if I had wings
dan, nate, blair.
930 words. inside llewyn davis au.
summary: You used to have a partner, didn't you?
note: I wrote this for a ficathon well over a year ago, but realized recently I hadn't posted it to my journal ever. So, here it is.
Blair shoves a folded-over napkin across the beer-sticky wooden table, glaring at Dan from beneath the protective arm of that new French boy she's bringing everywhere.
Dan arches an eyebrow at her even as he unfolds it. What he finds, in big block letters: I'M PREGNANT.
He crumples the napkin.
Dan is sleeping on couches this week, this month, this year; he has nowhere to lay his head that isn't borrowed. Last night it was Cece Rhodes, grandmother to a girl Dan used to go around with who ended up in Hollywood. The old woman likes to bring him out as dinner party entertainment; that had been the case last night. Wealthy couples in tweedy blazers had listened to Dan's music with puzzled expressions before asking, "You used to have a partner, didn't you?"
Dan had swallowed hard before confirming, "Yeah, used to."
After it happened, Dan threw out all his records. Just threw them out.
Blair meets him on a cold bench on a windy day, strands of brown hair thrown across her bare face, anger writ on every feature. He's hunched into his corduroy jacket, which is nowhere near heavy enough for the winter. "You're not keeping it, are you?"
"I'd rather die than have one," she sniffs. "Especially yours."
"Good, because you'd be a shit mother," he says. "How do you know it's mine?"
She just glowers at him before demanding, "You're going to take care of it."
Dan has taken care of it once before, but not with Blair. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, of course. I know someone." He has no money.
"I don't want to hear from you until you do," Blair says firmly. She stands, wound up tight with cold and anger. She wears an old fur coat like she's the princess of Greenwich Village or something. It was probably inherited. "You can forget crashing on my couch."
"Already forgotten," Dan spits.
It hadn't been on purpose. This is what Dan believes, at any rate; it's something he has to believe, really. Addiction is a precipice. Nate had dropped off the edge.
In Dan's pockets there is only: five dollars, lint, guitar pick, key. He doesn't remember what the key is for, but he won't get rid of it on the off chance it's forgotten-but-important. Noah Shapiro at the label says there's nothing coming in from Dan's last album, the first solo one, the improbably and inscrutably titled Inside. "Inside what?" Noah had huffed, and maybe part of the problem was that Dan didn't have an answer.
There was a rush of sales after Nate passed – not of the solo stuff, because it hadn't existed yet, but of the good ol' Nate & Dan records. Dan hadn't taken any of the money, which was stupid. Instead he'd given it to his sister, a little pocket money for her to spend at the fancy school his parents can't really afford. He should've kept it, though. Should've kept some of it.
He ends up begging the cash off his dad without saying why. Dan doesn't like charity but it's not like he has an option. He needs the money.
It's a curious thing, about grief –
The doctor waves him off when Dan pulls out the cash. "After last time," he explains, "I owe you one."
Dan stares at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, I couldn't get in touch with you," the doctor says. "And you never came asking."
"Asking for what?" Dan's patience is thin and the money is still in his hand, stretched halfway across a lacquered desk cluttered with papers.
"The fee," he says.
"Why would I come asking for that?"
The doctor seems to mirror Dan's perplexed expression. "The girl – Georgia, was it? – didn't have the procedure."
"Georgina," Dan says before his brain has caught up with what he's being told, "Her name's… Didn't have it?"
"No," and now the doctor is uncomfortable, having revealed too much. "She changed her mind."
Slowly, Dan pulls his hand back, sticks the roll of bills back into his pockets, smoothes his palms over his jeans. He clears his throat. "Saturday, then?"
Dan and Nate never sold all that great, but there was something to the two of them together. Dan was always edging morose but Nate was cleanly All-American, blue eyes and sunny smiles bridging a gap from suited pop singers to Gerde's Folk City. But it was more than that; that's just marketing. It was an easy way they had together. It was camaraderie, it was –
They weren't fooling around, or anything like that.
Blair gets Dan a spot at the Gaslight. He doesn't know if it's relief softening her or just one of those abrupt friendly gestures she'll make out of nowhere, if only to underscore her contempt.
Dan hadn't been right the last time he was here. It hadn't been long after and he'd been drunk, made a loud, raucous mess of things. They'd kicked him out, but done so with conflicted faces because he was grieving, after all. They welcome him back in now. He does three songs straight in a row but it's only the last one that makes the audience straighten up a little, attune themselves to him.
It's Nate's song, his and Nate's, though at the same time not actually theirs at all; folk songs belong to everybody and nobody, belong to whoever's singing them at any given minute. So once upon whenever, it had been his and Nate's song and now it's nobody's again, but Dan still sings it.
He's not sure what else to do.
dan, nate, blair.
930 words. inside llewyn davis au.
summary: You used to have a partner, didn't you?
note: I wrote this for a ficathon well over a year ago, but realized recently I hadn't posted it to my journal ever. So, here it is.
Blair shoves a folded-over napkin across the beer-sticky wooden table, glaring at Dan from beneath the protective arm of that new French boy she's bringing everywhere.
Dan arches an eyebrow at her even as he unfolds it. What he finds, in big block letters: I'M PREGNANT.
He crumples the napkin.
Dan is sleeping on couches this week, this month, this year; he has nowhere to lay his head that isn't borrowed. Last night it was Cece Rhodes, grandmother to a girl Dan used to go around with who ended up in Hollywood. The old woman likes to bring him out as dinner party entertainment; that had been the case last night. Wealthy couples in tweedy blazers had listened to Dan's music with puzzled expressions before asking, "You used to have a partner, didn't you?"
Dan had swallowed hard before confirming, "Yeah, used to."
After it happened, Dan threw out all his records. Just threw them out.
Blair meets him on a cold bench on a windy day, strands of brown hair thrown across her bare face, anger writ on every feature. He's hunched into his corduroy jacket, which is nowhere near heavy enough for the winter. "You're not keeping it, are you?"
"I'd rather die than have one," she sniffs. "Especially yours."
"Good, because you'd be a shit mother," he says. "How do you know it's mine?"
She just glowers at him before demanding, "You're going to take care of it."
Dan has taken care of it once before, but not with Blair. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, of course. I know someone." He has no money.
"I don't want to hear from you until you do," Blair says firmly. She stands, wound up tight with cold and anger. She wears an old fur coat like she's the princess of Greenwich Village or something. It was probably inherited. "You can forget crashing on my couch."
"Already forgotten," Dan spits.
It hadn't been on purpose. This is what Dan believes, at any rate; it's something he has to believe, really. Addiction is a precipice. Nate had dropped off the edge.
In Dan's pockets there is only: five dollars, lint, guitar pick, key. He doesn't remember what the key is for, but he won't get rid of it on the off chance it's forgotten-but-important. Noah Shapiro at the label says there's nothing coming in from Dan's last album, the first solo one, the improbably and inscrutably titled Inside. "Inside what?" Noah had huffed, and maybe part of the problem was that Dan didn't have an answer.
There was a rush of sales after Nate passed – not of the solo stuff, because it hadn't existed yet, but of the good ol' Nate & Dan records. Dan hadn't taken any of the money, which was stupid. Instead he'd given it to his sister, a little pocket money for her to spend at the fancy school his parents can't really afford. He should've kept it, though. Should've kept some of it.
He ends up begging the cash off his dad without saying why. Dan doesn't like charity but it's not like he has an option. He needs the money.
It's a curious thing, about grief –
The doctor waves him off when Dan pulls out the cash. "After last time," he explains, "I owe you one."
Dan stares at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, I couldn't get in touch with you," the doctor says. "And you never came asking."
"Asking for what?" Dan's patience is thin and the money is still in his hand, stretched halfway across a lacquered desk cluttered with papers.
"The fee," he says.
"Why would I come asking for that?"
The doctor seems to mirror Dan's perplexed expression. "The girl – Georgia, was it? – didn't have the procedure."
"Georgina," Dan says before his brain has caught up with what he's being told, "Her name's… Didn't have it?"
"No," and now the doctor is uncomfortable, having revealed too much. "She changed her mind."
Slowly, Dan pulls his hand back, sticks the roll of bills back into his pockets, smoothes his palms over his jeans. He clears his throat. "Saturday, then?"
Dan and Nate never sold all that great, but there was something to the two of them together. Dan was always edging morose but Nate was cleanly All-American, blue eyes and sunny smiles bridging a gap from suited pop singers to Gerde's Folk City. But it was more than that; that's just marketing. It was an easy way they had together. It was camaraderie, it was –
They weren't fooling around, or anything like that.
Blair gets Dan a spot at the Gaslight. He doesn't know if it's relief softening her or just one of those abrupt friendly gestures she'll make out of nowhere, if only to underscore her contempt.
Dan hadn't been right the last time he was here. It hadn't been long after and he'd been drunk, made a loud, raucous mess of things. They'd kicked him out, but done so with conflicted faces because he was grieving, after all. They welcome him back in now. He does three songs straight in a row but it's only the last one that makes the audience straighten up a little, attune themselves to him.
It's Nate's song, his and Nate's, though at the same time not actually theirs at all; folk songs belong to everybody and nobody, belong to whoever's singing them at any given minute. So once upon whenever, it had been his and Nate's song and now it's nobody's again, but Dan still sings it.
He's not sure what else to do.