Title: Fishin'
Pairing: Jack/Ennis
Rating: PG (Little language. Like... one word.)
Summary: Jack and Ennis consider actually fishing. Hell, their wives think their doing it...
WARNING: This is a story of two closer-then-friends men - realize it and love it (PG or not it may disturb some people. I don't want any trouble, so I warn.)
Disclaimer: Don't own these characters, though heaven knows I wish I did.
Author's Note: Very short one-shot. Extremely ridiculous and pointless. I don't expect feedback, but I would certainly enjoy it.
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Fishin'
Tipping the bottle back in a careless motion, intoxicating liquid dropping from the bottom of the bottle to the top with a loud 'kur-plunk', whiskey poured into the mans mouth with a sweet sensation. Mainly one for drinking beer like it was the core of life, whiskey was quite a treat that Ennis del Mar savored only for these 'fishing trips'.
Chuckling slightly at the - what? - tenth tip-o'-the-bottle he watched his old friend endure, Jack Twist leaned back against the long log, and took in the forest surroundings. Never changed much out here. Every time the two men came to this mountain, it (seemingly) managed to keep every blade of grass the same luscious-green color. Untouched. Un-bothered.
The rushing creek splashed noisily against the rocks, adding that peaceful touch to the late afternoon. It was no doubt perfect out here.
"Easy there, cowboy. It's still early."
Ennis was a little taken aback at the sudden sound of his companions voice. Turning his head ever so slightly, so that he could take the other man in through the corner of his eye, the 'cowboy' smiled lightly and nodded. "'Aint like there's anythin' better to do."
It was true. Difficult to tell what time it was, they figured a good gander at four o'clock was accurate enough... and it wasn't like they ever did anything too exciting this time of day. Sighing notably louder then necessary, Jack sunk lower to the ground, attempting to get lost in the surrounding sounds. It was no wonder as to why his head tipped up, just as yet another familiar 'kur-plunk' sounded off again.
"How 'bout we get out the 'ol fishin' poles?"
The fishing poles? Ennis looked blankly off into the distance, possibly examining the huge water spread out in front of them, or maybe trying to digest what was plainly offered.
"The fishin' poles?" Ennis slowly repeated after him.
"Yeah, I mean I still 'aint one for cookin', but maybe we could catch somethin'..." The casualty in his voice almost caused Ennis to let a low chuckle tumble out.
"The only thing them fishin' poles have been catchin' is dust. They 'aint good for nothin'. 'Cept... lieing."
Silence. Yes. The fishing poles were, in short, nothing to the duo but a con. A way to sneak out of their homes, their lives, their families, and just spend what few days they could together. Fishing trips. Lord knows the two probably couldn't even fish.
"Mm. 'Sides, I doubt there's a fish in tha' water, rodeo."
"Horseshit!"
Silence. Ennis exhaled, amused. Horseshit was right - they both knew there were plenty of fish in that creek. He just didn't want to collect 'em. Jack shuffled his feet around in front of him for a moment, and Ennis took another swig of whiskey.
Fishing.
Puh.
-End.