It's been too long. Waaaay too long.
And I'm super sorry. Like, seriously.
Every day since I last posted, I sat myself down in front of the computer, and told myself – in a very strict, no-nonsense tone of voice – that TODAY WAS THE DAY. The DAY TO WRITE. FINALLY.
Um, sure. Didn't happen. Had mad writer's block. Hence...the non-updating-ness.
But I found this thing, from manymany months ago, saved on my parents' computer. I barely remember writing it. It scares me. A lot. And when I read it at eleven at night, I got all teary and had a flash of those oh-my-goodness-why-is-my-empty-house-suddenly-so-terrifying? late-night jitters. But, hopefully this'll tide you over until I finish up IAmTotallyKewlio's gift, which is...
-drumroll-
Kid Flash/Jinx! Whoo! :D
Anyway. Enjoy. Be scared. Heaven knows I was, and I wrote it. (And here I have to give this a disparaging glance for the plot-less angst, because I really need to broaden my genres. Also, I feel compelled to add that when you look at the traditional tone of Cy/Bee fics, this version probably portrays them both as probablymaybereally OOC. But, what can you do?)
Have fun anyway. :)
Love 'n cupcakes, Phina
--
The screaming starts at nine in the morning.
It wasn't like this before. They used to save it for nighttime, when they were in bed, whispering sharp words under the covers before simultaneously turning their backs to each other, muffling their anger with blankets and pillows. And when there were too many words for nighttime, when the anger overflowed the one-hour-a-day they gave it, they allowed it a few minutes in the afternoon, just a couple of minutes to snap at each other before doing the typical kiss-and-make-up.
When they were younger, they never considered their differing priorities to be anything important. When they argued, it was cool, it was cute – just another "Oh, look, they must really care about each other to be so open about their opinions!" photo-op of a situation.
It was more than that. A lot more.
And somehow, the anger grew.
It was too big for just nighttime, too big for just a lunchtime spat. It flooded their days. It flooded their minds. They forgot they loved each other. They forgot every sweet word, every beautiful moment, every good-natured prank that had taken their separate bodies and fused them into one unbreakable link. Their angry words turned to angry shrieks. Their lover's spats turned to seething fights.
And now it had come to this.
Screaming.
"Damnit, Karen! What the hell is wrong with you?"
Her fingernails drove into the softness of her palm, leaving four reddened half-moons behind on the caramel skin. "Me? I'm not the one who conveniently forgot about our responsibilities!"
Vic slammed a fist down onto the counter, knocking a flower-filled vase that his mother had given Karen as an anniversary gift to the floor. It shattered as it collided with the linoleum, a jumble of rose petals and iridescent blue glass.
It was her heart, Karen thought wildly – her stupid, emotional heart, her heart that loved Vic too much. Her heart that loved him until it broke, her heart that loved him until it become nothing more than a shattered pile of what-could-have-been.
"I didn't forget," he snarled. "In case you've forgotten, I have bigger responsibilities than locking up every crappy villain that happens to pr – "
Karen pushed him into the wall, her eyes fiery. "That girl was raped, Vic! How do you think she feels right now, huh? How do you think I felt, when I had to sit down with her at the station and hand her tissues as she cried onto my shirt? When I had to explain to her why we couldn't be there to save her? When I had to shoot her full of morphine because she tried to kill herself with one of my stingers?"
He knocked her hands away. "You should have been there faster."
"What the hell, Vic? You should have gotten up off your ass and changed your goal in life from chugging a six-pack without passing out to being an actual hero!"
"You have no idea what my goal in life is!" he bellowed.
She punched him.
He stumbled backwards into the gleaming wood cabinets – found his balance again in a second, his eyes flinty and unreadable. His hands curled into fists, every muscle tensed, body stiff and terrifying. She was reminded in a gut-wrenching flash of how huge he was, how strong.
She took a step back – afraid of him – knowing she shouldn't be – feeling it anyway. Fear roiled in her belly, choking her throat, gripping her insides with thorns and ice. She couldn't move. She couldn't think.
They stood there for an eternity of nine seconds, frozen.
He moved stiffly, too-controlled, when he finally snatched his beautiful old leather jacket off the back of the kitchen chair. "I'll see you tomorrow," he finally said, and his words were a lash turned onto her own skin – so cold, so furious, that she felt herself shrink back against the wall. "But consider us now and forever divorced."
He slammed the back door so hard that the hinges twisted away from the wall. Every pane of glass smashed into the floor – and the only thing Karen could think of to do was sink to the floor, feeling hot, clumsy tears stumble down her cheeks; wondering how long it would take for her to be so dehydrated that she could no longer scream; wondering how the broken glass would feel slashing open her own skin; wondering if he'd care if she died; and, finally, wondering if it was so strange – with all that had happened – to hope that tomorrow would never, never come.