Log in

No account? Create an account
25 March 2008 @ 03:17 pm
fic, Lost: Fever Pitch (Desmond, light Des/Penny) for philosophy_20  
This one sad on my HD for a while but since it's short and I went and finished it, let's post it before starting with episode 8 icons.

Title: Fever Pitch
Characters: Desmond, light Des/Penny
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Desmond and Penny are Darlton's and if I owned the Celtics I'd sure be richer than I am.
Word count: 767
Spoilers: For Catch 22.
Summary: For philosophy_20 #16, god. We dated for six years, and the closest you came to a religious experience was Celtics winning the Cup.
A/N: This is probably the best way to ditch an excellent prompt. I mean, I had lot of possibly angsty and serious stuff to work with and I don't use them. Blame it on me not being religious and not being able to approach that prompt seriously. And uhm, I actually researched that Scottish Cup final so I didn't invent a thing there. Title stolen from Nick Hornby, of whom I'm not worthy but I think he'd have a laugh out of it.

We dated for six years, and the closest you came to a religious experience was Celtics winning the Cup.
Ruth, Catch-22

Desmond walks out of Brother Campbell’s office and he his mind instantaneously goes to what Ruth said about his religious experiences.

She wasn’t wrong. Maybe not exactly right, either, but definitely not wrong. That, putting more emphasis on the first point than on the second. Thinking about it, it makes somewhat sense. Desmond had thought he had experienced a call, that it had been a way to experience God or something close to it.

He realizes that it was just one of the lies that he had been telling himself while, as his beloved friend Brother Campbell said, running away. From what, he doesn’t really know. Maybe from any kind of serious attachment or commitment.

Because seriously, after fulfilling the commitment he had to his family, he had avoided any other possible kind. He definitely regrets being such a jerk to Ruth, but it’s not like he can go making excuses right now. He kind of doesn’t have an idea of the reasons he did what he did (and probably the reasons he does what he does for that matter), no point in finding them.

Desmond had wanted an excuse to flee, that was for sure; he realizes now that he was just searching for some pretense to run away yet again. Alright, he had realized that with Ruth he had been going in the wrong direction but as usual, he couldn’t go and actually face it, so he took the occasion as soon as it presented. It was a perfect mean, the religious experience.

He has to be honest, though. From when he woke up drunk in the alley until now, nothing that he has experienced in the monastery came even close to the wave of joy breaking through his body and shaking every inch of him, making him scream in delight, when Pierre Van Hooijdonk, on May 27th, 1995, headed that cross from McKinlay into the net, scoring a goal at the ninth minute in the first half of Celtic-Airdrieonians. Or to that exact wave, only even stronger, when the referee whistled ninety minutes later or so, thus earning Celtic the first Scottish Cup since six years.

Sure, he also remembered someone elbowing him so hard that he fell on the floor along with the beer he was holding in his left hand and after spending the night going around the city he had come home so drunk he couldn’t stand up, but still. That had been a religious experience, indeed.

He shrugs and steps out of the monastery, going towards the wine crates; then he raises his shirt’s sleeves and starts loading them.

Brother Campbell gets out soon after, followed by the customer, seemingly; he didn’t expect a woman to go getting wine, but well, it isn’t his place to make any remarks.

“I think we should be able to fit it all in the back, and if not we'll put the rest in the front. Is that alright?”, she says when Brother Campbell is gone.

Desmond turns and for a second everything stops in its tracks.

If a lightening had struck him, it’d have had a less shocking effect. Her voice is firm but has a sort of sweet tone at the same time, like the voice of a woman who knows what she wants should be. Her hair looks soft and smooth, almost resembling golden silk; for a second, Desmond sees his fingers running through the strands, following the slight waves and curls. Her eyes are clear, a light, transparent green and Desmond finds himself loving the way her lips turn slightly up when she smiles just slightly. Objectively, she may not be the most stunning woman he has ever set his eyes upon, but right now she looks nothing short of it.

“Absolutely. You better drive safe Miss, this vineyard only makes a limited number of these cases each year.”, he answers.

“Is that so?”

“Aye, it is ‘cause the monks are lazy.”

Then she laughs and it’s the most beautiful laugh he has ever heard; Desmond finds himself captured by the way her face almost lights up when she smiles.

Scratch the Celtics, this is definitely his most religious experience.

Just after the thought occurs to him, he feels glad about his dismissal because well, if this is the closest to religion he’s ever been (and he has an idea he’s never going to get any closer, truth to be told), he would’ve made the worst sodding monk ever.

feeling: awakeawake
the female ghost of tom joad: lost des/pennyjanie_tangerine on March 25th, 2008 05:47 pm (UTC)
*crosses fingers too* let's hope it does! If there is something right now I want to happen and fuck all the rest is for those two to reunite and survive it ;) thanks for reading! Going into his head is always my pleasure.