Author: Jada Lynne
Website: http://jadalynne.diary-x.com
Rating: P13 for Language
Genre: Angst
Summary: Will POV - Will reflects on the vicissitudes of life with the help of Captain Morgan.
Spoilers: Very general plot line descriptions, a few small details from specific dialogues, nothing big. Um, lets seepre-end of 'Confession', I'd guess.
Archive: Sure, just send me a link when you're done.
Feedback: jadalynne16@hotmail.com
A/N: Eh, in my effort to get over my month long bout of writers block, I resurrected some of my old-school stuff. A mid-season write up, before Will was cool, before I realized how much I loved him. Now I'm finishing this off, in hopes that fresh reviews will help me not-suck. ((hints)) My first and (probable) last effort in 2nd person POV.
A/N The Sequel: Okay, in my limited drinking experience, I've had all of two types of alcohol. Well, three is you count that sip of Zima they forced on me. I tried vodka (mixed with Code red, mixed with Pepsi) and I hated it so hardcore that I wont ever subject a character to drinking it. So then my buddy took pity on me and made me a drink of Capt. Morgan's Parrot Bay and Mountain Dew. So I decided to stick with a drink I could actually describe, rather then hit my buddies up for their drunken descriptions. Maybe it might be considered "out of character" to have Will be drinking a coconut drink, or whatnot, I just started watching the show around Spirit, so who the hell knows what I missed. So if it *is* out of character, grin and bear it, my friends.
Special thanks to Karen, Celli, and everyone else who looked over this and reassured me that it didn't suck. Even if they thought so, they saved the snickering for behind my back. Thanks!!!
Coconut Musings
It occurs to you that, as of late, you've been drinking more then you're comfortable
with. Formerly, it was a 'glass of wine or two at Syd's to accompany a crappy
horror movie' sort of deal. Now it's more along the lines of 'the liquor store
cashier knows your name'. Somehow, that doesn't strike you as a good thing.
The brown paper bag weighs down your left hand, your briefcase in your right. Yes, you do grasp the simple symbolism of it all, and no, you don't find it amusing. You fling your briefcase despondently into a chair next to the door, wondering if you'll even remember the work you brought home in a half hour. One side of you wants to get just drunk enough that you wouldn't, the other side of you knows that this is getting more then a little out of control.
Even as you scold yourself, you walk straight to the kitchen and dig a short, heavy blue glass out of your dishwasher. For a moment, you are surprised that you even remembered to do the dishes. Domesticity has never been your forte, and now that your life has gone to hell in a handbasket, it's sunk even further down your list of things to do. You pull the bottle out of the paper bag, splashing the clear liquid into the glass. You glance around your house, surprised to see that you're not living under three inches of dust and tripping over your own dirty clothes. Obviously, Jenny's been busy, because you don't recall any of this. You know you would have recalled doing your laundry, because it's easy to recall simple torture. When Amy was still living here, you didn't make her pay rent for no other reason than that she made sure there was food in the fridge and a clear path from your bed to the door. But soon as you started seeing Jenny, she was gone, muttering under her breath as she packed her bags.
The first sip is always a shock to you. Your stomach recoils, and you have to breathe slow, short breaths until your system adjusts to the coconut flavored poison entering your system. You force yourself to take another sip, wondering how you manage to do something you hate so often.
You turn from the kitchen, taking the glass with you but leaving the bottle on the counter, and head for the bedroom. For a moment, your constantly whirling mind is silent. Your head hurts, it aches so beautifully, from the constant stress of your job.
It never used to be this hard before.
You never had to toe the thin line between your work and your life before.
You never had to live on borrowed time, a gift from a mysterious benefactor that controlled you with a single call before.
You never had to live in fear before.
Pulling off the gray checked tie that had been knotted too tightly all day, you toss it across the room to the left; vaguely recollecting your laundry basket is in that general area. You sip again, this time longer, closing your eyes as you strip. You pull on your favorite pair of sweatpants; the elastic is worn out so you have to tie the drawstring tightly. You scrunch the dress shirt between your fingers, wrinkling the supposedly wrinkle-free cotton.
You hope against all hopes that Jenny doesn't decide to stop by after dinner with her best friend from high school. You just want to be alone, not entertaining a girl whose lack in age is only emphasized by having dinner with a high school friend once a month. You yourself can barely remember the names of the people you were friends with, much less the last time you saw them.
You never asked to become the office joke. Dating your intern, it was so cliché. At first, it hadn't even been enough to be considered dating. A relationship, if you could call it that, based on a night that started with you getting depressingly drunk and ended with you bedding an infant.
That's when you decide that all your problems can be traced back to alcohol.
Why are you still with her? Why don't you just break up with her?
It's a question you've asked yourself thousands, more like millions of times. Why do you subject yourself to something that not only makes you a joke to be told in the break room as you walk by, but also makes even your friends roll their eyes behind your back? And what for? It's not like she makes you happy. It's not like she ever could.
Even as you ask yourself these questions, you take a hefty sip from the glass when the answer pops into your head. If you stay with her long enough, you could forget that you really don't want to be with her. If you pretend to be happy long enough, you might eventually be happy. If you look at her enough times, you just might stop comparing her to someone else. You might stop wishing she were someone else. Someone you need to accept you'll never be able to have.
Years from now you'll laugh at how hung up you were. How obsessed you were over one girl. How you were sick enough to see murder as an opportunity. How you couldn't seem to let go, even when you knew it was far past time that you did.
You head back to the kitchen to refill your glass.
You aren't laughing.
The knock on your door is light, barely audible, and you probably wouldn't have heard it if you hadn't been passing by it to get to the kitchen. For a moment, your reaction is that of a deer caught in headlights as you wonder if Jenny decided to stop by after all. You'd consider hiding out in your room so you don't have to see her, so you don't have to face the reality you've created for yourself. You much rather be a coward and hide out in your room, living in a quiet state of loneliness for the night.
You set your glass on the small table beside the door and risk a peek through the blinds. Then your fingers fumble in their rush to unlock the door. You can't open the door fast enough; removing that last physical barrier seems to take forever.
"Hi." You pause a moment to look at her. Tear-streaked eyes, messy hair, and dark circles under her eyes. Eye makeup or fatigue, you can't tell. "What's the matter?" Was there an accident? Did something happen to her father? Or Fran? Or had her job finally pushed her to the breaking point?
"Is Jenny here?" she finally asks, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
"What?" It's hard to tell who is more uncomfortable. You, with heat crawling up your neck as you glance to the side. Or her, with her nervous fingers picking at a lose piece of string hanging off her jacket. "Oh, no," You breathe, embarrassed. You mutter a silent thanks to whatever higher power there is that Jenny hadn't been there. "No. Come in. Come in." You usher her inside, still stuttering.
You leave your drink, your small glass of salvation, forgotten on the table. You lead her to your living room; lead her to the well-worn couch you got during a Pier-1 clearance sale. She looks away for a moment as you sit across from her, your knees bumping lightly together. "What's the matter?" you ask quietly, half afraid that she's finally about to snap.
Instead of a split second excuse about work or a horror story from school, she looks away again as her eyes tear up. You rub her shoulder, watching a single tear's path down her already damp cheek. Watching as it dissolves into a tiny trickle of moisture.
You've seen her cry before, certainly. You've seen her broken and weeping at her fiancé's funeral. But soon as you look into her eyes, you know something else has happened, something to add one more straw onto her back. "Hey, hey." You shift beside her as you continue to rub her shoulder.
You wish she'd say something. Anything.
You don't know what to do. You never know what to do around her lately. Giving up any pretense of distance, you pull her closer. "Hey, come here." Your voice sounds scratchy, even to your own ears, as emotions clogs your throat. She lays her head on your shoulder and you have to close your eyes for a moment. Suddenly, you want to cry too, but you have no idea why. Yet, at the same time, you have every idea.
She reaches for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. Her grip is soft, yet strong. Light, but firm at the same time. You squeeze her fingers, weakly trying to comfort. She leans back, awkwardly taking you with her. You've dreamed of times where you'd lay like this, watching a late night talk show, laughing at the host's bumbling interviews of movie stars.
She sniffles, reminding you that this isn't how it was supposed to go.
Holding this broken, damaged woman in your arms, you can't help but want to make everything better. You can't help but want to destroy everything that hurts her, shatter whatever makes her cry into a thousand tiny little pieces. "Can you tell me what's wrong?" You want something, someone to direct this sudden spurt of rage at. A name to add to a growing list of things you hate.
She emits a deep, shuddering sigh before speaking. "I just want to stay here for a while." Her hand clenches spasmodically around yours. "If that's okay."
As if she even had to ask. As if you wouldn't jump at her beck and call, drop anything and everything to help her. "Of course," you whisper as she closes her eyes.
As she drifts to sleep, tears staining her cheeks, you try and remember why you thought you could get over her.
You awaken the next morning, never fully remembering falling asleep. You are alone, bleary eyed, alone, and wondering. You rise, walking to the door you'd forgotten to relock. A glance out the window confirms that her car is gone and so is she.
Glancing down with a sigh, your eyes fall on the glass you'd left behind the night before. Half empty. Half full. You rub your eyes for a moment then pick up the rum.
You begin another day sipping at a lukewarm glass of coconut-flavored rum.
--June 27, 2002