Got tagged for WIP Wednesday by @meatgrinderminefield, and in the spirit of ghoul-fucking, I dug out my WIP for the sequel to Commie Pinko since I’ve been talking about it with some folks.
Not gonna tag anyone because I’m late, but anyone who wants to share, please do!!
☢️ ☢️ ☢️☢️ ☢️ ☢️☢️ ☢️ ☢️☢️ ☢️ ☢️☢️ ☢️ ☢️☢️ ☢️ ☢️☢️ ☢️
“Nick’s…” She pauses, and he can see her choosing her words one at a time. “It’s a long story.”
“So you keep saying,” John replies, leaning back to study her face. The way she goes still when Valentine’s name comes up—not the controlled stillness of someone being careful, but the frozen kind. “You know, for someone who claims to be bad at keeping people alive, you sure do get twitchy whenever we talk about your favorite detective.”
“It’s not—” She starts, then stops, jaw working like she’s chewing on something bitter. “Nick and I have history.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that much.” He lights another cigarette, taking his time with it. “Question is whether it’s the kind of history that’s gonna get us all killed when we’re knee-deep in radioactive hell.”
George’s laugh comes out sharp and humorless. “Everything about me gets people killed, Hancock. That’s the point I’ve been trying to make.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m telling you that’s horseshit.” He blows smoke toward the ceiling, watching it dissipate in the red glow. “You want to know what I think?”
“Not particularly, but I suspect you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you like having one foot out the door.” The words land between them like a grenade with the pin pulled. “The Glowing Sea’s just geography. Whatever’s waiting out there has claws, teeth, maybe an extra head for personality. You can work with that. It’s people who keep coming back that scare the hell out of you.”
Her fingers stop their pattern-tracing. “That’s quite the psychological evaluation from someone who pours rum on their Sugar Bombs at breakfast time.”
“Touché.” He takes another drag, in no hurry about it. “But here’s the thing about being a functional addict in the apocalypse—after a while, you learn what people look like when they’re halfway to leaving before anybody’s asked them to stay. And sweetheart, that’s you all over.”
Her answering smile is a shade of predatory he’s more than a little familiar with now. “Takes one to know one.”
“Guilty as charged.” He raises his glass in mock salute. “Difference is, I’ve made peace with my particular brand of fucked up. You’re still fighting yours like it’s gonna change the outcome.”
She considers this, rolling the empty glass between her palms. “And what exactly do you think my outcome should be?”
“How about we start with ‘not dead in a radioactive wasteland’ and work our way up from there?” He reaches out before the glass can turn again, two fingers catching the rim. “Look, I get it. Trust is a luxury most of us can’t afford out here. But sometimes you gotta bet on black, sister.”
“Don’t make it sound brave.”
“Never said brave. Said alive.”
She looks down at his hand on the glass. For a second, he thinks she’ll pull it away on principle.
The sigh that leaves her seems to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs—like she’s been holding her breath for two centuries and only now remembering how to exhale. “You really want to know about Nick?”
“Only if you want to tell me.” He kept his voice level, because that was the gentlemanly thing to do when curiosity started dressing itself up as jealousy. He had standards. Low ones, maybe, but standards.
