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Sunday, February 6th, 2005 01:06 am
qafwip: the cut bit from don't blink
This is more along the lines of a cut scene from Don't Blink (Or You'll Miss It). I ended up never using it for anything, but I did have it half-imagined, before I realized that I had no idea where it was going to go.
In Which I Got Confused and Stopped.
He supposes, in retrospect, that it could have been worse.
"Uh, hi." She's standing outside the door like she's scared to come in, eyes darting to look at everything and anything but him.
"You've seen it before." If he was less high, or more clothed, this might make sense, but there's two concrete facts--one, there is someone in his bed that was doing better than mediocre, which is fucking rare these days, and there's a pregnant girl at his door. Never do these two things belong in the same space at the same time. "What?"
"I'll come back." She takes a stuffling step back, and Brian's aware of a low-grade headache beginning to re-form right behind his eyes. And here he thought the k would be enough to wipe *that* out.
"Wait." Half-turning, he tries to focus his eyes on the bed. "You. Get out."
"I don't mean to interrupt."
He can't even believe she said that with a straight face. "What the fuck ever. Come in." Grabbing the jeans serendipitiously discarded near the door, he wonders if there's anything left to drink. The overturned bottle on the floor suggests not.
Daphne murmurs something to the departing trick--even Justin didn't bother to be that polite--and goes to the couch, giving the loft a short once-over, and the couch a longer one.
The refrigerator has water, aboslutely not his first drink of choice, but he grabs two bottles, stepping over a pair of shoes and an overturned cushion, dropping on the coffee table before handing her the bottle. "What the fuck are you doing here?" And what fucking time is it? No clock handy, and Brian doesn't feel like moving.
"I--have a--" Unconsciously, she rubs at her stomach, one of those habits she's picked up. "It's nothing, just--" She stops again, frowning. "I called Lindz, but she's not home--"
"Spit it out." It's not the drugs. She's being more fucking weird than usual. Debbie had remarked on something in his hearing to Michael--they've got a pretty good system, he's got to admit. Her parents had come by, one of those thrillingly unexpected visits that Brian honestly believes only parents that hate you can really manage. He's not sure what happened--unfortunately, he can't ask flat out, and Debbie had only commented that Daphne had looked tired that morning.
"I--we haven't talked about this, I know." She shifts on the couch, and what the hell could be so important to bring her here in the middle of the night? He can count on one hand the number of times she's been here since she told him, and all of them had been in two with Lindz. She shifts again, staring down at her hands. This has to have something to do with her family, but God knows, he just doesn't want to know. He has no idea what he'd do with the information if he got it. "I--look, this is hard, so stop the fucking staring at me like that. I left you a message. I'm--I need to do something tomorrow, and you're leaving in the morning."
Fair enough. She probably knows he won't check his messages until tomorrow. And it's early. He can find someone else. "What?"
"Do you want to be--do want to be on the birth certificate?" Before he can absorb what she's saying, she pushes on, looking more serious than anytime he's seen her. "I--we don't have a lot of time here, if the last check-up's any indication. I need to know now what to expect." Her hands steady, flattening on her knees, and she looks up. "It's not like I'm going to sue for child support or whatever--I can take care of myself. I don't expect that. What I want is to know--to know if you want to be involved at all."
It's not like he hasn't thought about it--thanks to Lindz, who's gotten better and better about random comments that stick around a hell of a lot longer than she does.
He wants to say he has no idea, and couldn't this wait until he gets back, or better, never, just let it happen, but Daphne isn't Lindz and isn't locked in revolting lesbian wedded bliss.
In Which I Got Confused and Stopped.
He supposes, in retrospect, that it could have been worse.
"Uh, hi." She's standing outside the door like she's scared to come in, eyes darting to look at everything and anything but him.
"You've seen it before." If he was less high, or more clothed, this might make sense, but there's two concrete facts--one, there is someone in his bed that was doing better than mediocre, which is fucking rare these days, and there's a pregnant girl at his door. Never do these two things belong in the same space at the same time. "What?"
"I'll come back." She takes a stuffling step back, and Brian's aware of a low-grade headache beginning to re-form right behind his eyes. And here he thought the k would be enough to wipe *that* out.
"Wait." Half-turning, he tries to focus his eyes on the bed. "You. Get out."
"I don't mean to interrupt."
He can't even believe she said that with a straight face. "What the fuck ever. Come in." Grabbing the jeans serendipitiously discarded near the door, he wonders if there's anything left to drink. The overturned bottle on the floor suggests not.
Daphne murmurs something to the departing trick--even Justin didn't bother to be that polite--and goes to the couch, giving the loft a short once-over, and the couch a longer one.
The refrigerator has water, aboslutely not his first drink of choice, but he grabs two bottles, stepping over a pair of shoes and an overturned cushion, dropping on the coffee table before handing her the bottle. "What the fuck are you doing here?" And what fucking time is it? No clock handy, and Brian doesn't feel like moving.
"I--have a--" Unconsciously, she rubs at her stomach, one of those habits she's picked up. "It's nothing, just--" She stops again, frowning. "I called Lindz, but she's not home--"
"Spit it out." It's not the drugs. She's being more fucking weird than usual. Debbie had remarked on something in his hearing to Michael--they've got a pretty good system, he's got to admit. Her parents had come by, one of those thrillingly unexpected visits that Brian honestly believes only parents that hate you can really manage. He's not sure what happened--unfortunately, he can't ask flat out, and Debbie had only commented that Daphne had looked tired that morning.
"I--we haven't talked about this, I know." She shifts on the couch, and what the hell could be so important to bring her here in the middle of the night? He can count on one hand the number of times she's been here since she told him, and all of them had been in two with Lindz. She shifts again, staring down at her hands. This has to have something to do with her family, but God knows, he just doesn't want to know. He has no idea what he'd do with the information if he got it. "I--look, this is hard, so stop the fucking staring at me like that. I left you a message. I'm--I need to do something tomorrow, and you're leaving in the morning."
Fair enough. She probably knows he won't check his messages until tomorrow. And it's early. He can find someone else. "What?"
"Do you want to be--do want to be on the birth certificate?" Before he can absorb what she's saying, she pushes on, looking more serious than anytime he's seen her. "I--we don't have a lot of time here, if the last check-up's any indication. I need to know now what to expect." Her hands steady, flattening on her knees, and she looks up. "It's not like I'm going to sue for child support or whatever--I can take care of myself. I don't expect that. What I want is to know--to know if you want to be involved at all."
It's not like he hasn't thought about it--thanks to Lindz, who's gotten better and better about random comments that stick around a hell of a lot longer than she does.
He wants to say he has no idea, and couldn't this wait until he gets back, or better, never, just let it happen, but Daphne isn't Lindz and isn't locked in revolting lesbian wedded bliss.
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