It wasn't a long moment, but it was suspended
646 words. Johnny Depp. Winona Ryder.
Summary: Whatever happens later, he'll always be the first person to ever really hear her, or touch her, and even if she ends up just a bad tattoo anecdote to him, it's something.
Note: Originally posted here, aka the lovely ficathon I live at. JOHNNY AND WINO'S LOVE. IT IS A PERFECT NINETIES LOVE UNTOUCHED BY TIME.
She's wearing a white dress. It holds tight to every curve of her, the dip of waist and flare of hip, but looks like it might slip right off her shoulders out of sheer laziness. There's so much of her bare, her white throat and slight shoulders, the bony collarbone and canvas of chest. He wants to hook a finger over her dress right where it dips lowest and pull.
He thinks she looks like Liz Taylor, except there's something a little goofy and lanky and kid-like in the way she's standing, hands clasping behind her back and pushing up onto the balls of her feet, smile thin and half-hearted for the photographers. She looks a little bit like she's wearing Mommy's dress, with her clean, hardly made-up face and dark hair brushed back simply off her pale forehead. She's only seventeen, he finds out later, but he thinks there's an endless series of worlds in her black eyes.
He's looking at her and feeling kind of lost, the picture of his vision is fading out and edging black like old film burning off a projector. There's just cameras flashing and her.
Then, unexpectedly, she looks back at him. She blinks a little and smiles, polite and uncertain but somehow self-aware. She shifts a little on her heels. She looks at him for much longer than it would be normal to look and smiles her awkward half-smile and he knows she'll have to look away first, because he can't. But she doesn't and they just look and look and look until he feels someone's hand on his arm tugging him along into the theatre.
That's how Johnny first saw her. He never knew a thing like it.
The next time is in a hotel room, Winona in boots and jeans and an oversized denim jacket that she slouches into. Her hair is less clean, hanging around her face. "Uh, hi," she says, fingers curling over her worn sleeves.
She feels both more comfortable and less, because she's got her jacket to hide in now but Johnny is still looking at her in a way she can't really understand, open and kind of longing, hungry. It's just lurking in the back of his eyes, though, under the still, unsettling charm, and she wonders if she's making it up.
He barely says anything to her the whole night, only smiles a little curling half-smile, and it's odd. She thought he'd be all over her or something, one of those pushy guys she's unfortunately become overly familiar with, but he's not. And when she goes, he takes her hand for a moment, his own very cold, and says honestly, "I liked seeing you."
"Okay," she says, unsure of what else to say.
She thinks of him as old at first, even though he doesn't look it, just because he's already done everything and it shows. Scars and tattoos litter his arms, his eyes have got a permanently shadowed kind of look, and his mouth is always curling with a hint of wry sarcasm. He's everything the magazines say he is and nothing they say he is and he understands that perfectly, the dual identity thing, where you belong to them but you belong to yourself too. He's lived it all and Winona's barely lived at all.
Ages later they'll be lying side by side in the dark, Johnny fast asleep, and she'll trace over her name emblazoned on his skin. She'll think that that's too much to be for anyone, forever, but it's unalterably true – and not just because Johnny paid seventy-five bucks to make it so on Sunset Boulevard. Whatever happens later, he'll always be the first person to ever really hear her, or touch her, and even if she ends up just a bad tattoo anecdote to him, it's something. It's indelible, it will not be erased.
646 words. Johnny Depp. Winona Ryder.
Summary: Whatever happens later, he'll always be the first person to ever really hear her, or touch her, and even if she ends up just a bad tattoo anecdote to him, it's something.
Note: Originally posted here, aka the lovely ficathon I live at. JOHNNY AND WINO'S LOVE. IT IS A PERFECT NINETIES LOVE UNTOUCHED BY TIME.
She's wearing a white dress. It holds tight to every curve of her, the dip of waist and flare of hip, but looks like it might slip right off her shoulders out of sheer laziness. There's so much of her bare, her white throat and slight shoulders, the bony collarbone and canvas of chest. He wants to hook a finger over her dress right where it dips lowest and pull.
He thinks she looks like Liz Taylor, except there's something a little goofy and lanky and kid-like in the way she's standing, hands clasping behind her back and pushing up onto the balls of her feet, smile thin and half-hearted for the photographers. She looks a little bit like she's wearing Mommy's dress, with her clean, hardly made-up face and dark hair brushed back simply off her pale forehead. She's only seventeen, he finds out later, but he thinks there's an endless series of worlds in her black eyes.
He's looking at her and feeling kind of lost, the picture of his vision is fading out and edging black like old film burning off a projector. There's just cameras flashing and her.
Then, unexpectedly, she looks back at him. She blinks a little and smiles, polite and uncertain but somehow self-aware. She shifts a little on her heels. She looks at him for much longer than it would be normal to look and smiles her awkward half-smile and he knows she'll have to look away first, because he can't. But she doesn't and they just look and look and look until he feels someone's hand on his arm tugging him along into the theatre.
That's how Johnny first saw her. He never knew a thing like it.
The next time is in a hotel room, Winona in boots and jeans and an oversized denim jacket that she slouches into. Her hair is less clean, hanging around her face. "Uh, hi," she says, fingers curling over her worn sleeves.
She feels both more comfortable and less, because she's got her jacket to hide in now but Johnny is still looking at her in a way she can't really understand, open and kind of longing, hungry. It's just lurking in the back of his eyes, though, under the still, unsettling charm, and she wonders if she's making it up.
He barely says anything to her the whole night, only smiles a little curling half-smile, and it's odd. She thought he'd be all over her or something, one of those pushy guys she's unfortunately become overly familiar with, but he's not. And when she goes, he takes her hand for a moment, his own very cold, and says honestly, "I liked seeing you."
"Okay," she says, unsure of what else to say.
She thinks of him as old at first, even though he doesn't look it, just because he's already done everything and it shows. Scars and tattoos litter his arms, his eyes have got a permanently shadowed kind of look, and his mouth is always curling with a hint of wry sarcasm. He's everything the magazines say he is and nothing they say he is and he understands that perfectly, the dual identity thing, where you belong to them but you belong to yourself too. He's lived it all and Winona's barely lived at all.
Ages later they'll be lying side by side in the dark, Johnny fast asleep, and she'll trace over her name emblazoned on his skin. She'll think that that's too much to be for anyone, forever, but it's unalterably true – and not just because Johnny paid seventy-five bucks to make it so on Sunset Boulevard. Whatever happens later, he'll always be the first person to ever really hear her, or touch her, and even if she ends up just a bad tattoo anecdote to him, it's something. It's indelible, it will not be erased.