Title: Heroine
Author: aces
Category: Oh, poignant romance if you must...I prefer no-man's-land myself...
Warnings: Well, they're in bed and they're nekkid, but there's nothing doing, bar a snuggle and kiss...
Disclaimers: I am a lowly, wretched college student (and one at a liberal arts school at that), and therefore not only do I not own the characters or make any profit off this story, but the very idea of trying to sue me for money is laughable. So please don't bother. The Crucible still belongs to Arthur Miller if I'm not mistaken (and if he's died and no-one bothered to tell me, I'm sure his estate handles all details). The lyrics in italics belong to Aimee Mann's song "High on Sunday 51," off her latest album, Lost in Space (one of the best on the album, IMHO). Check it out, peeps; it's well worth it.
Notes: The title is perhaps ironic--but then, the fact that I misunderstood the reference in the first place is what truly makes it ironic. And I so shouldn't be doing songfic, but seriously, when I heard this song, it leaped into my head, and there was nothing I could do to stop myself.
Heroine
The monkey knows how you'll react
creating want by holding back
like some reverse pyromaniac--
let me try, baby, try.
"It's weird calling your lover by his last name," she breathed confidingly, with that dry little grin on her face that wasn't quite as happy as it should be, hidden behind a curtain of dyed hair. But he could hear it in the tone of her voice as she raised herself on her elbows, regarding him from above, and an answering smile flashed across his own face briefly.
"Yeah, but it's weirder hearing you calling me John," he whispered in reply to the accompaniment of softly rustling sheets and the smooth secretive tones of skin against skin. They were both mere shapes in the darkness, mere ghosts disturbing the silence.
"Well, John is so common..."
"Ahh, but Abigail Williams was the one who screwed John Proctor over completely," he reminded her knowledgeably, shifting position slightly to get more comfortable. He felt the frown she directed at him.
"Are you saying I'm a wanton Puritan teenager?" she asked, shifting her own position in response to his restless movements, planting herself firmly over him with an arm on either side of his body, pinioning him.
He grinned despite himself. "You'd make a terrible Puritan," he told her teasingly.
She slid a hand under his head and tickled his ear, leaning into him. "Yeah, but just think what I could have done in those dresses," she breathed, and he shivered, a little laugh escaping his mouth, and she grinned secretively in response, lying back again next to him and making herself comfortable.
I propped my window up and then
I turned my back to lure you in
to rifle through what I might have been--
let me try, baby, try.
They lay for a long time, neither sleeping, listening instead to the silence of each other's breathing. She had an arm wrapped around his chest, the fine hairs on her arm tickling against the fine hairs on his chest, and she thought of static cling with a half-hearted smile that flashed momentarily across her face. Her other arm was falling asleep underneath her, but she was content to stay where she was, content simply with the touch of her lover. The pillows were cool against her cheek, but the covers and his body were warm against the rest of her, and she was happy. A slight frown drifted across her features.
"I won't hide anymore," she said presently, words sliding into the comforting night and fitting themselves neatly into the silence. "But you don't have to worry about my drinking." She was content, and she didn't trust it, because she wasn't used to contentment. She knew she was messing things up that didn't need to be any more messed up, but she couldn't let it go. She didn't want anyone walking away again.
He sighed in the darkness, but instead of pulling away began rubbing lightly at the arm she had carelessly thrown across him. It was an unconscious gesture, a fidget. "I worry," he said simply. "I can't help it. I know what it's like—"
She raised her head and laid a finger over his lips, staring down at him through a curtain of dyed hair. She was pale in the darkness, and he could clearly see the frank look of her eyes as she regarded him. "It's under control," she said. "I'm in control."
His eyes were soft, the cast of his face, also glimmering pale, young but aged with sad wisdom. "That's what I used to say." He looked away, shaking his head in frustration. "Do we have to talk about this now?" he asked plaintively. "Not now, Abby...please, not now."
She refused to look away from his eyes, and the hand she'd held over his mouth moved to caress the side of his face in an attempt to relax the tension she could see there in his jaw. "Alright," she acquiesced even as she fought against it, "not now." She leant down and quickly kissed his lips before settling herself down again, slipping her arm under his neck, the other still possessing his chest. He drew deeper into her touch in silent agreement, turning on his side to look at her. He reached out with a gentle hand to play with a strand of hair on her forehead. She returned his gaze, letting him know she trusted him, letting him know he could trust her. He could trust her.
We have crossed the Rubicon
our ship awash, our rudder gone;
the rats have fled but I'm hanging on--
let me try, baby, try.
"Seducer," he whispered after another long silence. "You are Abigail."
"But I'm not half so bitchy," she replied just as quietly, with another secretive grin.
"Yeah, but I'd love to see you in one of those dresses." The smile on his face was sudden, brilliant, a crack in the clouds to let in the moonlight. She basked in it and didn't resist the urge to snuggle closer.
"Kinky," she grinned back and kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips. He caught her lips with his own on the last one, and they mutually suspended the moment with a practiced ease.
They broke off after a moment, but she stayed wrapped around him, unwilling to let go. He had his eyes closed, a contented look on his face. She breathed out silently, a tension releasing itself somewhere inside her body, so unobtrusive she couldn't define where. She kissed him again on the forehead, lightly, before settling back.
"This is good," he sighed in satisfaction, eyes fluttering open to gaze at her. A half-smile flitted across her face in agreement even as her heart ached.
"I'm happy," she told him, the depthness of her sincerity surprising her anew. She wasn't sure he got that. She had to make him understand that. No more walking away. "I'm happy with you."
He wrapped his own arms around her, bringing his entire body closer to hers in the bed. It was his turn to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. "So'm I," he breathed in her ear and rested his head again on the pillow. He smiled at her, and his eyes closed, and soon his breathing deepened, evened out. She listened to it, the way an insomniac listens to the ticking of a clock. Unlike the clock, his breathing soothed her, smoothed away the rough edges, the jagged tears, the bruised spots. She matched her breathing with his own and fell gradually asleep, holding him tightly in her arms.
Baby, please--let me begin;
let me be your heroin.
Hate the sinner but love the sin--
let me be your heroin.
Baby, please--let me begin;
let me be your heroin.
Hate the sinner but love the sin--
let me be your heroin.