This is how it went: normally, I'm not a songfic person, but I found myself with 3 ideas all based on "This Mess We're In" by PJ Harvey. I figured that I could either choose one, or just write them all and make it look like I'd planned it all along. And then it turned into a challenge, so at least I'm not the only person with 3 fics like this.
My chosen fandoms are Voyager, The West Wing and Buffy. Well, a Buffy/Angel crossover. Whatever.
All fics are archived at http://www.geocities.com/elizabeth_barr/triptych.htm
Silence: Star Trek Voyager
by Liz Barr
rated: say a mild [R]
characters and lyrics: not mine
summary: "I'm in New York, no need for words now."
"So. This is it," she said.
Lunch in New York, with too much wine and not enough common sense. A black dress, her hair done, jewelry. Nothing like the captain who'd rarely worn anything other than an ugly, unflattering uniform for seven years.
Lunch in New York, just the two of them, because they'd barely spoken since getting home. They'd barely spoken for a long time before that, he'd thought, but then she'd touched his arm, and he'd had other thoughts, thoughts which were a betrayal of himself, and of the friendship she was apparently offering. And of Seven.
The fact that Seven came as an afterthought should have been a warning.
She touched his arm, and asked him to have lunch with her.
Black dress, her hair done, jewelry. Nice black dress revealing stockings and skin. Flat shoes. Old fashioned, conservative. His heart quickened when he saw her in the restaurant. She smiled, and he hoped that she'd touch his arm. She didn't, but his leg brushed hers under the table. Stockings and flat shoes.
They spoke about the homecoming. Debriefings, celebrations. Gossip.
"Fine. I'll tell her you asked."
White wine, baked fish, a hint of her perfume. More wine. Her leg brushed his. She stopped talking. Frowned a little. He touched her arm.
"It would be a mistake."
"We're home now. It wouldn't be on your shoulders only."
"Then you agree it's a mistake."
He kissed the palm of her hand.
Black dress, stockings, flat shoes. Hair damp with sweat, jewelry removed. Warm thighs, small breasts, strong, confident hands. Muffled, inarticulate cries. Expensive apartment, large, empty white bed where he woke up a couple of hours later.
The sun was setting.
He found her curled up on the couch. Damp hair, soap-scented skin.
"So. This is it." Soft, unhappy.
"Don't." Angry. "I don't want to hear it."
Cautiously, he touched her knee (smoky and warm, and just slightly ticklish).
"Apologise to Seven. Not me."
"I wasn't planning to tell her."
"No. I didn't think you respected her." Too much truth.
She walked over to the window. The stars, if they were out, were invisible.
"I'd thought that this was a beginning." Sad. He put his arms around her. She took his hand.
"I hate being wrong," she said.
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