Disclaimer: The characters are not my creation, the situation is.
Note: I missed much of season 3, so this should be classified as an AU, occurring during late S3; post-"Twilight."
Brenda can't figure out exactly why Claire called, and she doesn't care enough to come out and ask. If she had to come up with a reason, she could think of a few, anyway.
So she picks her up, and they drive through the Valley, with no particular destination. "Where are we going?" she finally asks.
Claire shrugs.
"Okay," she says.
"I just wanted to talk to someone who isn't, like, related to me."
"Okay," she repeats, trying to smile. "I know the feeling." Not like she had anything better to do with her afternoon. The thought isn't tinged with bitterness; it's true.
Claire looks over, a little nervous: "No offense."
It takes Brenda a minute to realize what she means: that by this time this year, she and Nate could have been married.
God.
"None taken," she assures her.
Claire is silent. Brenda guesses that means she wants her to talk. So she does.
Their relationship is familiar enough that they can talk openly about things Claire wouldn't discuss with her brothers and certainly not her mother, but not familiar enough for Claire to totally relax.
Brenda can't help but be amused by the way Claire clams up sometimes when she gets to the good part, and she has come to be able to predict at what point in one of Claire's stories she'll shut her mouth, having given away too much; something might get back to Nate, and by extension the rest of the clan. Why she cares, Brenda doesn't know, but she remembers how she held her tongue around Ruth, showing what she felt at the time was remarkable restraint. Something archaic about traditional roles and things that should be taboo, things that shouldn't even be done, much less talked about. So she doesn't say anything.
Brenda, on the other hand, feels comfortable talking about personal things, or maybe she just likes to watch Claire squirm, blush, look away. She pretends she's jaded, that she's heard it all before, but there's a moment right before she rearranges her features to reflect her boredom where her true reaction is revealed.
She selects specific stories from her past to tell, nothing too shocking, nothing too boring. Nothing that would make Claire look at her the way Nate sometimes does. (Did.)
Claire seems intimidated. Brenda likes that. She doesn't mind filling the sudden silences herself; she keeps a close eye on Claire.
"I don't know about you," Claire finally says, after the startling conclusion of Brenda's third story, "but I could use a drink."
What's it been, four days?
Who cares?
"All right," Brenda agrees.
-----
"It's pathetic," Claire moans, tongue finally loosened sufficiently. "These guys... all of them. Pathetic. I'm pathetic for wanting them."
"This is normal, you're young," she says perfunctorily, dispensing the advice someone in this position is supposed to dole out. She plays with her glass, rolling it between both hands. "What's pathetic is when you're still making bad choices--no offense--at my age."
Claire shrugs.
She can't resist. "Know the last person who kissed me?"
Claire gets a familiar look; Brenda reads it as, I don't know why you're telling me this, but I won't stop you because I kind of want to know. "Who?"
"Billy," she answers matter-of-factly, staring into her near-empty glass.
Claire's face contorts: why did you tell me? "God, that's disgusting."
"Believe me, it wasn't my idea." (This time.)
She shakes her head, swings her legs like a little girl, looks up at the ceiling. What is there to say?
"So," Brenda says brightly, changing the subject. "Feeling any better?"
Claire laughs. "Not really."
"One of us should have been watching our liquor," she suddenly realizes through the fog inside her head. "Probably me."
"Too late now," Claire says, finishing off her fifth drink.
Shit. She should have paid attention, should have planned ahead. Force of habit not to; if she'd been alone she would have thought nothing of driving home. But not with Claire--if something were to happen, it would only make things even worse than they already are.
"I think I saw a motel about a block away. We could walk. I have some money," Claire offers.
"Don't worry about it," she says dismissively, waving a hand, leaving Claire to wonder whether she means she doesn't mind driving home in this state or paying for the room for the time it takes her to finish her own drink.
This is how she finds herself staring down a pimple-faced desk clerk, writing down her real name for once, because she's too tired to be creative. (A double, of course.)
"We should have gotten more to drink," Claire says, sitting on the edge of the bed she's claimed as her own, like she is a kid and this is an adventure.
"We should get some sleep," Brenda corrects, because she is the responsible adult here, and she almost wishes she could say that, or even think it, with a straight face.
-----
They lie in the same bed, not touching, staring at the television: the eleven o'clock news. She'd change it, but they already lost the remote somewhere in the bedsheets a couple of hours ago.
On the nightstand there are several small bottles of liquor; this is a subject about which Brenda does feel qualified to offer advice--to avoid a violent fit of vomiting, don't mix different types of alcohol in the same evening, and don't buy anything cheap with a label you don't recognize.
"Maybe this was a bad idea," Claire admits. "I don't feel any better. Just gross."
"What happened?" she finally asks, feeling the air in the room rise, leaving her behind.
Claire doesn't say anything.
"Why am I here?" she prods.
"Just..." She picks at a loose thread on the bedspread. "Russell."
"Weren't you the one who--"
"Yeah." She covers her face with both hands. "I don't know what my problem is," she says, the sound pleasantly muffled.
"It's normal," Brenda says, grasping for words, pretending she's listening, pretending she really cares. "You're young."
"You said that already." Brenda looks over. She's smiling.
"I'm sorry," she says without remorse. "I'm not very good at this. I thought you knew that."
"I did. I do. It's okay."
"You fucked him again?" Claire looks surprised, briefly; Brenda mentally amends: sorry, I'm an insensitive bitch. I guess I meant 'slept with.'
"No," she says, like she never considered it, which means she did.
"You wanted to."
She gets a look Brenda recognizes right away: I can't tell if you're judging me or not, so fuck you anyway for good measure. "No." She hesitates. "Kind of."
"Believe me," Brenda exhales, "I know the feeling."
"You said that before, too."
"It was true both times."
Claire laughs, even though it isn't funny. "You're talking about Nate," she guesses.
"No," Brenda says. "Definitely not."
Claire turns her head to look at her. There's a matter of inches between them.
All right, fuck it. Tomorrow she'll blame it on the liquor if the question is asked. Maybe she'll get lucky and forget all about it by morning.
Brenda kisses her, but it's Claire who moves to be on top, makes the first move south. She's impressed.
She wants to say: fuck Nate, fuck his wife, and fuck that kid, because look at me now.
She wants to cry.
She does neither.
Instead she lets it happen.
-----
Claire puts on Brenda's shirt afterward--undoubtedly a gesture picked up from some sappy boy like Russell who thought it was sweet or sexy, a symbol of some kind of connection between them. All Brenda can think is: I would have hated to have a little sister. Second thought: It looks better on me.
She smiles anyway. The upside is, the longer Claire keeps it on, the more likely it is she'll absorb some of Brenda's scent to take home to Nate. He'll be confused at first, search for the source, and then the realization will burrow in, or at least that's how she imagines it might go.
Brenda helps Claire off with the shirt she's appropriated and presses her face into her collarbone, inhaling deeply. She recognizes her own perfume, which is oddly comforting. (Success.)
After the second time through, she finds herself posing; half on the bed, half off, feet on the floor, elbows on knees, lighting and smoking a cigarette. (Another nail in the coffin, thank God.) In her mind's eye she becomes a pencil sketch, hanging in an exhibition for his eyes to see. He'll recognize the way her hair is tangled, the self-loathing in her expression. He'll see, and he'll know.
She's almost turned on by that.
Claire watches her from the bed, of course, until the cigarette is finished and she gets up to take a shower. When she emerges a few minutes later, Claire is asleep. She gets the urge to get in the car and drive home without leaving a note, but it seems cruel. Brenda's not heartless; just tired.
So she sits on the edge of the other bed, manually flipping channels on the television, and she waits.
-----
When she pulls the car into the driveway, Claire smiles and looks out the window, not getting out right away. Brenda has a vague memory of high school boyfriends, and leans over and kisses her hard, figuring this is what she wants. It must be, because when she withdraws, Claire says, "See you later," and leaves. (Success.)
She glances up at the house, on the off chance there might be a face peeking out of one of the windows. There is; it's the little freak they've got working there now, the guy with the glasses and the dark hair. Not bad. He looks like he's probably managed to keep secrets of his own, though; she would rather have been seen by Rico, who wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut.
It doesn't matter. He'll find out. When he does, he'll never come back.
She supposes that was the point.
-----
Three days later, Claire's voice comes over the answering machine, sounding appropriately nervous in that I-can't-tell-if-you-think-this-meant-something way. Brenda's quite familiar with that tone. So is her answering machine.
She contemplates stopping the message, picking up the phone.
On the one hand, if she doesn't, maybe Claire will walk around looking miserable until someone asks her what's wrong, and maybe the story will spill out. Or maybe it's her silence that will inspire bad poetry and artistic renderings of herself reflected in Claire's memory.
But if she does, it's one more chance to mark her, leave some evidence he won't be able to ignore.
"Claire? Yeah, sorry, I was in the shower. Just got out." Maybe she should just pretend nothing happened.
Claire sounds relieved.
She wants to feel sorry for her. (She wants to stop this now.)
She can't.
(Failure.)
Note: I missed much of season 3, so this should be classified as an AU, occurring during late S3; post-"Twilight."
Brenda can't figure out exactly why Claire called, and she doesn't care enough to come out and ask. If she had to come up with a reason, she could think of a few, anyway.
So she picks her up, and they drive through the Valley, with no particular destination. "Where are we going?" she finally asks.
Claire shrugs.
"Okay," she says.
"I just wanted to talk to someone who isn't, like, related to me."
"Okay," she repeats, trying to smile. "I know the feeling." Not like she had anything better to do with her afternoon. The thought isn't tinged with bitterness; it's true.
Claire looks over, a little nervous: "No offense."
It takes Brenda a minute to realize what she means: that by this time this year, she and Nate could have been married.
God.
"None taken," she assures her.
Claire is silent. Brenda guesses that means she wants her to talk. So she does.
Their relationship is familiar enough that they can talk openly about things Claire wouldn't discuss with her brothers and certainly not her mother, but not familiar enough for Claire to totally relax.
Brenda can't help but be amused by the way Claire clams up sometimes when she gets to the good part, and she has come to be able to predict at what point in one of Claire's stories she'll shut her mouth, having given away too much; something might get back to Nate, and by extension the rest of the clan. Why she cares, Brenda doesn't know, but she remembers how she held her tongue around Ruth, showing what she felt at the time was remarkable restraint. Something archaic about traditional roles and things that should be taboo, things that shouldn't even be done, much less talked about. So she doesn't say anything.
Brenda, on the other hand, feels comfortable talking about personal things, or maybe she just likes to watch Claire squirm, blush, look away. She pretends she's jaded, that she's heard it all before, but there's a moment right before she rearranges her features to reflect her boredom where her true reaction is revealed.
She selects specific stories from her past to tell, nothing too shocking, nothing too boring. Nothing that would make Claire look at her the way Nate sometimes does. (Did.)
Claire seems intimidated. Brenda likes that. She doesn't mind filling the sudden silences herself; she keeps a close eye on Claire.
"I don't know about you," Claire finally says, after the startling conclusion of Brenda's third story, "but I could use a drink."
What's it been, four days?
Who cares?
"All right," Brenda agrees.
-----
"It's pathetic," Claire moans, tongue finally loosened sufficiently. "These guys... all of them. Pathetic. I'm pathetic for wanting them."
"This is normal, you're young," she says perfunctorily, dispensing the advice someone in this position is supposed to dole out. She plays with her glass, rolling it between both hands. "What's pathetic is when you're still making bad choices--no offense--at my age."
Claire shrugs.
She can't resist. "Know the last person who kissed me?"
Claire gets a familiar look; Brenda reads it as, I don't know why you're telling me this, but I won't stop you because I kind of want to know. "Who?"
"Billy," she answers matter-of-factly, staring into her near-empty glass.
Claire's face contorts: why did you tell me? "God, that's disgusting."
"Believe me, it wasn't my idea." (This time.)
She shakes her head, swings her legs like a little girl, looks up at the ceiling. What is there to say?
"So," Brenda says brightly, changing the subject. "Feeling any better?"
Claire laughs. "Not really."
"One of us should have been watching our liquor," she suddenly realizes through the fog inside her head. "Probably me."
"Too late now," Claire says, finishing off her fifth drink.
Shit. She should have paid attention, should have planned ahead. Force of habit not to; if she'd been alone she would have thought nothing of driving home. But not with Claire--if something were to happen, it would only make things even worse than they already are.
"I think I saw a motel about a block away. We could walk. I have some money," Claire offers.
"Don't worry about it," she says dismissively, waving a hand, leaving Claire to wonder whether she means she doesn't mind driving home in this state or paying for the room for the time it takes her to finish her own drink.
This is how she finds herself staring down a pimple-faced desk clerk, writing down her real name for once, because she's too tired to be creative. (A double, of course.)
"We should have gotten more to drink," Claire says, sitting on the edge of the bed she's claimed as her own, like she is a kid and this is an adventure.
"We should get some sleep," Brenda corrects, because she is the responsible adult here, and she almost wishes she could say that, or even think it, with a straight face.
-----
They lie in the same bed, not touching, staring at the television: the eleven o'clock news. She'd change it, but they already lost the remote somewhere in the bedsheets a couple of hours ago.
On the nightstand there are several small bottles of liquor; this is a subject about which Brenda does feel qualified to offer advice--to avoid a violent fit of vomiting, don't mix different types of alcohol in the same evening, and don't buy anything cheap with a label you don't recognize.
"Maybe this was a bad idea," Claire admits. "I don't feel any better. Just gross."
"What happened?" she finally asks, feeling the air in the room rise, leaving her behind.
Claire doesn't say anything.
"Why am I here?" she prods.
"Just..." She picks at a loose thread on the bedspread. "Russell."
"Weren't you the one who--"
"Yeah." She covers her face with both hands. "I don't know what my problem is," she says, the sound pleasantly muffled.
"It's normal," Brenda says, grasping for words, pretending she's listening, pretending she really cares. "You're young."
"You said that already." Brenda looks over. She's smiling.
"I'm sorry," she says without remorse. "I'm not very good at this. I thought you knew that."
"I did. I do. It's okay."
"You fucked him again?" Claire looks surprised, briefly; Brenda mentally amends: sorry, I'm an insensitive bitch. I guess I meant 'slept with.'
"No," she says, like she never considered it, which means she did.
"You wanted to."
She gets a look Brenda recognizes right away: I can't tell if you're judging me or not, so fuck you anyway for good measure. "No." She hesitates. "Kind of."
"Believe me," Brenda exhales, "I know the feeling."
"You said that before, too."
"It was true both times."
Claire laughs, even though it isn't funny. "You're talking about Nate," she guesses.
"No," Brenda says. "Definitely not."
Claire turns her head to look at her. There's a matter of inches between them.
All right, fuck it. Tomorrow she'll blame it on the liquor if the question is asked. Maybe she'll get lucky and forget all about it by morning.
Brenda kisses her, but it's Claire who moves to be on top, makes the first move south. She's impressed.
She wants to say: fuck Nate, fuck his wife, and fuck that kid, because look at me now.
She wants to cry.
She does neither.
Instead she lets it happen.
-----
Claire puts on Brenda's shirt afterward--undoubtedly a gesture picked up from some sappy boy like Russell who thought it was sweet or sexy, a symbol of some kind of connection between them. All Brenda can think is: I would have hated to have a little sister. Second thought: It looks better on me.
She smiles anyway. The upside is, the longer Claire keeps it on, the more likely it is she'll absorb some of Brenda's scent to take home to Nate. He'll be confused at first, search for the source, and then the realization will burrow in, or at least that's how she imagines it might go.
Brenda helps Claire off with the shirt she's appropriated and presses her face into her collarbone, inhaling deeply. She recognizes her own perfume, which is oddly comforting. (Success.)
After the second time through, she finds herself posing; half on the bed, half off, feet on the floor, elbows on knees, lighting and smoking a cigarette. (Another nail in the coffin, thank God.) In her mind's eye she becomes a pencil sketch, hanging in an exhibition for his eyes to see. He'll recognize the way her hair is tangled, the self-loathing in her expression. He'll see, and he'll know.
She's almost turned on by that.
Claire watches her from the bed, of course, until the cigarette is finished and she gets up to take a shower. When she emerges a few minutes later, Claire is asleep. She gets the urge to get in the car and drive home without leaving a note, but it seems cruel. Brenda's not heartless; just tired.
So she sits on the edge of the other bed, manually flipping channels on the television, and she waits.
-----
When she pulls the car into the driveway, Claire smiles and looks out the window, not getting out right away. Brenda has a vague memory of high school boyfriends, and leans over and kisses her hard, figuring this is what she wants. It must be, because when she withdraws, Claire says, "See you later," and leaves. (Success.)
She glances up at the house, on the off chance there might be a face peeking out of one of the windows. There is; it's the little freak they've got working there now, the guy with the glasses and the dark hair. Not bad. He looks like he's probably managed to keep secrets of his own, though; she would rather have been seen by Rico, who wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut.
It doesn't matter. He'll find out. When he does, he'll never come back.
She supposes that was the point.
-----
Three days later, Claire's voice comes over the answering machine, sounding appropriately nervous in that I-can't-tell-if-you-think-this-meant-something way. Brenda's quite familiar with that tone. So is her answering machine.
She contemplates stopping the message, picking up the phone.
On the one hand, if she doesn't, maybe Claire will walk around looking miserable until someone asks her what's wrong, and maybe the story will spill out. Or maybe it's her silence that will inspire bad poetry and artistic renderings of herself reflected in Claire's memory.
But if she does, it's one more chance to mark her, leave some evidence he won't be able to ignore.
"Claire? Yeah, sorry, I was in the shower. Just got out." Maybe she should just pretend nothing happened.
Claire sounds relieved.
She wants to feel sorry for her. (She wants to stop this now.)
She can't.
(Failure.)