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.fic: This is how we have to try (Jo/Claire) PG13
This is how we have to try (Jo/Claire) PG13 | ~1,100
For the "rare pairings" square on my cliche_bingo card. This is futurefic, about six years or so further on, so Claire is around 18-19. It follows loosely from This Wide Night, but you don't need to read it to understand this, I don't think. For some reason, the idea of Jo and Claire meeting got stuck in my head and would not be dislodged, so... Here you go.
This is how we have to try
Most of the reason her mother let her go hunting is she couldn't stop Jo from going. The rest of it is, she'd sworn she'd stay as safe as she could. That had seemed to help a little, although how much, Jo still isn't sure, even eight years down the line. She still makes the promise every time she leaves.
Those are the same reasons Claire's here with her, twined close with her in their motel bed. She's all ungainly elbows still, a rangy girl at eighteen who is made of bone and sinew and who moves as though she's never settled into her body. Thinking about that, Jo's heart thumps once, hard, and her mind skips over to another memory, swearing to Claire's mother she'd keep her safe, and keep the angels away.
"You haven't…" Jo's voice hollows out in the dark, quiet and tight so the air conditioner's hum almost covers it.
"No," Claire says to Jo's collar bone. "I haven't talked to him. Her. It," she says, but draws away as she speaks. She still stays close, blood-warm, living, and she smells like salt. Her fingers on Jo's right breast are still chalky from the devil's trap, spreading dust across Jo's nipple.
Jo shivers. It's a distraction, she knows, Claire's hand palming her breast, slipping low along the lattice of her ribs. Knowing doesn't stop the quick throb down deep in her belly, or keep a muscle from twitching in her thigh. Claire's long blond hair dusts her breasts, her cheeks, and Claire's eyes glow palely blue.
"Staying safe goes both ways," Claire says fiercely. She's not that quiet, anxious girl anymore, the one Jo first met on a visit home. Not so obedient anymore either – and that had been the case for a long time, and Jo had known what that was like, and when Claire had asked that night, her sixteenth birthday, take me with you?, Jo hadn't been able to refuse.
Two years on down the line, she can shoot and fight with her hands and trap and exorcise demons. And, Jo knows, there's that whatever-it-is in her that means an angel can ride her until the end of the world, like the one who rides her father. She'd met Castiel once, a random encounter with the Winchesters in Tennessee, and she'd felt that disconnect, the quick and instinctual certainty a human wasn't looking at her out of those blue, blue eyes.
That's one of the things she's never told Claire, part of the keeping-safe she'd promised to Amelia. Castiel had asked after Amelia and Claire, and Jo'd had to stare a moment, hearing the soft question, the concern. They're okay, she'd said, they're safe, and for one second Castiel had been human. My mom won't let anything happen to them.
"I can't – I'm not going to let anything to happen to you," Claire says now. Jo folds her arms across Claire's back; the wings of her shoulder blades row against Jo's wrists as Claire moves. A scar marks the right one, long and thin and vertical, from a werewolf who'd almost been fast enough.
"Nothing's gonna happen," Jo grunts, shifting to get one hand between them. Claire shivers, quick and eloquent. "Just keep your eyes open."
"I always do," Claire whispers, before closing her eyes and kissing Jo's mouth.
* * *
Jo wakes to the cold light of predawn, and Claire's cold place in bed beside her. For a moment her hand fumbles confusedly over empty blankets before she can collect herself, brace her weight, and sit up.
"Claire?" she asks, even as she stumbles out of bed. The air slides chill across her bare legs but she ignores it, tucking a knife into one palm and her gun in another. Quickly she ducks into the bathroom, and no Claire, and no Claire in their small bedroom either. She darts up to the windowsill and the door, and the salt lines there lie undisturbed.
"Goddammit." Moving carefully, she opens the door; the bottom of it hushes over the salt, but leaves the line unbroken, barely stirring the grains. Her knife warms in her hand, its weight comforting against concern; the gun stays flat against her hip, ready and hidden.
She swings out onto the walkway, pivoting to cover herself. Clear and clear, and her heart kicks twice, viciously, for the adrenaline.
No one, no Claire, only a radio playing softly somewhere, incomprehensible static that stings the ear. Jo follows it down the row of cars, one beat-up clunker after another except for an old Ford jacked up on thousand-dollar wheels.
And her car, finally, just as beat-up as the rest, with Claire curled up in the driver's seat. Her head lolls against the headrest, and her gaze has wandered a thousand miles away, through and beyond the radio that plays its soft nonsense.
"Claire!" Jo barks.
The radio cuts off, and Jo almost buckles under a fierce pressure. It's everywhere, in her head and against her heart, grinding in her bones and making her veins want to contract and explode at once. And then, like that, the pressure vanishes, leaving her lightheaded, staggering, reaching blindly for the cold support of the car beside her. For a moment she struggles to find herself, her balance; she can't hear, or think about, Claire's quiet, concerned voice, the thunk of the car door opening.
"Jo?" Her name pulls her back a little, and Claire's hand on her shoulder. It's a different pressure but as commanding, urging Jo to crouch on the chilly concrete. The breath Jo manages tastes like morning mouth and old rubber from the tires, and oil.
"What the hell?" Jo says, once she thinks the words will work again.
Ithuriel, Claire whispers. "He's promised to keep you safe, if I go with him. You, Ellen, my mom… You'll be safe forever."
"No deal," Jo tells her. She shakes her head, both to clear it and to tell Claire how out of the question that is. "I promised your mom."
"You promised, not me," Claire says, fear behind the mutiny in her eyes. Her hand doesn't move away; instead, it drifts over Jo's neck, settling softly along her cheek. "I can make sure you're safe, if I go with him. It's covenant, Jo. They won't break it, not ever, no matter what happens, and I… I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I won't be safe without you," Jo says, and closes her eyes under the delicate warmth and pressure of human touch, against the resolution she knows she'll see.
-end-
.in other news: Off to jury selection, woooo.
For the "rare pairings" square on my cliche_bingo card. This is futurefic, about six years or so further on, so Claire is around 18-19. It follows loosely from This Wide Night, but you don't need to read it to understand this, I don't think. For some reason, the idea of Jo and Claire meeting got stuck in my head and would not be dislodged, so... Here you go.
This is how we have to try
Most of the reason her mother let her go hunting is she couldn't stop Jo from going. The rest of it is, she'd sworn she'd stay as safe as she could. That had seemed to help a little, although how much, Jo still isn't sure, even eight years down the line. She still makes the promise every time she leaves.
Those are the same reasons Claire's here with her, twined close with her in their motel bed. She's all ungainly elbows still, a rangy girl at eighteen who is made of bone and sinew and who moves as though she's never settled into her body. Thinking about that, Jo's heart thumps once, hard, and her mind skips over to another memory, swearing to Claire's mother she'd keep her safe, and keep the angels away.
"You haven't…" Jo's voice hollows out in the dark, quiet and tight so the air conditioner's hum almost covers it.
"No," Claire says to Jo's collar bone. "I haven't talked to him. Her. It," she says, but draws away as she speaks. She still stays close, blood-warm, living, and she smells like salt. Her fingers on Jo's right breast are still chalky from the devil's trap, spreading dust across Jo's nipple.
Jo shivers. It's a distraction, she knows, Claire's hand palming her breast, slipping low along the lattice of her ribs. Knowing doesn't stop the quick throb down deep in her belly, or keep a muscle from twitching in her thigh. Claire's long blond hair dusts her breasts, her cheeks, and Claire's eyes glow palely blue.
"Staying safe goes both ways," Claire says fiercely. She's not that quiet, anxious girl anymore, the one Jo first met on a visit home. Not so obedient anymore either – and that had been the case for a long time, and Jo had known what that was like, and when Claire had asked that night, her sixteenth birthday, take me with you?, Jo hadn't been able to refuse.
Two years on down the line, she can shoot and fight with her hands and trap and exorcise demons. And, Jo knows, there's that whatever-it-is in her that means an angel can ride her until the end of the world, like the one who rides her father. She'd met Castiel once, a random encounter with the Winchesters in Tennessee, and she'd felt that disconnect, the quick and instinctual certainty a human wasn't looking at her out of those blue, blue eyes.
That's one of the things she's never told Claire, part of the keeping-safe she'd promised to Amelia. Castiel had asked after Amelia and Claire, and Jo'd had to stare a moment, hearing the soft question, the concern. They're okay, she'd said, they're safe, and for one second Castiel had been human. My mom won't let anything happen to them.
"I can't – I'm not going to let anything to happen to you," Claire says now. Jo folds her arms across Claire's back; the wings of her shoulder blades row against Jo's wrists as Claire moves. A scar marks the right one, long and thin and vertical, from a werewolf who'd almost been fast enough.
"Nothing's gonna happen," Jo grunts, shifting to get one hand between them. Claire shivers, quick and eloquent. "Just keep your eyes open."
"I always do," Claire whispers, before closing her eyes and kissing Jo's mouth.
Jo wakes to the cold light of predawn, and Claire's cold place in bed beside her. For a moment her hand fumbles confusedly over empty blankets before she can collect herself, brace her weight, and sit up.
"Claire?" she asks, even as she stumbles out of bed. The air slides chill across her bare legs but she ignores it, tucking a knife into one palm and her gun in another. Quickly she ducks into the bathroom, and no Claire, and no Claire in their small bedroom either. She darts up to the windowsill and the door, and the salt lines there lie undisturbed.
"Goddammit." Moving carefully, she opens the door; the bottom of it hushes over the salt, but leaves the line unbroken, barely stirring the grains. Her knife warms in her hand, its weight comforting against concern; the gun stays flat against her hip, ready and hidden.
She swings out onto the walkway, pivoting to cover herself. Clear and clear, and her heart kicks twice, viciously, for the adrenaline.
No one, no Claire, only a radio playing softly somewhere, incomprehensible static that stings the ear. Jo follows it down the row of cars, one beat-up clunker after another except for an old Ford jacked up on thousand-dollar wheels.
And her car, finally, just as beat-up as the rest, with Claire curled up in the driver's seat. Her head lolls against the headrest, and her gaze has wandered a thousand miles away, through and beyond the radio that plays its soft nonsense.
"Claire!" Jo barks.
The radio cuts off, and Jo almost buckles under a fierce pressure. It's everywhere, in her head and against her heart, grinding in her bones and making her veins want to contract and explode at once. And then, like that, the pressure vanishes, leaving her lightheaded, staggering, reaching blindly for the cold support of the car beside her. For a moment she struggles to find herself, her balance; she can't hear, or think about, Claire's quiet, concerned voice, the thunk of the car door opening.
"Jo?" Her name pulls her back a little, and Claire's hand on her shoulder. It's a different pressure but as commanding, urging Jo to crouch on the chilly concrete. The breath Jo manages tastes like morning mouth and old rubber from the tires, and oil.
"What the hell?" Jo says, once she thinks the words will work again.
Ithuriel, Claire whispers. "He's promised to keep you safe, if I go with him. You, Ellen, my mom… You'll be safe forever."
"No deal," Jo tells her. She shakes her head, both to clear it and to tell Claire how out of the question that is. "I promised your mom."
"You promised, not me," Claire says, fear behind the mutiny in her eyes. Her hand doesn't move away; instead, it drifts over Jo's neck, settling softly along her cheek. "I can make sure you're safe, if I go with him. It's covenant, Jo. They won't break it, not ever, no matter what happens, and I… I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I won't be safe without you," Jo says, and closes her eyes under the delicate warmth and pressure of human touch, against the resolution she knows she'll see.
-end-
.in other news: Off to jury selection, woooo.