Fairy Tale No Longer

Chapter One (**revised**)

Disclaimer: You know the drill. (Ok, ok, I own nothing, Baz Luhrmann and Craig Pierce own everything-am I off the hook now?)

A/N: This story is inspired by and a follow-up to (if that is possible) Yvi's superb "Palingenesis", which is a realistic "alternative universe" look at what might really have happened if Satine had lived. Therefore, you MUST read it RIGHT NOW to know where this is coming from (if you are seeking fluff, kindly seek elsewhere.) She really has been my MR fanfic muse, and I can't give her enough credit. I also credit and recommend Yvi's "Le Temps Perdu" as well as mao's incredible trilogy, "Queen Bitch", "Love is my Religion", "Our Secret", for making me rethink the whole Satine/Nini dynamic (Nini will make an appearance in a later chapter-unless she doesn't want to & tells me to **** off.) The rating will probably be changed in later chapters if/when more explicit "adult" content appears. This is my first fanfic and some of my first writing in ten years, so constructive criticism will be warmly welcomed. (Thank you to Yvi, Tani, She's a Star and Black Tangled Heart for the early encouragement and nitpicks.) Flames will be lovingly ignored.

You can tell that brevity is not my strong suite. Consider yourselves forewarned, gentle reader. And remember, no fluff. Now or ever.

Dedicated to Yvi, naturally. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perhaps she tried to take the wine bottle away from him when she thought he'd had more than enough-and he hotly disagreed. Perhaps a quantity of pills, or a blood-soaked handkerchief, fell from her pocket onto the floor in front of him, instantly making a lie of her claims of being on the mend. Perhaps she scattered a few morsels of bread to the sparrows congregating on the window ledge, and he scolded her for the waste of food and money. Or maybe it had nothing to do with her at all. Maybe frayed nerves were grated further by the racket of musicians and whores in the overhead apartment, drinking, dancing and copulating at all hours. Or maybe tender hands froze and sullen moods flared because there was no money to buy coal for the tiny, pot-bellied stove. Maybe a publisher's rejection letter came in the mail that afternoon, another in a growing pile to be tossed in the rubbish bin. Perhaps there was no reason at all. The "why" didn't matter. It never does.

Sometimes, afterwards, in the cold, grey hours of dawn, Christian would apologize to her. He'd come stumbling back from the dance halls or God only knew where else (please, not the bordellos, she prayed) drunk on wine or absinthe. Or else he'd return stone-cold sober, having spent the entire night walking off his anger on beneath hissing streetlamps. He'd sink on the edge of the mattress beside her, his gaze on the floor, her's somewhere beyond the window. He never talked about it, and neither did she. Just a simple "I'm sorry. Forgive me." For a poet, he was a man of few words.

And she would cry and bury herself in his arms, and forgive him completely. Until the next time.

It became a routine between them, as well-rehearsed as the script of his play had once been. She became accustomed to the arguments in time, the foolish and unpredictable storm of tempers for reasons immediately forgotten. When she was too weak to argue back or defend herself, she could only listen, mute, as he rained invective upon her. Her past was a weapon which he wielded against her with increasing frequency.
"You said you didn't want to lie anymore-no more lies, remember? You haven't changed at all, Satine--you're the same whore you always were!"
The words pained her more than the occasional slap-that only stung for a moment, really. If only he wouldn't strike her on the face. Hard to pretend to the world that everything was sweetness and light with a bruise on one's cheek.
"You don't mean that," she might say at times, with more hope than conviction.
"I meant every word of it." Then later, softly, from his typewriter, back turned to her: "No, I didn't mean it."
Then came the apology-the inevitable apology. After so many repetitions his words rang hollow, and she no longer bothered to cry, but there was still that moment when, genuinely contrite, he allowed her to snuggle against him. Pressing her face against his rough woolen coat, she felt his softness underneath-or what there was left of it-and wordlessly forgave him. Again.

He still does love me, she told herself. He must.