Half of a series of "mirrorfics" written with Oro.
Abbey/Rizzo
(It's Not) The Worst Thing I Could Do.
Behind the library Abbey sees a leather coat and dungarees. Cuffs turned back, up, collar up around a mess of dark brown hair, white heels. A thin ribbon of smoke twisting up over Rizzo, who turns. Snub nose and bright red lipstick.
Behind the library Rizzo takes a deep drag on her cigarette and hates this school with all her heart. Hates her parents for moving east. Hates the chill and stony edifice of the whole place. She turns and slumps against the brick wall of the library.
She holds the cigarette tightly between her lips as she searches her beaded purse for gum and lipstick. Her feet ache dully and she's glad she brought tennies for the ride home.
Abbey sees Brett's car on the other side of Rizzo. She'll have to walk right past her, smell the moldy scent of cigarette smoke, and the bath of Downtown Girl underneath. She knows Rizzo will tap the toe of her shoe mockingly as Abbey passes. Abbey doesn't mind when Rizzo makes fun of her--she thinks Rizzo is brave, daring. A heroine. Abbey wants to be as defiant and herself. Dungarees and white heels.
Abbey sees Brett walk up to his car and swing the door open roughly. He throws his letter jacket into the back seat and gets in behind the wheel. She swallows and steps forward, clutching her books tightly to her chest, a little breeze blowing gently up her legs, under her skirt. She shivers.
Spearmint all over her tongue. Rizzo looks over when she hears someone approaching slowly. Abbey King, books and yellow cardigan, white blouse, plaid skirt. She smirks. Saddle shoes.
Abbey clears her throat and keeps walking. Rizzo likes the wavy pigtails that fall forward over Abbey's shoulders, and the bitten pink of her hesitant smile. Rizzo grins. Sandra Dee, she thinks.
"Hey," Rizzo says, snapping her gum, stubbing her cigarette out on the brick wall.
"Oh. Hello," Abbey says. "How are you?"
Rizzo tips her head against the wall. "Swell," she drawls, back to smirking.
Abbey blinks past Rizzo into the parking lot. Brett's car is gone. She didn't even see him--
"Oh," she says, and feels stupid.
Rizzo looks to the parking lot too. She laughs. "Missed your ride?" she says.
Abbey shrugs, trying to smile back. "No, I'll walk, I'm just surprised he didn't wait for me is all."
Wise, Rizzo nods. "C'mon." She ducks her head and walks to the parking lot.
Abbey follows. She was going that way anyhow.
Just around the corner, out of sight, is a motorcycle. Rizzo stops beside it and pulls a pair of tennis shoes from the bag hanging on the side.
Abbey watches, open-mouthed, as Rizzo switches out of her heels. Rizzo mounts the bike and starts it.
When Abbey doesn't move, Rizzo sighs. She wonders if this ever gets less uncomfortable.
"Get on," she says.
Abbey starts. "I've never--"
Rizzo smirks again, a familiar crooked cruelty for Abbey. "'Course you haven't."
"I don't think my mother would--"
Rizzo grins, not mean or friendly. Wicked. "It's not the worst thing you could do."
In fits and starts Abbey smiles back. She tries to make it wicked, but Rizzo just sees keen.
Jed/Willard
The Most You Can Hope for it is Some Knowledge of Yourself (That Comes Too Late). In one of the conference rooms beyond the Sit Room Jed waits.
The CIA Director comes through a door through which Jed has never been.
The man sits across the table from Jed and opens a file on the mirror-bright surface.
Fluorescent light glares on an eight-by-ten photograph. A young man squints grimly up at Jed.
Another photo is slid across the table. Same man, older. More lines, less hair, grey everywhere. A twist to his mouth, a scar from the bridge of his nose to his ear.
"Colonel Benjamin L. Willard," the Director says.
Jed knows. "I know of him." Know him. "And?"
"He's dead, Mr. President."
Jed sits back and presses his hands to the tabletop. This is not exactly a shock. Only something for which he has so long put off preparing himself it seems to have happened far too quickly.
"I see."
The Director pulls the photographs back with his fingertips. The paper makes a soft slithering noise as it goes.
"We'd like to have him buried near Arlington, sir."
Yes. Near Arlington. Never in. Not for the assassin, the man who never was anyplace in which he worked.
"Of course."
What will he tell Leo? Because it is Leo who will want to know. Jed doesn't want to know, never did, not from the first time he met Willard over poker and scotch in Leo's den, not from the last time they spoke--hushed tones between Panama and Manchester, last week of the first campaign.
Jed doesn't want to know. Leo will need to know.
"Tell me how," he says.
The Director winces slightly. "His throat was slit in an alley in Seoul."
Jed nods.
The Director shuffles his file together almost silently, and leaves through the same door.
He'll tell Leo it was natural causes.
Josh/Sean O'Brien (From ER episode #1.20: "Love's Labour Lost".)
Made a Mouth of His Eye (Which I Know Will Not Lie). It's not a gay bar because Josh doesn't go to gay bars and Sean isn't gay. They share this useless information--useless because it's not a gay bar and there's no reason to discuss gay bars in a bar which is not gay--in the men's room afterward.
Beer and spit and come on Josh's hand and the water doesn't seem to get warm no matter how many times he turns the tap. Sean leans against the hot air hand dryer, hands in his pockets.
Josh hums affirmatively when Sean says, for the third time, that he isn't gay.
Just that his wife is dead and his baby, and that he's having a hard time with the eighth stage of grief.
Josh asks what that is.
Sean says, "Accepting acceptance."
Josh understands that.
End.
Abbey/Rizzo
(It's Not) The Worst Thing I Could Do.
Behind the library Abbey sees a leather coat and dungarees. Cuffs turned back, up, collar up around a mess of dark brown hair, white heels. A thin ribbon of smoke twisting up over Rizzo, who turns. Snub nose and bright red lipstick.
Behind the library Rizzo takes a deep drag on her cigarette and hates this school with all her heart. Hates her parents for moving east. Hates the chill and stony edifice of the whole place. She turns and slumps against the brick wall of the library.
She holds the cigarette tightly between her lips as she searches her beaded purse for gum and lipstick. Her feet ache dully and she's glad she brought tennies for the ride home.
Abbey sees Brett's car on the other side of Rizzo. She'll have to walk right past her, smell the moldy scent of cigarette smoke, and the bath of Downtown Girl underneath. She knows Rizzo will tap the toe of her shoe mockingly as Abbey passes. Abbey doesn't mind when Rizzo makes fun of her--she thinks Rizzo is brave, daring. A heroine. Abbey wants to be as defiant and herself. Dungarees and white heels.
Abbey sees Brett walk up to his car and swing the door open roughly. He throws his letter jacket into the back seat and gets in behind the wheel. She swallows and steps forward, clutching her books tightly to her chest, a little breeze blowing gently up her legs, under her skirt. She shivers.
Spearmint all over her tongue. Rizzo looks over when she hears someone approaching slowly. Abbey King, books and yellow cardigan, white blouse, plaid skirt. She smirks. Saddle shoes.
Abbey clears her throat and keeps walking. Rizzo likes the wavy pigtails that fall forward over Abbey's shoulders, and the bitten pink of her hesitant smile. Rizzo grins. Sandra Dee, she thinks.
"Hey," Rizzo says, snapping her gum, stubbing her cigarette out on the brick wall.
"Oh. Hello," Abbey says. "How are you?"
Rizzo tips her head against the wall. "Swell," she drawls, back to smirking.
Abbey blinks past Rizzo into the parking lot. Brett's car is gone. She didn't even see him--
"Oh," she says, and feels stupid.
Rizzo looks to the parking lot too. She laughs. "Missed your ride?" she says.
Abbey shrugs, trying to smile back. "No, I'll walk, I'm just surprised he didn't wait for me is all."
Wise, Rizzo nods. "C'mon." She ducks her head and walks to the parking lot.
Abbey follows. She was going that way anyhow.
Just around the corner, out of sight, is a motorcycle. Rizzo stops beside it and pulls a pair of tennis shoes from the bag hanging on the side.
Abbey watches, open-mouthed, as Rizzo switches out of her heels. Rizzo mounts the bike and starts it.
When Abbey doesn't move, Rizzo sighs. She wonders if this ever gets less uncomfortable.
"Get on," she says.
Abbey starts. "I've never--"
Rizzo smirks again, a familiar crooked cruelty for Abbey. "'Course you haven't."
"I don't think my mother would--"
Rizzo grins, not mean or friendly. Wicked. "It's not the worst thing you could do."
In fits and starts Abbey smiles back. She tries to make it wicked, but Rizzo just sees keen.
Jed/Willard
The Most You Can Hope for it is Some Knowledge of Yourself (That Comes Too Late). In one of the conference rooms beyond the Sit Room Jed waits.
The CIA Director comes through a door through which Jed has never been.
The man sits across the table from Jed and opens a file on the mirror-bright surface.
Fluorescent light glares on an eight-by-ten photograph. A young man squints grimly up at Jed.
Another photo is slid across the table. Same man, older. More lines, less hair, grey everywhere. A twist to his mouth, a scar from the bridge of his nose to his ear.
"Colonel Benjamin L. Willard," the Director says.
Jed knows. "I know of him." Know him. "And?"
"He's dead, Mr. President."
Jed sits back and presses his hands to the tabletop. This is not exactly a shock. Only something for which he has so long put off preparing himself it seems to have happened far too quickly.
"I see."
The Director pulls the photographs back with his fingertips. The paper makes a soft slithering noise as it goes.
"We'd like to have him buried near Arlington, sir."
Yes. Near Arlington. Never in. Not for the assassin, the man who never was anyplace in which he worked.
"Of course."
What will he tell Leo? Because it is Leo who will want to know. Jed doesn't want to know, never did, not from the first time he met Willard over poker and scotch in Leo's den, not from the last time they spoke--hushed tones between Panama and Manchester, last week of the first campaign.
Jed doesn't want to know. Leo will need to know.
"Tell me how," he says.
The Director winces slightly. "His throat was slit in an alley in Seoul."
Jed nods.
The Director shuffles his file together almost silently, and leaves through the same door.
He'll tell Leo it was natural causes.
Josh/Sean O'Brien (From ER episode #1.20: "Love's Labour Lost".)
Made a Mouth of His Eye (Which I Know Will Not Lie). It's not a gay bar because Josh doesn't go to gay bars and Sean isn't gay. They share this useless information--useless because it's not a gay bar and there's no reason to discuss gay bars in a bar which is not gay--in the men's room afterward.
Beer and spit and come on Josh's hand and the water doesn't seem to get warm no matter how many times he turns the tap. Sean leans against the hot air hand dryer, hands in his pockets.
Josh hums affirmatively when Sean says, for the third time, that he isn't gay.
Just that his wife is dead and his baby, and that he's having a hard time with the eighth stage of grief.
Josh asks what that is.
Sean says, "Accepting acceptance."
Josh understands that.
End.