veneficusvenato (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
veneficusvenato) wrote2016-03-16 10:15 pm
veneficusvenato) wrote2016-03-16 10:15 pm
Alice, Through the Looking Glass
Do your job, you love it, Lee had said,
and Sokka hadn't helped adding, Be good
and we'll make it worth your while even.
For them, Jo'd stood still while two of the costumers got to make her over in a way she rarely agreed. She told herself if was for Sokka and Leah, but it was for Gillespie, too. Who might have been a Gil, but could have been a Dick, John, Harry or Bartholemuel, too. That was the job, after all. Part of which was dressing up and dragging the newest trainee to a Ministry Function, because that, too, required training this high up. Learning that this was all part of it, too.
Blending in, using your real name, but with the longest-lived lie you were handed.
Today, which involved watching two people curl her hair and apply her makeup with wands, and even a board that looked more like an artists pallet. Then a short white dress, with just enough give to hide her wand but nothing else, and an even smaller, more ornamental, looking shoulder jacket.
It would have been lovely if that was the worst the night could offer. Dresses, makeup, small talk, and Gillespie. But things never went that easy, really, did they. She couldn't just go home and bitch to her people about the mind numbing boringness and the funny tasting food. No, of course not. Instead the night went from that to explosions, sparks raining purple and black, from two dozen people dressed in black and purple, and running.
Shoving Gillespie, while shouting and and firing behind them. Creating a diversion. A spectacle. They weren't meant to be the people who did clean-up or cattle herding of the ministry wives and children. This wasn't exactly what they were for either, but they excelled in a pinch. Just like a handful of the other groups that had been in the milling dinner crowd.
The throbbing knuckles, and the disarray of her curls, as well as a rip along one side of her skirt, had happened before the running started, but they were lost in that. The way running did. Took every thought that wasn't attacks, hexes, and counter-spells. Stumbling through the doorway that should have led to a staircase, but didn't. She felt it sizzle through her skin, but all the three wizards were following right after, and as a burst of purple exploded toward them, Jo shoved Gillespie out of the path.
But it slammed straight into her, acid burning and needle stinging, sending her stumbling backwards, with a crack that she was sure was one of those damned heels they'd insisted on, which only helped it. She reached out to catch the reddish drape hanging behind her, but her fingers went straight through it, and her shoulders followed sending her into a tumble.....
Or the one after that. Everything went black around, and she swore she would
have Gil's ass for breakfast, as well as the costumers, and her best friends.....
....before the light returned in a blinding assault and Jo collided solidly,
in an all too familiar feeling, with another body beneath her.
in an all too familiar feeling, with another body beneath her.
[ Jo's Timeline: 1 Year Before Order of the Jobberknoll
SPN Timeline: ??? ]
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"Besides the obvious 'not long enough'?" Dean asks wryly before popping a fry in his mouth to chew on it as he counts up the years. "'Bout four years. We didn't actually see each other often since, y'know. The job with our own cases to keep us busy. And not being able to pop about to be in one part of the country and then an entirely different part in about five seconds."
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"Wait." Is that even--
"Were you two--" There's a motion with her drink that she'd raised to take a drink, before it forgot to get anywhere near her mouth. Because she hadn't even thought. She'd assumed. You know. With the wrench to her face, and the rage, and hell, even the fact he wrapped himself around her in the parking lot.
That it.
It was a given.
"--not -- ?"
She's not even sure she wants to put that into a clearer set of questioning.
Bloody hell. They'd fucked theirs right up. But she wouldn't take back those years.
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Dean takes a sip of his own drink, giving himself some time before the next part. "We've only kissed once and that was when she was dying."
Before she and her mother bought them time to get to Lucifer without hellhounds on their asses.
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"Fuck." It's the first word, barely breathed between her lips.
She has to put the cup down. She has to put it all down. "I'm sorry."
The words sound so damn useless, when she's not even sure she understands.
Or she does. She understands, but she doesn't even want to think about that as a thing.
She was dead, and she'd never. They'd. Never. Barely. Right before she just happened to die?
"I'm so sorry." She couldn't even get to her mouth, or the part of her head, beyond her head, something in her chest. "We--"
But. That, Godrick. She had no right to touch him and she wanted to so suddenly. To touch his hand. Or his shoulder.
The sheer number of times she'd seen this expression, and just dragged him down, until his forehead was somewhere against her shoulder, her neck, rest of him against the pillows of his couch. Things that never should have worked, with his stupid foot of taller, but did somehow. Like everything else that just worked out.
She couldn't even imagine. Even staring it down like a wand. Just. Never?
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Because Jo definitely spent time on that one.
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She wouldn't say that to him now on her life. In fact, when he doesn't look up, it's heavily painful.
He's not him, but he is, too. Somewhere, somehow. Not like their world, but stuck in his.
Her food gets a look but she's not sure she could stomach another bite now, and she reaches up to rub two of her fingers at the side of her head, and comes away pulling at a long strand of blonde hair. Looking more at it than him, or the table, or the end. "We were." She rolls her eyes at the golden strand, at how small and stupid that sounds. How small her voice is. "Obviously." In retrospect. Surprise. Shock. Founderingly, almost apologetic.
Even when the one thing she refuses to regret of the last decade is him. Well. One of two. But he'd been first.
"Three years. The better part of four depending on where you start and stop the counting."
Jo's mostly sure he doesn't want to know. Not if. But she can't help or stop herself now.
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At least there's that. It doesn't keep him from wishing he and his own Jo had managed it, though. Or that they never tried to attack Lucifer, to give themselves time to do so.
He absently shoves a fry in his mouth and chews on it, trying to think of a question that was less rhetorical than the one he just asked. "Right. Less serious business crap, I think. What's your favorite of the critters that exist over there? I don't mean the usual, I mean like those horses pulling the carriages."
He doesn't think the name of the things have ever come up when he was being bombarded with this stuff. If it did, he's forgotten it as something not worth remembering because they're only fictional.