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English
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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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1,629
Chapters:
1/1
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3
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999

Love's past

Summary:

Fandom: Down With Love
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Series/Sequel: This is a series of four vignettes.
Archive: Yes
Disclaimers: Down With Love and its characters belong to the folks at 20th Century Fox. This work is for love, not for profit.
Warnings: None
Notes:   I loved Down With Love, an enjoyable light-hearted sex comedy  with beautiful sets, clothes, and most of all beautiful people. Having said  that, my brain wanted to take these interesting, yet understandably two-dimensional characters, and flesh them out a bit. This is a peek at  who they are and why they are, a glimpse of the more serious side.
Given that fanfic means we take artistic license with practically everything, I have re-cast Peter McManus in this little vignette. In my slashy version of DWL, he is played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. I love  what David Hyde Pierce did in this film and his comedic timing is damn near perfect. This casting change has nothing to do with his performance and everything to do with my rose (denial) tinted sunglasses. If not to  your bent, feel free to change the date listed and picture someone else.  
Down With Love is set in 1962.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:


Love's Past
by Sinewa

 

Nancy
Wiscasset, Maine - April 8, 1950

She sat quietly, eating her lunch and waiting with ill-concealed boredom for her next class. She sat alone, sight and sound drifting past her. The same conversations played out ad nauseam in every high school, but still she couldn't help but listen in.

The ever faithful sidekick to the star, defending his team and captain. "Did you see the last block? There is no way that was legal!"

"But Rich managed to get past it anyway, didn't you?" An adoring blond, girlfriend of only three months and due for exchange in another two.

Smooth, confident, and with a grin to charm any snake, Rich replied, "Third period, one minute left and it was in the net with seconds to spare."

And they drifted past too, while the words of congratulations choked her, making it hard to swallow. She didn't speak, not to them. Didn't speak much at all really, though it wasn't for lack of opinions. Nancy blended too well with the scenery, with her glasses and books and tired modest clothes. Going unnoticed was one thing. But speaking and not being heard...

Today, a day of promise. Sweet sixteen. And her mother the only one who knew, who remembered.

Tomorrow, so much easier to look at than today. She could leave, go somewhere new, somewhere exciting. A place where hockey and basketball weren 't the highlights of life. A place where fishing meant taking a vacation, not going to work. A place where she could aspire to be more than a fisherman's wife.

A place where she could speak. And maybe somebody would hear.

 

Peter
Greenwich, Connecticut - June 12, 1953

"Mother!"

"Hush, dear, just let me straighten that a bit for you."

Peter could have told her the tie was perfectly straight. He knew because he 'd spent fifteen minutes in front of the mirror diligently measuring. Just in case his father stopped by. Not that he expected him to, Mother was more the type to worry over him. But his father could spot imperfection a yard away.

"Now remember to mind your manners, this is a very important event for your father." As if he didn't know that already. The lecture he'd received yesterday on proper behavior made him terrified of picking up the wrong fork at dinner.

"Peter, darling, would you mind?" Her voice, as always, was quiet and sweet, and he obediently stepped forward to fasten the clasp of her pearls. One parent who still thought he was a child, one who already treated him like a man. Neither saw a teenager who still had a few things to learn and more mistakes to make.

They made their way to the receiving line, exactly on time, and Peter tried not to think about standing still for the next hour. He was a horrible fidget, but he just couldn't keep still, no matter how many times his father glared at him.

Peter hated these parties. Hardly anyone spoke to him, too young to have anything interesting to say, and too old to be petted and pinched. He was simply a two dimensional figure that completed the family portrait.

"Hello."

Peter snapped back to the endless line of hands he was shaking with a start. Someone his age? Alright maybe a little older, but definitely under twenty-five, and he looked at Peter, not through him. He overheard a phrase or two, "intern at the magazine" and "definite writing potential", but all of his attention was focused on dark hair, the rakish grin, the warmth of his hand, and the hint of sadness in stormy gray eyes.

"Nice to meet you."

Peter couldn't find his voice, so he just smiled.

And then the handsome stranger leaned forward and whispered to him, "Us 'kids' should stick together. Want to meet up after your hand falls off?"

That voice, cultured, soft, humorous, cheeky, and inviting...and the most wonderful moment of his life so far, was interrupted by the worst.

He meant to say "I'd love to." But as he nodded, and the new intern moved away, Peter opened his mouth and whispered, "I love you."

Heat rushed to his face while his father's dark eyes watched with scorn. His life would never be the same.

 

Vickie
Marion, Ohio - November 23, 1943

Slamming the front door behind her, Vickie marched up the steps to her room, stomping with such force the wood beneath the carpeting creaked loudly in protest.

"Victoria Constance Hiller!"

Vickie froze halfway up the stairs. Full Given Name was a Bad Thing.

Slowly she turned around to face that voice only to lower her eyes nervously when she saw Mom's hands settle on her hips. Definitely a Very Bad Thing.

"Just what do you think you're doing storming in here like a tornado?"

Vickie wanted to run for the safety of her room, but knew that would only increase her punishment. Her teeth clenched with anger and humiliation, but she remained silent.

"Well? Your father just got off his shift and it'll be a miracle if you haven't woken him up." A guilty flush spread across her face then. Daddy worked overtime at both jobs, and Wednesdays he barely had any time to sleep before he was due at the factory again.

And of course her extra lessons were on Wednesdays. Where she learned to talk all over again. Like a baby.

"Vickie?"

"Sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean to wake you," she mumbled. Now she wanted to melt into the hole in the floor that disappeared whenever she needed it.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? You're usually overflowing with stories and ideas by now. Not trying to shake the house down." So typical for Daddy, make her feel comfortable and chiding her at the same time. It always made her want to answer his questions, to be better, to do better, and make him proud. Vickie loved her mother just the same, saw how much they loved each other, but it was her father that inspired her.

"I had my lesson today," she spoke quietly.

Gently prodding he said, "And?"

"These boys...two boys from the seventh grade...they heard me. Out in the hall. They said..." Her eyes stung and her stomach felt pinched and achy.

"Oh, honey. It doesn't matter what those boys said. Did you know my grandma couldn't say one sentence that didn't end up backwards? Years and years people laughed at her, she just laughed back at them. Know why? She said they weren't smart enough to understand her." He gathered Vickie up in a tight hug and whispered soft nonsensical words in her ear as she cried, telling her she was special, smart, that there were people who loved her no matter what.

She let herself believe him, because that's what children did. She believed and hoped.

But she still took extra lessons.

 

Catcher
London, England - March 14, 1941

There were 67 tiles on his square of the floor. He didn't count the ones that were broken, or chipped, or the ones that had come loose. The floor was dirty, like the walls, like everything around him.

Cleaning only came to the really important parts of the hospital now.

Down here wasn't important. Down here, no one spoke and nothing moved, except when the ground shook and that just meant another layer of dust and dirt that no one would clean.

His shirt was filthy, like the white sheet draped over the bed in front of him, like his school blazer crumpled up in his knapsack. Lying on the floor next to his mother's purse, the pack made for a good enough pillow. But he still couldn't sleep. He didn't really want to.

"I've been looking for you." A young nurse, tired and frazzled, stood in the doorway watching him. "Someone would have come sooner, but--"

"I know," he said quietly. With so many people to take care of, a nine year old boy with no injuries isn't very important. There was nowhere to go anyway.

"What's your name?" she asked softly. He frowned a little, and she explained, "All I have here is C. Block written on your mo-- um, on the paperwork."

"Catcher. Everyone calls me Catcher."

"Sounds like a story there." She smiled a bit, and he could see that she needed sleep more than he did, but she was still being friendly and polite. Good people, his mother would've said.

"There was a number listed...your neighbor, Mrs. Donovan? She's agreed to take you in for now." He nodded, because he thought she expected him to. The decision already made, with or without him. But Mrs. Donovan was nice, even if she smelled like cat food.

"Do you know how we can get in touch with your father?"

He turned away and found the purse, opening the shiny silver clasp carefully. A whiff of perfume touched his nose. His eyes stung and he shut them tightly, remembering the number of tiles, the color of the nurse's nail polish, the number of buttons on her uniform. Little things were easier to think about.

Pulling out a yellow-brown envelope, he held it out for her to read. Three weeks later, and the letter still sat in his mother's purse, read a hundred times, creating new tears. The nurse's brown eyes widened when she saw the official standard print and he knew she didn't need to read it.

"Oh. I see," she whispered. Her face was so sad and kind that he had to look away.

Sheets, walls, tiles, clothes, they were all dirty. His whole body hurt and stung and ached. Everything in his world was unclean and painful.

He wanted to be clean again. He wanted to not feel

 

END

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author Sinewa.
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