01. The Mess We're In (Intro)
AN: This is a collection of stories which fit into a larger picture to tell the story of Juice and his old lady, Ava, after they've been forced on the lam after the events which conclude S6. It's format will be a bit different from many other stories as it's to be told in memories leading up to the present, snapshots that can stand alone as oneshots from the pair's past. Hopefully it will be an interesting rather than distracting change of tact for storytelling.
Whatever you think, I'd love to hear it. I'd also be interested in hearing if there's any specific thing you'd like to see brought up as a memory, be it an event from the show or just a general theme / idea. The chapters following the intro will be more substantial in length.
The sunlight filtered in through the broken hotel blinds, the first rays casting light over the dingy decor of the room. The new lighting illustrated the age of the faded curtains and sheets, highlighted the yellowing wallpaper that peeled in random sections. She hadn't expected much better when they checked in, not for what they'd paid.
A few of the beams threw light on him as he slept, his expression lax and peaceful for the first time she could remember in what felt like an age. His face was always hardened into a mask of worry, anymore. No trace of the broad, toothy grin she had grown so accustomed to.
And she had grown accustomed to it. Somewhere along the line, that flip of her stomach that used to accompany every laugh and smile had faded into complacency, occasionally even irritation. It pained her to think how many times she had told him to shut up or called him an idiot for that boisterous laugh.
Lighting up a cigarette, she wished more than anything to hear that laugh just once more.
They hadn't known how short lived their days of good would be, though. They had been young and stubbornly in love, and though neither of those things had changed, it seemed everything else had.
She ran her fingertips gingerly over the crow inked onto her forearm, a bittersweet flood of memories conjured up whenever she laid eyes on it. It brought tears to her eyes to consider the possibility that it would soon be inked over thick and solid black. Not unlike the words which once decorated his chest, now simple black rectangles that were still shiny and healing, now rising and falling with his calm sleeping breath.
There were times she hated her ink for calling back memories of days she could never reclaim, and on her best days, she loved it for providing a little hope for the future. If things were good once - and she knew in her heart that they had been good - they could be that way again. With enough time, enough luck, perhaps they would see their way out of the mess they'd found themselves in.
She stamped out her cigarette in an ashtray, turning to survey Juice as he slept.
She didn't know whether her hope was founded or naive. What she did know, however, was that she still had him, and she still had her memories.
That would have to keep her for the time being.