Becoming, Unbecoming
Feb. 4th, 2007 10:46 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
hostile-driver.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
popedishHi, I just joined the community (at the urging of ![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
grdnofevrythng), and I'm also posting this fanfic at the urging of grdnofevrythng as well. It's a crossover between Popular and dirt, and as of right now, is very much a one-shot. Also, thanks to wizened_cynic for beta'ing this - I truly appreciate it.
Title: Becoming, Unbecoming
Rating: PG-13 (there's like, one bad word)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
grdnofevrythng), and I'm also posting this fanfic at the urging of grdnofevrythng as well. It's a crossover between Popular and dirt, and as of right now, is very much a one-shot. Also, thanks to wizened_cynic for beta'ing this - I truly appreciate it.Title: Becoming, Unbecoming
Rating: PG-13 (there's like, one bad word)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
When Bad Things Happen to Good People
It wasn’t supposed to have happened like that.
Intellectually, Sam knew that nearly anything could happen to anyone. There were a million ways for someone to die, accidentally. Being struck by lightening, falling off a building, tripping down the stairs, terminal illness – and yes, being hit by a car. However, this had not been an accident; nor had it been any car.
It had been Nicole driving the car. Deliberately aiming for Brooke. And not swerving, not slowing down…but speeding up, and her aim staying true. For weeks after, Sam still couldn’t reconcile what she’d seen with her eyes with what she knew to be fact. She had spent hours at Brooke’s grave, her fingertips tracing the letters of her name, feeling the smooth graininess of stone, and it had stubbornly refused to lodge as a truth, as a fact, as reality, that Brooke was gone. Her Brooke was gone. Her Brooke was gone before she’d even had the chance to make Brooke truly hers.
To even tell her.
She’d ghosted her senior year through Kennedy. Thinking back, she was sure all of them had – but she hadn’t cared much for anybody else. She hadn’t even been able to muster up the righteous indignation that Nicole had deserved. She’d cared even less for Harrison’s never-ending sobbery, as if Brooke had loved him as much as he’d thought he’d loved her, and that their possible bright future had been torn apart.
Part of the reason she had come to despise him by time they graduated was that his deep woe was pure fabrication. He had chosen Brooke that prom night…and Brooke hadn’t chosen him back. Sam had crowed, he had begged, and Brooke had ran – and then Sam after her, only to watch—
It wasn’t supposed to have happened like that. Maybe they weren’t meant to be, and it was better that Sam had never told Brooke – but it didn’t mean that they weren’t meant to be in such a final way.
Accidents happened, yes, but this one…no. Not her Brooke. No.
Alice in Wonderland
Sam had run all the way to another coast to free herself from Brooke. Intellectually, she knew that wasn’t so much a possibility as a fantasy. She’d never gotten, and would never, get any type of closure. There would be no answers, just ‘could have beens,’ and ‘would have beens,’ and ‘may have beens’…even ‘should have beens’ that would just always stay out there in her mind with a question mark trailing.
Even more so, it wasn’t Brooke that kept her captive. It was her own mind, her own memories…remembered touches and scents. Even words, phrases, some meant to hurt, many, in fact, but cherished simply because that they had been uttered once by someone who had lived and she had loved and could not stop loving.
But she had tried. And that’s what the choice of a school in New York was about. It wasn’t about the journalism program, the job networking, or even the challenge of growing up – it was about her trying to sink herself into something away from sad eyes and still too closely held memories. Sam blamed herself for never telling Brooke, and she swore to herself that she would never ever again hold back from following her emotions, going with her gut, trying new things. Trying anything.
The first time she smoked, it was a cigarette. Bland, legal, and she had nearly choked. Her eyes had watered. The taste had been bitter. But she steeled herself – this is what everybody else did, and this was her trying something she hadn’t done before.
The second time she smoked, it had been a clove cigarette. Not bland, barely legal, and she hadn’t choked. The scent had been slightly cloying, but the taste was spicy, herby, complex. It had made her feel a little less dead, if not quite alive.
The third time, and then the fourth, and the fifth, and she lost count, it was different things. From different people – with different people. Sam was finding that she liked the gentle haze that she could float through her day with. In the haze, things weren’t as sharp, and memories weren’t as biting. Sometimes, she even stopped thinking about them. Part of her hated the distance from reality, because that wasn’t her, that wasn’t Sam McPherson the hard-driving journalist and seeker of the stone, cold truth … but part of her delighted in this softer side of life. She straddled the fence, tippling and pulling back, diving and retreating. She couldn’t quite give into the pull, but she couldn’t let herself turn away from the only thing that kept her slightly sane.
After her grades started teetering, and a surprise visit by her parents, and then their surprise when they caught her deeply engaged (deeply, pornographically, engaged with someone who obviously shared gender similarities), only for the icing on the cake to discover her small, if not varied, illegal stash – there were words. Words and phrases and shouting and anger, such anger (because Sam had tapped into her righteous indignation far too late for it to do anything other than dig a hole for herself), and then that was it.
That was it. She was Sam McPherson, but she was Sam McPherson all by herself.
Sam kept on. She barely hung onto her scholarship (for a semester), and she found herself sharing, distributing (selling) the more interesting items that she didn’t care to take herself to other friends, acquaintances, that had less qualms than she. Years under Bio-Glass’s tutelage had paid off, and she’d found herself dabbling…and with dabbling came more sharing, and then she had friends of friends, and acquaintances of acquaintances seeking her out – seeking her out for all their different reasons that eventually amounted to escape from a harsh reality.
One day, almost offhandedly, one of those separated by many degrees, asked her, “who are you?”
It was one of the stupidest questions she’d ever gotten. What idiot would buy from someone he didn’t even know.
But then it struck her as one of the more profound questions she’d ever gotten. Who was she? She wasn’t really Sam McPherson – that person had ceased to exist on a bloodied street more than two years ago. Who was she?
“Garbo.”
Garbo. How often did you get to choose, from a fresh slate, who you are?
Still, she was left with the bitter thought that she would trade anything, anything in the world, to not to have had to make that choice.
The Past Never Stays Dead
Having once been a reporter, Garbo could easily smell one a mile away. Let alone right in front of her.
She had been tempted to immediately toss her out. She had a lingering respect for investigative journalism and its adherents, but that wasn’t what had stopped her. No, it had been one look. One glance, and maybe it was the lingering effect of the rather potent weed she’d smoked in the afternoon, but it was Brooke come to life. It was…it wasn’t, but it was, it was –
So she let her in. Stared at her. Talked bullshit to her about drugs she knew this semi-milquetoast wannabe investigative (i.e. tabloid, it was in Hollywood that they lived) journalist knew nothing about, wanted nothing to do with… and kept looking. Knowing that all this girl wanted out of her was admittance that she knew Connie Criss (which she did). That Connie Criss took drugs (which she did in large quantities, dangerous quantities, dangerous qualities, and quantities and qualities and methods likely to leave her dead in a ditch).
It must have been the weed directing her steps because she found herself capitalizing on this girl’s obvious single-minded goal.
“I just figured that you were a narc and I was going to have to kill you before you left.”
That was the lead up, and Garbo was rewarded with a hesitant, and pretty, smile. It left her aching.
She played her lines, pushed for the cash, checked her out in the process, and then laid out the hook.
“You’ve got to try this. On the house.”
For a second, Garbo thought that the girl (Brooke-lite) would pull back. She pressed her a little harder – the girl fell right in. She chose something that would have an immediate effect. And it did.
Eyes dilated slightly as the girl took a deeper breath, and then Garbo nearly broke herself when she let the girl lick her finger. Especially since after she tucked her hair behind her ears, and for a second Garbo became Sam, and this was Brooke, and it was…
Too much. She turned away, glanced back at her, and then kept packing the bag. But when she walked back over to her, talking nonsense about Connie Criss (who Garbo wouldn’t touch if she was honestly the last female on the planet), she couldn’t resist one more touch (and allow one more lick) and steal a kiss from a girl meant for a girl who no longer had the benefit of taking or receiving such simple things.
Garbo actually smiled at the befuddlement. And she knew it was sad smile because this girl was too much like her Brooke. Too, too much for her to keep her near – she turned her around, pushed her away, let her go.
And then she went back to the kitchen, grabbed two tablets out of a canister on the counter, dry-swallowed, and actually prayed (honestly prayed to God for the first time in a very long time) that those tablets would help her forget the image of what could have been if what happened had never been.
Self-Deception
Julia had been an unexpected, but repeat, pleasure of living in the heart of sin. Garbo admitted that she had a genuine fondness for her, but she knew that it stopped just there. It was the comfort of familiarity, knowing the beast for what it was. And also that she knew that Julia came to her, chiefly, for her drugs, and then secondly for the side benefits that she chose to let her have.
If the order had been reversed, Garbo knew, she’d have stopped it long ago.
Still, she felt a little sad that Julia was wasting away. Right in front her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to give her anything else, knowing that her (friend?) was abusing her prescription pills, smoking too much, drinking too much, not eating enough, and having the major ego-disintegration that came with the knowledge that the world really did not wait at your feet.
“Garbo,” Julia husked (because this fake ingénue never actually spoke words), “what do you have?”
There were many things she had. Many things she could give. None of them would have been of any benefit to Julia right now. So, she chose the one thing that Julia couldn’t have, couldn’t handle, and thereby would be of some benefit to her.
“Oh, this is going to be weak,” Julia whispered, and then breathed in deeply from the joint that Garbo had given her.
Garbo smirked to herself as Julia’s eyes widened, her face changed color slightly, and she coughed.
“What is this?”
Garbo smiled again and leaned in, sliding her hands up familiar thighs. “Dope,” she said, and then took advantage (not so much of a challenge when it was easily given, as it had been in the past and would be for the foreseeable future) of Julia’s prone position, kissing her neck, her collarbone, her-
Score. Julia pushed away, running to the bathroom to toss her guts like the professional anorexic she was.
And any sympathy that she’d had drained away with that thought. Always, always back to Brooke. Always.
Was this another vision of Brooke, another possibility of a life ended wrong? Was this why Garbo tolerated Julia, with all her flaws, because she vaguely reminded her of what she may have been able to have, or had already had (ignoring the non-sisterly acts in which her and Julia engaged)?
Yes. Maybe? No?
No.
Great Expectations
She hadn’t expected her to come back. After Garbo had kicked her out, watched her do a zombie-walk out of her house, knowing that she’d probably forced this innocent to get a little dirty, she had not thought it possible she would see her (Brooke-lite) again. It just didn’t make any sense.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
But there she was, standing at her door, tucking her hair behind her ears, hazel eyes wide and somehow both defiant and shy.
Garbo let her in. Closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and sighed.
“So, who are you really? I know your name isn’t ‘Millie,’ and I know you’re a reporter,” Garbo said, and tried to channel anger because her stomach was fluttering. “So what do you want from me?”
The girl bit her lip, stepped back, but her gaze never wavered. “How did you know I was reporter?”
Garbo let out a very unladylike snort. She paused, expecting to hear some biting comment about it, and then closed her eyes, reminding herself that this girl was not Brooke. “Let’s say I’m pretty good with people. So? Name? Why are you here again, obviously the news is out about Connie.”
“My name’s Willa.”
“Willa, hmm,” Garbo let it roll off her tongue, tried it on, stared at her, and attempted to fit the name to the face. And it did fit, more comfortably than ‘Brooke-lite’ fit. “So? What do you want? I never tell who visits me.”
Garbo walked past her, knowing that the girl, Willa, would follow. And she did follow her, right into the kitchen.
When she turned around, Willa was hugging herself, obviously ill at ease in the den of street pharmaceuticals. Garbo enjoyed the power it gave her. And then she nearly pinched herself, because all it took, really, was one look.
“I just…I…” Willa didn’t, couldn’t, finish her sentence. The hair-tucking, the hair-tucking—
Garbo’s fingers were itching to take something. But she knew if she did that, if she let her guard down, like she did last time, she would do something. It was too hard for her to see and not touch, to be reminded and then to forget it. Why had she let her in again?
“You know what? This isn’t a good idea. Leave.”
Garbo walked up to Willa, turned the girl around, gave a gentle push, and was surprised when she met five foot seven inches of solid wall.
Willa pulled away and then turned back around. “Why did you kiss me? You didn’t have to do that to prove anything.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. How did she answer the question that she hadn’t wanted to think about since she’d done it? Garbo had grown to be an expert at running from things, burying things (and people), hiding – she would have to pull out one more trick.
“Because I could. Is that all?” Rude would do it, wouldn’t it? Rude would work – it had always worked rather well with Brooke when she’d wanted to throw her off.
Willa’s insistence faded somewhat, eyes a little wider, innocence a little more forefront. “I’m…I’m not like that. I just…I…”
The hesitance, the stuttering, so Brooke, so not Brooke, so…
Garbo stopped thinking again, and she stepped forward, into Willa’s personal space, slid her hands up her arms, over her shoulders, thumbs brushing against her collarbone, fingertips on her jaw –
“But—“
She kissed her. Didn’t let her finish the rejection. Garbo expected Willa to step away, to step back, a slap even…but not for her to kiss her back, nose awkwardly brushing against hers, soft lips pressing with tentative assurance, thin hands curling around her hip—
“Oh fuck,” Garbo whispered against Willa’s lips, breathing harder than she would have liked. “I thought…you didn’t do this.”
Willa leaned her forehead against hers, and Garbo felt a tenderness that made her heart constrict. She hadn’t thought it was possible for her to feel…
Spontaneous. Alive. Electric.
“I don’t,” Willa whispered, and that did it. That absolutely did it for Garbo.
She kissed her again, and again, and didn’t let her go. She took full advantage of whatever it was that made Willa come back and made Garbo want her to stay.
Her smile was genuine when Willa slipped her hand into hers, and Garbo pulled her into her bedroom.
The Unbecoming
“Is your name really Garbo?”
Garbo smiled and said nothing, just continued to stroke Willa’s hair, delighting in the feel of blonde strands slipping through her fingers. The pads of her fingers gently massaged her scalp, working down her neck, comfortable, familiar…
Content.
Willa sat up, strangely unashamed of her nakedness, blonde hair falling over her shoulders, both innocent and seductive. This was an ingénue. This was the real thing.
“Seriously, what is it?”
Garbo hesitated. In her mind, she was what she was – she was Garbo, she was this construct, she was just that. The dealer, the flirt, the lesbian, the goth, the bad-ass: she was Garbo. But with Willa, with Willa she didn’t feel so much like that, so much as she felt like—
“You,” she said, reaching out to touch Willa’s lips with her finger, “can call me Sam. But don’t wear it out.”
Willa smiled at her, and it was just as pretty as it had been the first time she’d seen in two weeks ago. It took an attractive, but serious, face and made it striking, stunning, gorgeous. She barely felt it when Willa kissed her finger and then lay down again, head on her chest, comfortable once more.
Garbo closed her eyes and breathed out, content for the first time in years. Content enough to not have the desire to reach for a clove, or a joint, or a tab to wash her mind and body of sex meant to sate the physical and bury the emotional.
She opened her eyes and looked down at Willa, and watched her hands still continue to stroke her hair, her neck, her shoulders. This was not her Brooke, no. Her Brooke was gone. Gone longer than they had been pseudo sisters. And soon enough gone longer than she had been. Gone, very much gone.
Maybe it was time to let her go. Even just a little.
And as for Julia, oh, Julia wasn’t even an option anymore. She was so much less than what Garbo had here, for all the familiarity (with which contempt lay on the horizon), she had been a prop. A stand in. An object for specific purpose and limited use. She could not go back, for,
“How could I seek the empty world again?”
Willa sleepily looked up at her, and Garbo put a finger to her own lips, and smiled. This had not been the plan. It was not supposed to happen like this.
But it had. And it would continue. And it would be good enough. More than good enough.
It would be real.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-05 09:11 am (UTC)I'm not a fan of anything other than Brooke/Sam but this was good.. really good... me likey! I'm almost happy Sammy was with someone else!
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Date: 2007-02-06 12:54 am (UTC)Thanks for the applause, I appreciate it.
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Date: 2007-02-07 01:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-02 07:30 pm (UTC)I thought of Willa as an extension of Brooke (like, Brooke-lite), at least until they turned her character into the un-Brooke. That's why I haven't written anything else... post-episode 1-4, I haven't had any inspiration for Willa/Sam. Not with Willa dating skeevy publisher dude.
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Date: 2007-02-05 04:39 pm (UTC)This is just dark enough, and just beautiful enough, and seasoned with a reasoned hand: the adjectives and the sex are in there in just the right amounts. Nice work.
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Date: 2007-02-06 12:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-02 05:55 am (UTC)