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Tweak says, "blame Canada!"

Chuck Shurley: that beardy dude with the laptop. (capriciousgod) wrote in wariscoming,
@ 2010-07-27 17:19:00

Entry tags:

chuck shurley, jo harvelle

Who? Chuck'n'Jo
What? Soup, sandwiches, alcohol, and angst.
Where? The Roadhouse
When? After this network post.
Rating? Mild to moderate? Angst and alcoholic beverages, probably.

One of the bonuses, Chuck was learning, of writing someone as a character, was that you knew little things about them that most people probably didn’t. It could probably have been something that would make everything awkward, but in this case he was hoping it was a positive, something to help cheer Jo up.

It was, technically, his fault she was so upset right now. His fault she’d died, because he hadn’t warned her about it, not really, and he understood that, and felt bad about it and he wished he’d done it differently. Sure, he didn’t actually physically kill her, he wouldn’t do something like that, but he may as well have, by not warning her. Not that he’d known exactly what was coming, just that she’d ~~get hurt~~ die, he didn’t see more than flashes until after she was already gone and he’d had no chance to get to her, what with Dean and Cas and the archangel and everything...

But it was his fault, anyway.

Which was why he’d just been in the complex kitchen making tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches to bring over. The soup went into a thermos, the sandwiches were wrapped up and then bundled in a clean towel in an effort to keep them warm, and he’d snagged a package of cookies, thrown everything into a bag and set off for the Roadhouse. Yeah, this was decidedly one of the least masculine things he’d done recently, but whatever. He didn’t really care.

This was also the longest he’d been sober for a while, two whole days and he really didn’t want to be sober, but he couldn’t very well do this without his mind at least somewhat clear, right? Besides, he’d feel kind of hypocritical, telling her not to drown herself in alcohol if he was actively doing the same thing - drinking and brooding alone, the whole nine yards.

Chuck wasn’t entirely sure if she’d even actually let him inside - she’d (reluctantly) agreed to let him come, told him to be careful, but that... didn’t actually mean anything. He hoped she would, though. He moved up to the door and knocked, anxious and uneasy and hoping she didn’t plan on punching him in the face or chasing him away with a gun or something, for pushing her when she wanted to be alone.

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capriciousgod
2010-08-01 02:07 am UTC (link)

> "I'm still going to fight. I'll still do the job, get it done, whatever....even if there is no point."

“Good,” was about the only response he could come out with that wouldn’t feel fake or hypocritical. Arguing about whether there was or wasn’t a point was something he wasn’t prepared to do right now - because part of him wanted her to go on thinking there was a point, some kind of hope in all this... but most of him knew he may as well not even try to convince her that they had a chance. If he was wrong, he didn’t want to have lied to her ~~again~~.

He didn’t want her to give up, though, even if it really was as hopeless as he felt it had to be, as she seemed to think it would be. Because if she gave up, if she stopped fighting, he didn’t know what she’d do. She was Jo Harvelle, the girl who got grabbed by a demon-possessed Winchester and bounced right back to patch the other one up and didn’t even skip a day of work after it, she was the girl who could out-shoot a lot of older, grizzled hunters, she was Jo and he hoped he never had to see her without her fire.

He uncapped the bottle he’d taken off the desk, took a swig from it - okay, sue him, he wasn’t going to wait after all; he really was way too sober right now - and set it on the floor next to the couch, where he’d be able to reach it easily enough, then turned so he was pretty much facing her, twisted over sideways and offering a smile, something close to an unspoken are you okay? Are we okay? which he promptly did his best to switch off, looking away and motioning with one hand towards where he’d left the dinner (...late dinner) he’d brought her.

“I, uh... brought tomato soup and grilled cheese. Since, you know. I knew you liked that. And, um. You should probably have some before it gets cold. I don’t think the sandwiches would be salvageable...”

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harvelle
2010-08-01 05:44 pm UTC (link)

"Good." She bit back a sigh, her eyes studying the whiskey bottle in her hands again as she gave a faint nod, then withdrew back into silence. Jo was starting to wish she hadn't said he could come over, or that she'd let him in. A part of her - a part that had been locked away since she was ten and her father hadn't come home - wanted suddenly to cry.

It was childish, but she wanted her mom.

Setting her jaw determinedly, she shut her eyes and took a deep breath to calm down, then opened them again and glanced over to him. She noticed the smile, of course, and caught the meaning behind it, but didn't respond. Instead, she just watched as he gestured towards the bag and thermos.

"That's my fav..." Oh. Right. She shook her head a little, then gave a shrug. The reason that that simple meal was her favorite was that it had been something she could remember her dad fixing for her whenever she did something good, or even when she missed a target and had been upset. She wanted to tell Chuck that no, she wasn't hungry, and that he shouldn't have bothered, but her stomach gave a small rumble, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in...well, she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. It might've been the day before?

"...Fine." She reluctantly set the bottle on the floor next to the couch, then held out her hand for him to pass the dinner over.

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capriciousgod
2010-08-01 06:36 pm UTC (link)

Chuck was quickly learning that he didn’t much like it when Jo was silent. Not, like, she had to be making noise all the time, because that would be... impossible, and also kind of not good for a hunter, and generally just ...completely not what he meant, but even her silences shouldn’t have been so still, and her stillness made her seem quieter than just not speaking.

He wanted to fix it. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he was going to chalk it up to being an author, wanting to fix all the problems he got his characters into, even if she wasn’t really a character, she was real - it was still something he’d caused, sort of, mostly. He hadn’t killed her, but he hadn’t saved her, either, he hadn’t saved anyone - the world was going to end and it was all his fault, but he couldn’t help that, not right now. This, though - he could help Jo, he could at least try.

>"That's my fav..."

She didn’t finish, but she really didn’t have to. He shrugged a little, smiling a little, “That’s why I brought it.” Comfort food was always a good plan, in times like these. Not that this was something commonplace or anything, dying and coming back to life, but he was pretty sure it fell under the category of things comfort food should be involved in, which was kind of a long list.

>"...Fine."

Almost before she’d spoken, Chuck jumped up and moved over to retrieve the bag, pulling out things as he walked back over to the couch, setting the sandwiches down on the couch and unwrapping the towel from them, then offering her the thermos. The cookies came out of the bag last, and he kind of gestured vaguely with them, “Oh. Cookies, too. Figured, you know... dessert is important. Sugar is good. Do you like Oreos? I don’t think I ever saw if you liked Oreos, but I figured, you know, most people do, so it seemed like a safe bet...”

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harvelle
2010-08-03 08:38 pm UTC (link)

She watched him for a moment, arms crossed over herself. Right now, she was mainly trying to not think about what had happened. She was the kind of person who did better dealing with things like that when she was alone. But instead, everyone seemed to want to push - ask how she was, make plans to meet up, come over with comfort food. She had finally given in to the last request, but now...she still wasn't happy to have her solitude disturbed. First chance she got, she'd be at a target range or gym, working out her aggression once that kicked in. For tonight, though, she wanted to focus on the other side. But it seemed that Chuck wouldn't give up that easily.

Biting back a sigh, she accepted the thermos. Opening it, she poured some soup into the top, then sat back against the cushions and took a small sip. Her eyes closed for a moment as the flavor brought back so many memories of her childhood. A moment later, they reopened and she took a second sip, then glanced at him.

"It's good." Lowering the cup, she reached out for one of the sandwiches and picked it up to take a bite. After her third, she set it down again and met his eyes. "Happy?"

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capriciousgod
2010-08-05 01:25 am UTC (link)

>"It's good."

Chuck smiled almost brightly again, happy that she liked it, even though it wasn’t like he made it from scratch or anything. Just canned soup, he didn’t even do more than heat it up - no special things added, nothing changed or altered. Just warm tomato soup, just plain grilled cheese sandwiches. It was probably better that way - he wasn’t the worst cook ever, he could make the basics, but anything beyond that seemed to take on a mind of its own, turn out strange or wrong, and besides, there wasn’t much that needed to be done for this kind of a meal, anyway.

>"Happy?"

“Close enough,” was the best he could offer in response to that - between the kind of week he’d been having and the kind of things he’d seen and the fact that she’d died and it was his fault and she was pissed and upset and the world was ending and he probably had Dean plotting to destroy him for not telling him anything sooner, it was kind of hard for him to be happy. And, yeah, he knew she didn’t mean it entirely literally, just meant it in terms of the fact that she was being semi-agreeable and eating, but anything else felt uncomfortably close to a lie, and lying was out of the question right now.

“I’m sorry.” It was probably the millionth apology he’d offered, so far, but... that didn’t make it any less genuine. And it wasn’t like he had much else he could say - because everything he had to say was either an apology or was pointedly-diverting remarks on things like the weather or how he likes the arrangement of the furniture in here or how terrified he’d been when he woke up and realized he wasn’t going to be able to save her, how confused he’d been when he’d realized that, because she was just one person, and lots of people were dying, why did he care so much?... stupid, pointless things she’d be able to see right through.

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