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Juno fic: love is not like a potato
I started this...back in February, I guess? And then got about fifty words from the actual end and said, "well, fuck. how does this end?"
And then this past weekend I mentioned it to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fox1013, who took a look at it and said, "well, look, you just need a little bit more, see—" and then I wrote it! and it was done! Which just goes to show that my whole "here's what I'm writing; guilt me into finishing things!" process is totally valid.
love is not like a potato
Juno, Juno/Bleeker, ~700 words
With thanks to all of the Usual Suspects
"Bleeker, hey," her step-mom says, "Juno's upstairs taking a bath, I think."
He knows, in some half-hearted way, that he should be embarrassed that they still let him in, that they act like it's no problem. I knocked up your daughter, he wants to say, because he did, even though it wasn't on purpose and he would have kept his shorts on if he'd known—
—mostly, though, he's just glad, helplessly glad that they still call him Bleeker, just like they've done ever since Juno MacGuff, age nine-and-three-quarters, rolled her eyes and said, dad, bleeker's not my boyfriend, he's my boy friend, the space just as evident as any letters.
They've seen each other naked before—on the chair, of course, but before that, there was puberty and curiosity and Juno's ever-changing personal boundaries; squirt-gun fights and mudwrestling and "exploring" and the requisite embarrassing naked baby pictures. It never bothered Bleeker, not until Juno became someone it wasn't appropriate for him to hang out with—and after that, he didn't let it bother him.
It's never been quite like this before, though—for one, Juno hates bubble bath, but she's got about an inch of froth and foam floating on top of the water, and the air smells like a jungle, hot and heavy and floral.
She's most of the way under, as usual, reduced to a constellation of parts: face, breasts, belly, crossed knees. There's a little bit of foam clinging to the sides of her face, her temples and her cheekbones, like she maybe ducked her head under but then came back up for air.
"I can't have a really hot bath, because of the sprog," she says. Her eyes are still closed, but they're beyond the point of him asking her how she knew he was there.
"I guess that makes sense," he says eventually, a little too loud. He sits down next to the tub, lays his arm along the side. "I mean, you might, um—"
"Cook it?" The corner of Juno's mouth tucks in, secretive, amused. "Yeah, maybe."
Eventually, she ducks her head under the water, sits up nine and a half seconds later with soap streaming down her nose, dripping off of her eyebrows. She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't rub her face with soapy hands. Instead, she reaches forward and grabs the tap with no hesitation, turning it all the way around to COLD and running the water, catching it her hands and splashing it on her face.
That's the thing about Juno: she always knows where things are, where she is in relation to them.
"It's weird," she says, pulling the plug and leaning back on her elbows, letting the tub drain a bit at a time around her. "They tell you to expect all of these things: backache, heartburn, nausea, swollen ankles. And, like—yeah, sure, okay, gotcha." She shrugs her shoulders, and water cascades around her, set loose. "But my fucking wrists hurt," she says, "like—I don't even know, like I've been in the stocks all week and never even noticed." The last of the water slides down the drain with a wet pop, glug-glug glug-glug, and she sighs. "It's never what you expect, you know?"
"Yeah," Bleeker says, his fingers on the edge of the tub. "Yeah, no, totally." She takes a breath, slow and steady, and hisses it out through her teeth as she sits, then stands. He watches her, not because she's naked but because, pregnant, her balance is kind of for shit; when she wobbles, his hand is on her back, holding her steady.
She doesn't thank him, but she lets him help her out of the tub, one leg at a time, careful, careful. Her arm is over his shoulders, pressing water through the fabric of his t-shirt, and her hair brushes against his ear.
"Bleeker," she says, "you're aces, top fucking notch," and when he says, "I do my best," he's never meant anything more.
And then this past weekend I mentioned it to
fox1013, who took a look at it and said, "well, look, you just need a little bit more, see—" and then I wrote it! and it was done! Which just goes to show that my whole "here's what I'm writing; guilt me into finishing things!" process is totally valid.love is not like a potato
Juno, Juno/Bleeker, ~700 words
With thanks to all of the Usual Suspects
"Bleeker, hey," her step-mom says, "Juno's upstairs taking a bath, I think."
He knows, in some half-hearted way, that he should be embarrassed that they still let him in, that they act like it's no problem. I knocked up your daughter, he wants to say, because he did, even though it wasn't on purpose and he would have kept his shorts on if he'd known—
—mostly, though, he's just glad, helplessly glad that they still call him Bleeker, just like they've done ever since Juno MacGuff, age nine-and-three-quarters, rolled her eyes and said, dad, bleeker's not my boyfriend, he's my boy friend, the space just as evident as any letters.
They've seen each other naked before—on the chair, of course, but before that, there was puberty and curiosity and Juno's ever-changing personal boundaries; squirt-gun fights and mudwrestling and "exploring" and the requisite embarrassing naked baby pictures. It never bothered Bleeker, not until Juno became someone it wasn't appropriate for him to hang out with—and after that, he didn't let it bother him.
It's never been quite like this before, though—for one, Juno hates bubble bath, but she's got about an inch of froth and foam floating on top of the water, and the air smells like a jungle, hot and heavy and floral.
She's most of the way under, as usual, reduced to a constellation of parts: face, breasts, belly, crossed knees. There's a little bit of foam clinging to the sides of her face, her temples and her cheekbones, like she maybe ducked her head under but then came back up for air.
"I can't have a really hot bath, because of the sprog," she says. Her eyes are still closed, but they're beyond the point of him asking her how she knew he was there.
"I guess that makes sense," he says eventually, a little too loud. He sits down next to the tub, lays his arm along the side. "I mean, you might, um—"
"Cook it?" The corner of Juno's mouth tucks in, secretive, amused. "Yeah, maybe."
Eventually, she ducks her head under the water, sits up nine and a half seconds later with soap streaming down her nose, dripping off of her eyebrows. She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't rub her face with soapy hands. Instead, she reaches forward and grabs the tap with no hesitation, turning it all the way around to COLD and running the water, catching it her hands and splashing it on her face.
That's the thing about Juno: she always knows where things are, where she is in relation to them.
"It's weird," she says, pulling the plug and leaning back on her elbows, letting the tub drain a bit at a time around her. "They tell you to expect all of these things: backache, heartburn, nausea, swollen ankles. And, like—yeah, sure, okay, gotcha." She shrugs her shoulders, and water cascades around her, set loose. "But my fucking wrists hurt," she says, "like—I don't even know, like I've been in the stocks all week and never even noticed." The last of the water slides down the drain with a wet pop, glug-glug glug-glug, and she sighs. "It's never what you expect, you know?"
"Yeah," Bleeker says, his fingers on the edge of the tub. "Yeah, no, totally." She takes a breath, slow and steady, and hisses it out through her teeth as she sits, then stands. He watches her, not because she's naked but because, pregnant, her balance is kind of for shit; when she wobbles, his hand is on her back, holding her steady.
She doesn't thank him, but she lets him help her out of the tub, one leg at a time, careful, careful. Her arm is over his shoulders, pressing water through the fabric of his t-shirt, and her hair brushes against his ear.
"Bleeker," she says, "you're aces, top fucking notch," and when he says, "I do my best," he's never meant anything more.