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halfamoondisclaimer: not mine
fandom: Indiana Jones
characters: Marion Ravenwood, Willie Scott
rating: pg
length: 1000
genre: gen, slightly femslashy if you squint.
notes: Everyone always has to pick a side for which one they like best. Screw that. (I couldn't quite get Ilsa involved, sadly)
summary: The problem with meeting a legend is that you're never happy being 'normal' afterwards.
Finding Space
by ALC Punk!
"So you're the one who can drink him under the table."
Marion Ravenwood has no idea if the slightly-slurred words are condemnation or compliment. A glance at the blonde in red, though, makes her pause. She's always had a weak spot for blondes, though she hides it well. "Should I get you a table to fall under or a drink?"
The wood under Marion's hands isn't as weathered and scarred as her old place, but she doesn't mind. It suits her like a glove; so does being on her own. Sure, having someone around to rely on would be nice, but when her feet get restless, it made things too complicated. Most men can't handle a woman who disappears for weeks at a time, drinks them under the table and would rather run a bar in a foreign country than bake cookies for the PTA.
Across from her, the blonde laughs, leaning her elbow on the bar and winks before whispering conspiratorially, "I'm Willie Scott. And I'm the answer to your prayers--and the sign in the window."
-
The sign had said 'help wanted', and Willie--who had tried to settle down in the middle of nowhere, Missouri and had then given up--had seen it as a god-send. The money she'd gotten from her last stint in show-business was running out and dish-washing had seemed like a better plan than starvation or turning tricks in a backwater in Europe.
Still, the thought had required more than one drink (even if the cheap gin was harsh) and the people around her were eager to tell her about their local legend in return for the smile of a pretty girl, her laughing blue eyes listening so well. Marion Ravenwood, or so the story went, had once drunk the infamous adventurer, Indiana Jones, under the table.
His name wasn't really a surprise. She'd heard of him in a few other places--backwater slums, usually. It wasn't a surprise, not that Willie thought he was entirely lost to all propriety, but he did have a habit of falling into the mud; part of the reason she hadn't stuck around very long, once they were back in the states (either that, or his professor-ship had bored her silly, she could never decide which). He had a reputation with the men who ran the black markets of the world as a thief and a scoundrel. The assessment matched Willie's own, though she would have added that he was compassionate and kind. Sometimes. Studying the local legend, though, Willie had to admit that she was probably Indy's type.
Attractive, strong, smart--but she probably couldn't carry off Willie's favorite red dress.
Well. Willie would have to see her in it to judge.
By the time Willie was thinking that, she was already drunk. It seemed an opportune time to approach her putative employer. She'd just have to keep dresses out of it.
-
Marion makes Willie bus the tables for the rest of the night as a trial. Even drunk, she only drops two glasses. This is an improvement on the last candidate, who dropped four in the first hour. Marion figures, weird comments or not, that Willie might make a good hire.
"Dr. Jones," Willie says later, when the doors are locked and they've cleared all the glasses to the back.
It sounds like she's starting to tell a story, but her voice sticks, or she gets distracted. Marion's got her feet up on a chair and a cigar in her hand. She figures they have some time to chat before doing the dishes; if Willie's going to turn out to be a thief, con artist, or bad news, now is her chance. "Yeah?" she finally prompts guardedly, "What about him?"
"Just--" Willie shrugs, leaning back in her chair and sounding sober. She'd stopped drinking when she started bussing. "He's something else."
"You've met him?" Not that Marion believes that. She knows the stories the people around here tell about him. And about her. It's not her fault the idiot was a light-weight when it came to potato vodka.
"Yeah."
When Willie doesn't elaborate, Marion lets it go. She doesn't really care whether it's true or not. It's not like she has much time for aimless conversation and silence relaxes her. Vodka is possibly even better, but she doesn't feel like the hangover she'll end up with, just yet.
A sigh breaks from Willie. She seems the type of girl who's never quite silent, and Marion thinks that might become a problem. "I miss show biz. And Hong Kong."
"That where you started?"
"Sorta." Gesturing, Willie sketches dragons in the air as she explains about show tunes and glamor, the glitz of the stage and the in-fighting that always goes on backstage. It's a world Marion's never been to, and one which she's sure she'd rather stay far away from.
Marion's silent long after Willie stops babbling, and Willie seems to take it as a sign to follow her example. Eventually, Marion stubs the cigar out and stands. "We've got glasses to clean."
"I can stay, then?"
Glancing back from the bar, Marion catches the uncertainty in Willie's eyes. For all that Willie seems to have more confidence than a tank rolling over egg-shells, she isn't stupid. Marion's been watching her, the restless way her hands move, the side-glances, while she watches for something in the shadows. Maybe she's fallen on hard times, maybe she hasn't.
"You can stay." She just hopes she doesn't regret this disruption in her routine.
"Whoo!" Willie cheers, jumping up, "Let's get those dishes done, then. And maybe, I'll even sing for ya."
Marion shakes her head at the enthusiasm as Willie slips past her, bouncing with energy again. A moment later, the beginning strains of a show tune can be heard.
"I should have shoved her back out in the snow," she mutters, snagging a towel from the bar and heading into the back. Perhaps this partnership would work. Perhaps it wouldn't. But if Marion decided to go wandering in a few days, Willie wouldn't care. Plus, she might just be able to keep the bar running until Marion was back.
Probably.
-f-
The SPN fic:
length: 1000, rating: PG
characters: Jo and Ellen Harvelle
notes: no spoilers?![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
karate0kat asked for their first joint hunt. My knowledge of the universe is still pretty sketchy, btw. (I'm sorry, I have neither a Jo nor an Ellen icon. I do have Kara and the other Ellen, though)
Link: Graveyard Matters
fandom: Indiana Jones
characters: Marion Ravenwood, Willie Scott
rating: pg
length: 1000
genre: gen, slightly femslashy if you squint.
notes: Everyone always has to pick a side for which one they like best. Screw that. (I couldn't quite get Ilsa involved, sadly)
summary: The problem with meeting a legend is that you're never happy being 'normal' afterwards.
Finding Space
by ALC Punk!
"So you're the one who can drink him under the table."
Marion Ravenwood has no idea if the slightly-slurred words are condemnation or compliment. A glance at the blonde in red, though, makes her pause. She's always had a weak spot for blondes, though she hides it well. "Should I get you a table to fall under or a drink?"
The wood under Marion's hands isn't as weathered and scarred as her old place, but she doesn't mind. It suits her like a glove; so does being on her own. Sure, having someone around to rely on would be nice, but when her feet get restless, it made things too complicated. Most men can't handle a woman who disappears for weeks at a time, drinks them under the table and would rather run a bar in a foreign country than bake cookies for the PTA.
Across from her, the blonde laughs, leaning her elbow on the bar and winks before whispering conspiratorially, "I'm Willie Scott. And I'm the answer to your prayers--and the sign in the window."
-
The sign had said 'help wanted', and Willie--who had tried to settle down in the middle of nowhere, Missouri and had then given up--had seen it as a god-send. The money she'd gotten from her last stint in show-business was running out and dish-washing had seemed like a better plan than starvation or turning tricks in a backwater in Europe.
Still, the thought had required more than one drink (even if the cheap gin was harsh) and the people around her were eager to tell her about their local legend in return for the smile of a pretty girl, her laughing blue eyes listening so well. Marion Ravenwood, or so the story went, had once drunk the infamous adventurer, Indiana Jones, under the table.
His name wasn't really a surprise. She'd heard of him in a few other places--backwater slums, usually. It wasn't a surprise, not that Willie thought he was entirely lost to all propriety, but he did have a habit of falling into the mud; part of the reason she hadn't stuck around very long, once they were back in the states (either that, or his professor-ship had bored her silly, she could never decide which). He had a reputation with the men who ran the black markets of the world as a thief and a scoundrel. The assessment matched Willie's own, though she would have added that he was compassionate and kind. Sometimes. Studying the local legend, though, Willie had to admit that she was probably Indy's type.
Attractive, strong, smart--but she probably couldn't carry off Willie's favorite red dress.
Well. Willie would have to see her in it to judge.
By the time Willie was thinking that, she was already drunk. It seemed an opportune time to approach her putative employer. She'd just have to keep dresses out of it.
-
Marion makes Willie bus the tables for the rest of the night as a trial. Even drunk, she only drops two glasses. This is an improvement on the last candidate, who dropped four in the first hour. Marion figures, weird comments or not, that Willie might make a good hire.
"Dr. Jones," Willie says later, when the doors are locked and they've cleared all the glasses to the back.
It sounds like she's starting to tell a story, but her voice sticks, or she gets distracted. Marion's got her feet up on a chair and a cigar in her hand. She figures they have some time to chat before doing the dishes; if Willie's going to turn out to be a thief, con artist, or bad news, now is her chance. "Yeah?" she finally prompts guardedly, "What about him?"
"Just--" Willie shrugs, leaning back in her chair and sounding sober. She'd stopped drinking when she started bussing. "He's something else."
"You've met him?" Not that Marion believes that. She knows the stories the people around here tell about him. And about her. It's not her fault the idiot was a light-weight when it came to potato vodka.
"Yeah."
When Willie doesn't elaborate, Marion lets it go. She doesn't really care whether it's true or not. It's not like she has much time for aimless conversation and silence relaxes her. Vodka is possibly even better, but she doesn't feel like the hangover she'll end up with, just yet.
A sigh breaks from Willie. She seems the type of girl who's never quite silent, and Marion thinks that might become a problem. "I miss show biz. And Hong Kong."
"That where you started?"
"Sorta." Gesturing, Willie sketches dragons in the air as she explains about show tunes and glamor, the glitz of the stage and the in-fighting that always goes on backstage. It's a world Marion's never been to, and one which she's sure she'd rather stay far away from.
Marion's silent long after Willie stops babbling, and Willie seems to take it as a sign to follow her example. Eventually, Marion stubs the cigar out and stands. "We've got glasses to clean."
"I can stay, then?"
Glancing back from the bar, Marion catches the uncertainty in Willie's eyes. For all that Willie seems to have more confidence than a tank rolling over egg-shells, she isn't stupid. Marion's been watching her, the restless way her hands move, the side-glances, while she watches for something in the shadows. Maybe she's fallen on hard times, maybe she hasn't.
"You can stay." She just hopes she doesn't regret this disruption in her routine.
"Whoo!" Willie cheers, jumping up, "Let's get those dishes done, then. And maybe, I'll even sing for ya."
Marion shakes her head at the enthusiasm as Willie slips past her, bouncing with energy again. A moment later, the beginning strains of a show tune can be heard.
"I should have shoved her back out in the snow," she mutters, snagging a towel from the bar and heading into the back. Perhaps this partnership would work. Perhaps it wouldn't. But if Marion decided to go wandering in a few days, Willie wouldn't care. Plus, she might just be able to keep the bar running until Marion was back.
Probably.
-f-
The SPN fic:
length: 1000, rating: PG
characters: Jo and Ellen Harvelle
notes: no spoilers?
karate0kat asked for their first joint hunt. My knowledge of the universe is still pretty sketchy, btw. (I'm sorry, I have neither a Jo nor an Ellen icon. I do have Kara and the other Ellen, though)Link: Graveyard Matters
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