Bela Talbot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
enjoythe_ride) wrote2008-07-09 01:15 pm
enjoythe_ride) wrote2008-07-09 01:15 pm
[QT!] Scott Westerfeld quote
[![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lawyerlarry used with permission from his mun, who made a request for Drunk!Bela. Set back a few weeks to when she first found out about Dean’s death, and follows THIS post.]
“The human heart is a strange vessel. Love and hatred can exist side by side.”
God, was she ever in need of a drink. After immediately receiving the news about Dean’s death, her main concern was her own safety and fear of what Sam may do if he ever found out she was alive—not by her own hand, she was going to make sure of that; terms of the deal after all. Later, however, she could feel her heart drop to her stomach, the guilt starting to chew at her insides.
This wasn’t fair. Even she could see that the circumstances seemed to be irreversibly skewed in the wrong direction. She may have had her reasons for doing what she did, but that didn’t mean that Dean deserved to die because of her bad decision—namely going for the Colt in the first place. True, she had been desperate at the time, and looking to save herself, but Dean didn’t deserve this. Especially not after everything he’d done for her.
He saved her life, possibly twice, and she didn’t even have the decency to return the favor.
She wandered into a bar, far from her usual haunts, and slid up on the bar stool to order herself something strong that she could feel burn as it trickled down her throat. She wasn’t really one for drinking, but this time the situation seemed to warrant it. There was a piano player up on the stage, performing for the crowd who seemed to be giving him their rapt attention, but she didn’t bother turning around to see who it was. She was, again, too focused in herself, her grief, her pain.
“I killed them. And I got rich. And I can’t be bothered to give a damn. Just like I don’t care what happens to you.”
“You make me sick.”
“Likewise.”
She hated him. Oh, how she hated him. Every opportunity she had that she didn’t shoot him, she had considered an opportunity wasted. Both he and Sam with their relationship, and their hunting, their selflessness. They way they seemed to deal a hand of kindness along with an insult all in the same breath—she wished them dead on more than one occasion. But not by hellhound. Not like this. At the end of her own gun, maybe, but not like this.
The piano music stopped, and Bela was about three drinks in, downing them in succession without really paying much heed to how her body was feeling. She wasn’t a drinker, really—a casual drink when in the company of friends, but never to the point where she lost her senses—but this situation seemed to call for it. She curled her fingers around the glass, closing her eyes as she let her forehead fall against the rim, wanting for everything just to stop for a moment.
“I didn’t know this was your type of place.”
The voice over her shoulder was familiar, but it wasn’t one she had expected. When she turned and met Larry’s eyes, she just shrugged, before taking another sip of her drink. “Was in the mood for a drink—didn’t really care where it came from.”
She watched him slide onto the stool next to her, watching her as she sipped her drink. His head canted to the side slightly, before ordering a drink of his own. “That’s not your usual drink either.”
She turned back to him with a glare for a moment. “Are you my lawyer or my mother?”
He grinned slightly at that. “Just observing. Usually you drink those girly martinis and things.”
She rested the elbow of the hand with her glass in it on the counter, studying the liquid inside before shrugging. “As I said, I was in the mood for a drink.”
“I see.”
He didn’t see. Probably couldn’t even possibly imagine what was going through her head at the moment, but for some reason, Larry being there was somewhat comforting. At least until either of them said something potentially awkward. Then things were likely to just go downhill from there.
“Can I ask the occasion?” he said, trying to prod her into talking to him again, and she gave him a slight glare before speaking again.
“Recently a—” Friend, acquaintance, associate—all the possible colloquial terms spun through her head as she tried to figure out what exactly to call him, and she still couldn’t put a finger on what. Then her head started to spin too much and she instead swallowed and started over. “I just found out that someone I know passed away.”
Larry’s eyebrows went up and he frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Were you two close?”
She snorted lightly at that, before shaking her head. “I hated him. I wanted to kill him most of the time.”
Now, Larry was confused. “So why the drinking party for one?”
Her face sobered, and she sighed heavily before taking another sip of the drink. “He saved my life.”
“So he liked you, but you wanted to kill him?”
“Oh, no—he hated me just as much as I hated him,” she said with a bitter laugh. “But he and his brother—they aren’t the cold-blooded type.” Far from it, in fact. They were about as selfless a person as she could imagine, and she always regretted the fact that their paths had to cross, because she knew she probably wouldn’t be feeling like this right now. In fact, she’d probably be Hell right now, which made another twisted spike of gratitude jab into her gut, and she practically dropped the glass in her hand, only saved by Larry’s hand reaching out for it and lowering it to rest on the counter.
“Let’s get you in a cab, alright?”
She let him pull her off the stool and towards the door. He didn’t touch anywhere he didn’t have to, which she appreciated, but he didn’t exactly keep himself far away either. He placed her in a cab and gave the cabbie her address, shutting the door and sending her off into New York’s streets for the long drive back to Queens.
As she sat there in the silence, she knew the one thing that she really didn’t want to say, because admitting it would make it true. She hated Sam and Dean and all associated. She really did. But they knew more about her than she was personally comfortable with, and they had saved her life twice. They were probably the closest thing Bela had had to a real friend, more than an acquaintance, in ten years, and now she would never be able to return the favor. And that was probably the part that was killing her more than anything else.
1113 words
lawyerlarry used with permission from his mun, who made a request for Drunk!Bela. Set back a few weeks to when she first found out about Dean’s death, and follows THIS post.]“The human heart is a strange vessel. Love and hatred can exist side by side.”
God, was she ever in need of a drink. After immediately receiving the news about Dean’s death, her main concern was her own safety and fear of what Sam may do if he ever found out she was alive—not by her own hand, she was going to make sure of that; terms of the deal after all. Later, however, she could feel her heart drop to her stomach, the guilt starting to chew at her insides.
This wasn’t fair. Even she could see that the circumstances seemed to be irreversibly skewed in the wrong direction. She may have had her reasons for doing what she did, but that didn’t mean that Dean deserved to die because of her bad decision—namely going for the Colt in the first place. True, she had been desperate at the time, and looking to save herself, but Dean didn’t deserve this. Especially not after everything he’d done for her.
He saved her life, possibly twice, and she didn’t even have the decency to return the favor.
She wandered into a bar, far from her usual haunts, and slid up on the bar stool to order herself something strong that she could feel burn as it trickled down her throat. She wasn’t really one for drinking, but this time the situation seemed to warrant it. There was a piano player up on the stage, performing for the crowd who seemed to be giving him their rapt attention, but she didn’t bother turning around to see who it was. She was, again, too focused in herself, her grief, her pain.
“I killed them. And I got rich. And I can’t be bothered to give a damn. Just like I don’t care what happens to you.”
“You make me sick.”
“Likewise.”
She hated him. Oh, how she hated him. Every opportunity she had that she didn’t shoot him, she had considered an opportunity wasted. Both he and Sam with their relationship, and their hunting, their selflessness. They way they seemed to deal a hand of kindness along with an insult all in the same breath—she wished them dead on more than one occasion. But not by hellhound. Not like this. At the end of her own gun, maybe, but not like this.
The piano music stopped, and Bela was about three drinks in, downing them in succession without really paying much heed to how her body was feeling. She wasn’t a drinker, really—a casual drink when in the company of friends, but never to the point where she lost her senses—but this situation seemed to call for it. She curled her fingers around the glass, closing her eyes as she let her forehead fall against the rim, wanting for everything just to stop for a moment.
“I didn’t know this was your type of place.”
The voice over her shoulder was familiar, but it wasn’t one she had expected. When she turned and met Larry’s eyes, she just shrugged, before taking another sip of her drink. “Was in the mood for a drink—didn’t really care where it came from.”
She watched him slide onto the stool next to her, watching her as she sipped her drink. His head canted to the side slightly, before ordering a drink of his own. “That’s not your usual drink either.”
She turned back to him with a glare for a moment. “Are you my lawyer or my mother?”
He grinned slightly at that. “Just observing. Usually you drink those girly martinis and things.”
She rested the elbow of the hand with her glass in it on the counter, studying the liquid inside before shrugging. “As I said, I was in the mood for a drink.”
“I see.”
He didn’t see. Probably couldn’t even possibly imagine what was going through her head at the moment, but for some reason, Larry being there was somewhat comforting. At least until either of them said something potentially awkward. Then things were likely to just go downhill from there.
“Can I ask the occasion?” he said, trying to prod her into talking to him again, and she gave him a slight glare before speaking again.
“Recently a—” Friend, acquaintance, associate—all the possible colloquial terms spun through her head as she tried to figure out what exactly to call him, and she still couldn’t put a finger on what. Then her head started to spin too much and she instead swallowed and started over. “I just found out that someone I know passed away.”
Larry’s eyebrows went up and he frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Were you two close?”
She snorted lightly at that, before shaking her head. “I hated him. I wanted to kill him most of the time.”
Now, Larry was confused. “So why the drinking party for one?”
Her face sobered, and she sighed heavily before taking another sip of the drink. “He saved my life.”
“So he liked you, but you wanted to kill him?”
“Oh, no—he hated me just as much as I hated him,” she said with a bitter laugh. “But he and his brother—they aren’t the cold-blooded type.” Far from it, in fact. They were about as selfless a person as she could imagine, and she always regretted the fact that their paths had to cross, because she knew she probably wouldn’t be feeling like this right now. In fact, she’d probably be Hell right now, which made another twisted spike of gratitude jab into her gut, and she practically dropped the glass in her hand, only saved by Larry’s hand reaching out for it and lowering it to rest on the counter.
“Let’s get you in a cab, alright?”
She let him pull her off the stool and towards the door. He didn’t touch anywhere he didn’t have to, which she appreciated, but he didn’t exactly keep himself far away either. He placed her in a cab and gave the cabbie her address, shutting the door and sending her off into New York’s streets for the long drive back to Queens.
As she sat there in the silence, she knew the one thing that she really didn’t want to say, because admitting it would make it true. She hated Sam and Dean and all associated. She really did. But they knew more about her than she was personally comfortable with, and they had saved her life twice. They were probably the closest thing Bela had had to a real friend, more than an acquaintance, in ten years, and now she would never be able to return the favor. And that was probably the part that was killing her more than anything else.
1113 words
OOC
Re: OOC
So I sighed and wrote it up for her like she asked me to. Because, again, I'm her bitch.
I'm glad you liked it.
Re: OOC
Re: OOC
I think she's on a Dean kick today. Or something. Because the next one she wants to do is the one I'm tossing around for