on the nearest nightstand (it's the other nightstand that has the framed pictures). William, dressed as he usually is save for the hat, steps aside without a word. Keeps an eye out for blood, gauges how she holds herself.
“Who started it?” he asks, wry but not unsympathetic.
Tess does knock anyway, somewhere between fuck your fancy door, William and this entire hallway must know how pissed I am. When he opens up, she gives him a cursory look-over and then moves by him like some sort of caged wildcat, ready to pace up and down for hours with nothing else to do. Anger in quarantine: nowhere to be, no work to do, nothing but time to stew. No blood, but her button-up shirt hangs open, her tank top low enough to show off a barely-scabbed-over gunshot wound that looks freshly irritated.
His question distracts her from being immediately ticked-off by his prissy, rich-guy, glossy-magazine, bullshit home dec, but suddenly that's simmering too.
"Hard to say," she replies, darkly, "but she was running her mouth."
His question distracts her from being immediately ticked-off by his prissy, rich-guy, glossy-magazine, bullshit home dec, but suddenly that's simmering too.
"Hard to say," she replies, darkly, "but she was running her mouth."
He wastes no time in shutting the door behind them. “Sit on the bed if you want,” he says. Break something if you want, he doesn't say. It'd take the satisfaction out of it.
It's strange and it isn't, her in here. It's just some place he wanders in and out of; someplace he sleeps when there's no alternative. Without Juliet it's nowhere, it's the house he haunts. “She looked okay.” He doesn't bother trying to smile. Too late to soften anything. “You know how old she is?”
It's strange and it isn't, her in here. It's just some place he wanders in and out of; someplace he sleeps when there's no alternative. Without Juliet it's nowhere, it's the house he haunts. “She looked okay.” He doesn't bother trying to smile. Too late to soften anything. “You know how old she is?”
She doesn't sit, she just paces.
"She's nineteen, twenty, thereabouts," she replies. Barely raises her voice, but the heat's there and only getting hotter. "Fucking curveball, right? She's in great shape, fucking living in some peachy community out in the middle of fucking nowhere."
Great shape being relative, of course. Nothing is ever great, at least in part because Joel fucked it up. Fucked it up several thousand fucking ways, half of which aren't even his fucking fault, but should be anyway. What the fuck did she die for, what the fuck did she do any of this for?
Why'd she––
She catches a glimpse of herself in one of those big mirrors and she feels like some animal plunked in a fancy showroom, a more comfortable life that can't be hers. She rounds on William from clear across the room.
"Jesus Christ, how much HGTV does your fucking wife watch? You live like this?"
"She's nineteen, twenty, thereabouts," she replies. Barely raises her voice, but the heat's there and only getting hotter. "Fucking curveball, right? She's in great shape, fucking living in some peachy community out in the middle of fucking nowhere."
Great shape being relative, of course. Nothing is ever great, at least in part because Joel fucked it up. Fucked it up several thousand fucking ways, half of which aren't even his fucking fault, but should be anyway. What the fuck did she die for, what the fuck did she do any of this for?
Why'd she––
She catches a glimpse of herself in one of those big mirrors and she feels like some animal plunked in a fancy showroom, a more comfortable life that can't be hers. She rounds on William from clear across the room.
"Jesus Christ, how much HGTV does your fucking wife watch? You live like this?"
“Five years.” He watches her closely, turning the number over in his head. Thinking it through again—dying for some unknowable future, some vision of a changed world. Discovering it had just ground on, stubbornly refusing to transform. He remembers—he's still half in love with her idealism. Those fireflies on her wall. “I'm sorry the world let you down.”
He does smile then, knowing as he does that it's woefully inadequate. Pocket change in the midst of opulence.
“A lot of this was the decorator.” He delivers it without an ounce of irony. She's going to punch him in the mouth. He'd welcome it, too—it's that kind of a sentence. William stays where he is a moment or two, hesitating between the man who belongs in this room and the one who doesn't. Crosses to Tess, reaches for her, expecting her to snap.
“Don't take shots at her,” he says, looking steadily at her. “All right?”
He does smile then, knowing as he does that it's woefully inadequate. Pocket change in the midst of opulence.
“A lot of this was the decorator.” He delivers it without an ounce of irony. She's going to punch him in the mouth. He'd welcome it, too—it's that kind of a sentence. William stays where he is a moment or two, hesitating between the man who belongs in this room and the one who doesn't. Crosses to Tess, reaches for her, expecting her to snap.
“Don't take shots at her,” he says, looking steadily at her. “All right?”
I'm sorry the world let you down.
Tess looks at him sharply, feeling pulled in so many directions that she's not sure where to start. Kick his ass for being earnest with her when she just wants to be pissed, not pitied? Knock his teeth in for having the gall to play at cowboy when some people don't have places like this to come home? Break his fucking mirrors, yell at him that she doesn't give a shit about his stupid wife?
So when he comes into her space, she just shoves him, both hands on his chest.
"Fuck you, William," she shoots back. "Like you care about her feelings, you act like she doesn't fucking exist."
Tess looks at him sharply, feeling pulled in so many directions that she's not sure where to start. Kick his ass for being earnest with her when she just wants to be pissed, not pitied? Knock his teeth in for having the gall to play at cowboy when some people don't have places like this to come home? Break his fucking mirrors, yell at him that she doesn't give a shit about his stupid wife?
So when he comes into her space, she just shoves him, both hands on his chest.
"Fuck you, William," she shoots back. "Like you care about her feelings, you act like she doesn't fucking exist."
His arms drop to his sides. He lets her push him, not ragdoll loose but offering no resistance. He has his explanations, his limping excuses. “I care,” he says, the bottom dropping out of his voice. Thinks of Logan jamming that picture in his pocket. They don't fight like this, him and Juliet. They don't blow up.
He swallows, sick to his stomach. “You're the only person I've invited in here,” he says. Falters helplessly into a shrug. “And look what a mistake that was.”
He swallows, sick to his stomach. “You're the only person I've invited in here,” he says. Falters helplessly into a shrug. “And look what a mistake that was.”
Her heart’s pounding. There’s an angry glassiness to her eyes but her voice doesn’t waver.
“Yeah? If she found out you’ve moved on to your new space cowboy life, you think she’d feel cared for?”
She steps into his space again, hands fisted at her sides. She wants to keep pushing him but the lack of resistance makes her feel like shit, fucks with her momentum.
“You regret it so much, kick me out,” she orders.
“Yeah? If she found out you’ve moved on to your new space cowboy life, you think she’d feel cared for?”
She steps into his space again, hands fisted at her sides. She wants to keep pushing him but the lack of resistance makes her feel like shit, fucks with her momentum.
“You regret it so much, kick me out,” she orders.
"And then they'll rue their days as they're forced to bend the knee! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!"
Hange is having a good time here.
Hange is having a good time here.
He doesn't look like a cowboy, not just then. He looks tired, diminished, a guy in a fancy outfit with no trace of dirt near his boots. His hair catches the light. “When I'm here...” The sentence floats off.
His gaze flicks to her clenched fists. “Break my nose.” A nod, strangely delicate. As though he's trying to balance something on his chin. “Go ahead. I'm not some cute little girl, they won't give a fuck.”
His gaze flicks to her clenched fists. “Break my nose.” A nod, strangely delicate. As though he's trying to balance something on his chin. “Go ahead. I'm not some cute little girl, they won't give a fuck.”
He pisses her off sometimes. She can't even put a finger on why, beyond grudges that linger after the score is supposed to be settled, beyond that he has shit she doesn't even let herself dream of. He wants her to break his nose?
Fucking fine. She knows (and even loves, almost perversely) a life where that violence is cheap and plentiful. Who doesn't love what they are good at? She may not have an enforcer here to pin him down and break his face and dislocate his shoulders on her behalf, but she's always been good on her own. Has to be.
So she swings, right for his face.
Fucking fine. She knows (and even loves, almost perversely) a life where that violence is cheap and plentiful. Who doesn't love what they are good at? She may not have an enforcer here to pin him down and break his face and dislocate his shoulders on her behalf, but she's always been good on her own. Has to be.
So she swings, right for his face.
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