Just nursing this ghost of a chance
Mar. 6th, 2010 01:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impersonaHERE IS YET ANOTHER STORY IN WHICH MARA MUST ENTERTAIN A DRUNK. PROBABLY MORE DISTURBING THAN ANGIE'S STORY. Also, spy the homage to a different drinking story!
Had the same old problem where I wrote the dialogue first, and had trouble filling in the in-betweens later. I really need to figure out a way to work around this.
"You're done."
"Not."
"You lost."
"Not losing."
"Deon." Mara lifted the side of the tablecloth. He knew her face well, but now, he was startled at how she appeared very confusingly upside-down. "You're under the table."
He back stared up at her, and struggled for a moment to follow her point. "Oh." He rolled so that his head rest on his elbow. "Just for..." and Deon waved his hand, for no obvious purpose, until he found his explanation- "Surprise attack." He peered at her, raised his finger. "Soon."
She appeared less than intimidated. Mara overturned the drink of the night, and stared up the neck of the emptied vodka bottle. "There is no way we were drinking the same thing," she said, only partly as a question. "Don't tell me Walker fed you something earlier."
His attempt to stare her down died when he started laughing uncontrollably in response. "No way. His brownies like, suck." He snickered hard, pressing his hand over his mouth to try to keep it in. "A half-bake sale."
"Deon. Giggle-fit." Mara dropped the dark red tablecloth, so he couldn't see her face anymore. "Loni gave you something."
He couldn't remember drinking with Loni. Then he realized Mara didn't mean recently. And meant food, not shots. Plus Loni couldn't drink, or wouldn't, any clever kid could drink if they really wanted to...Deon furrowed his eyebrows, having completely forgotten about what he meant to think about in the first place. He wanted chips now too. He put his arm over his head and waved it somewhere behind him, tugging at the tablecloth insistently.
"No. To whatever you want." Mara peeked under again, nothing more than a glance. "Don't end up on your back."
He snorted hard, and fell into more inappropriate snickers. "I'll tell you. I never do."
She knocked him in the head with her knee, which really didn't do much else to either help or addle him. Deon lay there and listened to what she was doing, and heard the shuffling of plastic and glass on the table above. The bottom of the table was only a short distance above him, and he pressed his palm against it, felt the movement occurring over the tabletop.
When Deon spoke, it was quietly, almost thoughtfully. "Earthquake."
Mara stopped her fussing above the table for a moment. "What?"
His tone was sharper this time, annoyed at having to repeat himself. "Stuff. Moving."
"I'm making a mess," she said, thunking down another glass. "Cause loser cleans in the morning. Remember?"
He did, vaguely, but didn't think to say anything to confirm it. He wondered if he should get up. Deon shifted, stretching out his legs and twisting his back around, until he was perfectly on his side. Again, his hand moved over the wood underside of the table, pausing, and retouching one patch in particular where he felt some small grooves. "Huh. Writing."
"On this table?" Mara shifted, probably reaching over the glasses to the place he had been drinking at. "If you're not lying, then I'll kill who did it."
"Awesome." He grinned wide, nearly laughed again. "You say that thing, things like that, and it's awesome."
"I can't believe..." Though the table, he could hear her heavy, wearied sigh. "Okay, Deon. What's the writing say?"
Her knees and legs moved again, though he couldn't start guessing why she moved the way she did at this point. His eyes rolled backwards, looking over the fringe of his orange hair to her moving knees, up to her thighs and hips.
"Don't know," he said. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt dry. "I can't read."
She knocked her knuckles on the table. "Not news to me."
Keeping his hand up was too much effort, made him feel a bit dizzy, which would not do. He tried to grab the tablecloth again, though he missed and his hand hit her knee instead. He drew both of his hands back then, under his chest, with the intention of pushing himself upright. He had to get more shots. "Hey. Forgot. I pour next?"
She kicked both of her legs forward, intruding in on his space. He nearly rolled his face into her jeans before he figured it out. "No."
"Oh." He sunk back down. "Wait. Hey..." he started, but lost his line abuptly. Deon stared down, towards the jarring end of her line of dark jeans - ankle socks. The bright white socks struck him as absolutely out of place, maddening somehow to his fogged brain. He stayed where he was for a half-minute, dead-still and silent, waiting. She shifted her foot, and he lunged forward in spite of all of the sloshing in his gut.
He tugged off the sock further from him first, yanking it off cleanly. Mara thrashed as soon as she understood she was under attack, and she tried to draw her other leg back, but he pinned her knee down with his arm. The second sock took a few more seconds to wrestle off of her, and when he got it, he laughed in his triumph. He rolled back onto his side, staring at the fabric, then mashed the socks into a ball between his hands.
"Deon," he heard, and wondered at the rather cool tone she said it in. Mara lifted up the tablecloth completely, leaned forward. Even if he were sober, he couldn't begin to read the look she gave him. "What the hell."
"Surprise attack." He narrowed his eyes, drew himself up on his elbows, and threw the socks clear over her shoulder. Even his voice sported a sudden, shocking passion. "I told you. I. Hate. Socks."
"Okay. Too weird for me." Mara pulled her legs away (unhindered, as she didn't have the offending socks on anymore), and stood up. Deon stared, watched as her feet moved until they were out of his sight. "I hope you find the couch," she called out.
"Not over," he repeated, pointing at her. Deon meant to get up, to follow her and make her finish this. But the crook of his elbow was too warm, and the darkness of the table too pleasant for his aching eyes. He turned his face into his arm, and stayed there until Dusty tripped over him in the morning.
Had the same old problem where I wrote the dialogue first, and had trouble filling in the in-betweens later. I really need to figure out a way to work around this.
"You're done."
"Not."
"You lost."
"Not losing."
"Deon." Mara lifted the side of the tablecloth. He knew her face well, but now, he was startled at how she appeared very confusingly upside-down. "You're under the table."
He back stared up at her, and struggled for a moment to follow her point. "Oh." He rolled so that his head rest on his elbow. "Just for..." and Deon waved his hand, for no obvious purpose, until he found his explanation- "Surprise attack." He peered at her, raised his finger. "Soon."
She appeared less than intimidated. Mara overturned the drink of the night, and stared up the neck of the emptied vodka bottle. "There is no way we were drinking the same thing," she said, only partly as a question. "Don't tell me Walker fed you something earlier."
His attempt to stare her down died when he started laughing uncontrollably in response. "No way. His brownies like, suck." He snickered hard, pressing his hand over his mouth to try to keep it in. "A half-bake sale."
"Deon. Giggle-fit." Mara dropped the dark red tablecloth, so he couldn't see her face anymore. "Loni gave you something."
He couldn't remember drinking with Loni. Then he realized Mara didn't mean recently. And meant food, not shots. Plus Loni couldn't drink, or wouldn't, any clever kid could drink if they really wanted to...Deon furrowed his eyebrows, having completely forgotten about what he meant to think about in the first place. He wanted chips now too. He put his arm over his head and waved it somewhere behind him, tugging at the tablecloth insistently.
"No. To whatever you want." Mara peeked under again, nothing more than a glance. "Don't end up on your back."
He snorted hard, and fell into more inappropriate snickers. "I'll tell you. I never do."
She knocked him in the head with her knee, which really didn't do much else to either help or addle him. Deon lay there and listened to what she was doing, and heard the shuffling of plastic and glass on the table above. The bottom of the table was only a short distance above him, and he pressed his palm against it, felt the movement occurring over the tabletop.
When Deon spoke, it was quietly, almost thoughtfully. "Earthquake."
Mara stopped her fussing above the table for a moment. "What?"
His tone was sharper this time, annoyed at having to repeat himself. "Stuff. Moving."
"I'm making a mess," she said, thunking down another glass. "Cause loser cleans in the morning. Remember?"
He did, vaguely, but didn't think to say anything to confirm it. He wondered if he should get up. Deon shifted, stretching out his legs and twisting his back around, until he was perfectly on his side. Again, his hand moved over the wood underside of the table, pausing, and retouching one patch in particular where he felt some small grooves. "Huh. Writing."
"On this table?" Mara shifted, probably reaching over the glasses to the place he had been drinking at. "If you're not lying, then I'll kill who did it."
"Awesome." He grinned wide, nearly laughed again. "You say that thing, things like that, and it's awesome."
"I can't believe..." Though the table, he could hear her heavy, wearied sigh. "Okay, Deon. What's the writing say?"
Her knees and legs moved again, though he couldn't start guessing why she moved the way she did at this point. His eyes rolled backwards, looking over the fringe of his orange hair to her moving knees, up to her thighs and hips.
"Don't know," he said. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt dry. "I can't read."
She knocked her knuckles on the table. "Not news to me."
Keeping his hand up was too much effort, made him feel a bit dizzy, which would not do. He tried to grab the tablecloth again, though he missed and his hand hit her knee instead. He drew both of his hands back then, under his chest, with the intention of pushing himself upright. He had to get more shots. "Hey. Forgot. I pour next?"
She kicked both of her legs forward, intruding in on his space. He nearly rolled his face into her jeans before he figured it out. "No."
"Oh." He sunk back down. "Wait. Hey..." he started, but lost his line abuptly. Deon stared down, towards the jarring end of her line of dark jeans - ankle socks. The bright white socks struck him as absolutely out of place, maddening somehow to his fogged brain. He stayed where he was for a half-minute, dead-still and silent, waiting. She shifted her foot, and he lunged forward in spite of all of the sloshing in his gut.
He tugged off the sock further from him first, yanking it off cleanly. Mara thrashed as soon as she understood she was under attack, and she tried to draw her other leg back, but he pinned her knee down with his arm. The second sock took a few more seconds to wrestle off of her, and when he got it, he laughed in his triumph. He rolled back onto his side, staring at the fabric, then mashed the socks into a ball between his hands.
"Deon," he heard, and wondered at the rather cool tone she said it in. Mara lifted up the tablecloth completely, leaned forward. Even if he were sober, he couldn't begin to read the look she gave him. "What the hell."
"Surprise attack." He narrowed his eyes, drew himself up on his elbows, and threw the socks clear over her shoulder. Even his voice sported a sudden, shocking passion. "I told you. I. Hate. Socks."
"Okay. Too weird for me." Mara pulled her legs away (unhindered, as she didn't have the offending socks on anymore), and stood up. Deon stared, watched as her feet moved until they were out of his sight. "I hope you find the couch," she called out.
"Not over," he repeated, pointing at her. Deon meant to get up, to follow her and make her finish this. But the crook of his elbow was too warm, and the darkness of the table too pleasant for his aching eyes. He turned his face into his arm, and stayed there until Dusty tripped over him in the morning.
