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[veronica mars] the bitterness which opens its laugh - r
Originally posted: 27 March 2007
Title: the bitterness which opens its laugh
rating: R, for language
length: approx. 600 words
fandom: vmars (mac, dick, veronica)
A/N: Set between S2 and S3. Title is from the Dada Manifesto by Tristan Tzara. Section titles are quotes from VMars.
THANK YOU to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inkdot for being generally and specifically awesome. ♥!!
a. there's all this pressure
After the hotel, after the paramedics, after the police and everything else that can't possibly have happened, the first thing she does is rip down the stiff plastic curtain in her bathroom and put up a soft fabric one. Without a liner, the spray soaks through and drips and runs onto the floor. She covers the mirror with a damp towel and splashes her toes in the puddles. Her mom bitches about how much laundry detergent she's wasting, doing three loads of towels a week, but she wasn't supposed to hear that. Besides, she likes the way the wet fabric squishes under her feet as it soaks up the water.
The counselor suggests that she try taking baths instead, as though the simple act of showering is all that's holding her back. That it's keeping her locked in this cycle of reliving That Night, wallowing in misery and shame and guilt. As if it doesn't happen whenever she gets online, or turns on the TV, or breathes. She nods and says she'll try it. She does, only once, and stretches out naked with a few inches of soapy water to shield her. She's laid bare and helpless and her skin crawls as she climbs from the tub.
Showering isn't the problem after all, she thinks as she wraps herself in a fluffy towel and finally looks at her reflection in the mirror. But she knew that already.
b. try not to be
He wonders if it's possible to drown inside a bottle that fits into one hand. Learning about shit like that would make physics a thousand times more interesting, instead of all this velocity crap and fucking black holes and whatever.
Wu's still a prissy little bitch, but it's kind of comforting to know that some things are constant even when everything else in the world turns itself on its ass and shits all over you. He overheard some freshman chicks whispering in the hallway, wondering why he didn't play the trauma card to get out of summer school. It honestly didn't even occur to him. He just drifted from one hangover to another and then showed up at school without realizing what he was doing. He does remember that he spent the night before the funeral fucking some trashy stripper in the parking lot of some bar and the next morning dripping vomit and snot and tears into the toilet.
When Big Dick calls to see how he's doing, three days after he smoked a joint with his brother's shiny new headstone, he agrees to fly down for a week or two.
He spends the last day on the island with a bag of ice wrapped around the knuckles of one hand, still stained with the old bastard's blood. It doesn't even start to make up for anything but it feels fucking awesome.
c. vagabond shoes and all
She stands in front of the cracked glass, head tilted to one side and one eye tightly closed. It's only been about five minutes but her neck is already so tight it feels like it's going to pop. She takes a step back, then another, and another. The audio tour is still droning in her ears as she waves the next person in line up to the viewing area marked out on the floor. The guy hesitates, asks if she's sure she's finished.
She says yes, with a smile, and walks out into the bright sunshine. Her phone rings as she walks through the sculpture garden and she hails a cab to take her back to the hotel. It's time to stop peering at broken pieces and look at something smooth and whole for a change.
___
A/N: In case you're wondering what the hell that last part was, try these:
http://nyc.moma.museum/exhibitions/2006/dada.html
http://tinyurl.com/24bpfb
originally xposted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
veronicamarsfic
Title: the bitterness which opens its laugh
rating: R, for language
length: approx. 600 words
fandom: vmars (mac, dick, veronica)
A/N: Set between S2 and S3. Title is from the Dada Manifesto by Tristan Tzara. Section titles are quotes from VMars.
THANK YOU to
inkdot for being generally and specifically awesome. ♥!! a. there's all this pressure
After the hotel, after the paramedics, after the police and everything else that can't possibly have happened, the first thing she does is rip down the stiff plastic curtain in her bathroom and put up a soft fabric one. Without a liner, the spray soaks through and drips and runs onto the floor. She covers the mirror with a damp towel and splashes her toes in the puddles. Her mom bitches about how much laundry detergent she's wasting, doing three loads of towels a week, but she wasn't supposed to hear that. Besides, she likes the way the wet fabric squishes under her feet as it soaks up the water.
The counselor suggests that she try taking baths instead, as though the simple act of showering is all that's holding her back. That it's keeping her locked in this cycle of reliving That Night, wallowing in misery and shame and guilt. As if it doesn't happen whenever she gets online, or turns on the TV, or breathes. She nods and says she'll try it. She does, only once, and stretches out naked with a few inches of soapy water to shield her. She's laid bare and helpless and her skin crawls as she climbs from the tub.
Showering isn't the problem after all, she thinks as she wraps herself in a fluffy towel and finally looks at her reflection in the mirror. But she knew that already.
b. try not to be
He wonders if it's possible to drown inside a bottle that fits into one hand. Learning about shit like that would make physics a thousand times more interesting, instead of all this velocity crap and fucking black holes and whatever.
Wu's still a prissy little bitch, but it's kind of comforting to know that some things are constant even when everything else in the world turns itself on its ass and shits all over you. He overheard some freshman chicks whispering in the hallway, wondering why he didn't play the trauma card to get out of summer school. It honestly didn't even occur to him. He just drifted from one hangover to another and then showed up at school without realizing what he was doing. He does remember that he spent the night before the funeral fucking some trashy stripper in the parking lot of some bar and the next morning dripping vomit and snot and tears into the toilet.
When Big Dick calls to see how he's doing, three days after he smoked a joint with his brother's shiny new headstone, he agrees to fly down for a week or two.
He spends the last day on the island with a bag of ice wrapped around the knuckles of one hand, still stained with the old bastard's blood. It doesn't even start to make up for anything but it feels fucking awesome.
c. vagabond shoes and all
She stands in front of the cracked glass, head tilted to one side and one eye tightly closed. It's only been about five minutes but her neck is already so tight it feels like it's going to pop. She takes a step back, then another, and another. The audio tour is still droning in her ears as she waves the next person in line up to the viewing area marked out on the floor. The guy hesitates, asks if she's sure she's finished.
She says yes, with a smile, and walks out into the bright sunshine. Her phone rings as she walks through the sculpture garden and she hails a cab to take her back to the hotel. It's time to stop peering at broken pieces and look at something smooth and whole for a change.
___
A/N: In case you're wondering what the hell that last part was, try these:
http://nyc.moma.museum/exhibitions/2006/dada.html
http://tinyurl.com/24bpfb
originally xposted to
veronicamarsfic