Fake Fan Fiction ❯ St. Jude ❯ St. Jude ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Fake doesn't belong to me, but this work does. Don't sue, domo arigato.

 

St. Jude

By: Irish

((Note: Written from Dee's perspective))

 

~*~*~*~

 

St. Jude, my patron saint. Saint of Lost Causes. My lover asked me once if this depressed me, clucked his tongue and murmured about me not being a lost cause.

 

I appreciated his effort, he doesn't like me to be negative about myself. I try to explain to him, smiling a little, because I know he won't understand. We are so alike, and so very different, like two pieces of a puzzle who fit together as one, but are not the same piece.

 

“It gives me hope,” I say. “There is always someone to intercede for me; always someone looking out for me.”

 

He smiles a bit, and nods, though he clearly doesn't understand.

 

“Alright baby,” He agrees and wraps his arms around me. We both leave it at that. He's a pessimistic agnostic. Or as he says `there may be a God, but he doesn't give a damn about me, and the feeling is mutual.'.

 

I never argue with him, he respects my need for faith, even if he doesn't understand it. So I respect his need to eschew God, even though I don't understand it.

 

“I'll cook.” I offer. I'm already standing in front of the stove. Its less of an offer and more of a plea. He can't cook anything but pasta, and even that is barely palatable. I've never told him so though, and so he insists on doing `his fair share' of the cooking, twice a week. I know I'm in love, because no matter how bad it is, I always eat it.

 

“Are you sure?” He asks, brow furrowing. He likes everything to be split equally. Not for my sake, but for his own. He is smaller than I am, more petite, gentler. I know he is worried about being labeled `the woman' in our relationship. Afraid of being relegated to the role, he cares what people think. Sometimes I wish he cared a little less. We are what we are, why does anything else matter?

 

I make chicken stir fry. Its his favorite, and I enjoy the time to think as I wash and chop the ingredients. He sets the table well ahead of time, than leaves me in the kitchen.

 

The TV stays off. Neither of us watch it much, and he watches it less than I. He's probably reading, always having three or four books going at once. I feel bad, when he tries to talk to me about them. I read so slow, I don't even try and keep up with him, so I just smile and nod and add whatever book he's telling me about to the list of books I want to read but never will.

 

“Dinner is ready,” I call to him. It isn't actually. The rice is still cooking, but its close.

 

“What do you want to drink?” He asks, already opening the fridge.

 

“Whatever you're having.” I tell him, finally taking the rice off the stove and bringing it to the table, to steam trailing after the pot in a rolling white cloud.

 

“I'm having water.”

 

“That's fine.”

 

I Use a flat rice paddle and scoop the white rice onto our plates, then put the pot back on the stove, the lid on to keep its contents warm. When I turn back to the table, I see he wasn't reading at all. There is a little origami penguin besides my plate. He does that sometimes, makes me little origami animals and leaves them for me to find, on my pillow, besides my razor, on my desk at work. I save them all. I have a menagerie on my dresser.

 

I smile and pick it up, letting it sit in my palm. He is watching me shyly and when I look at him he starts to blush. It's a complicated piece, using multiple pieces of the thing folding paper, so that it is even colored correctly, black with a white belly.

 

“Its beautiful.” I say, knowing it took him a while to make. I would never have the patients for something like this. That makes it all the more special.

 

He shrugs off the compliment. I move around the table to kiss him. Holding onto my shoulders he goes up on his toes to meet me half way.

 

“Thank you,” I whisper against his lips.

 

“Its nothing.” He tries to dismiss it again, and I roll my eyes at the modesty, though its not at all false. I dip him suddenly, using a knee behind his to tilt him back so his back is mostly parallel to the floor. He cries out in surprise, gripping my shirt in both fists.

 

“What are you doing!” It comes out a yelp, but he is laughing.

 

I growl and nip at his neck, pretending to ravish him. He's helpless, both from the position and laughter, having no way to escape without tumbling to the floor. I laugh too, because he is.

 

Eventually I straighten us both, when I'm laughing so hard I'm afraid I'll drop him. He swats me playfully.

 

“No fair you're bigger!” The protest is teasing though. He may be smaller, but he can, and has, over powered me on more than one occasion.

 

“All is fair in love and war.” I reply, still smiling. He wraps his arms around my neck, up on his toes again.

 

“And which is this?” His voice is a murmur as he brings his face close to mine.

 

“Which do you think?”

He kisses me this time, and I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer. This kiss is longer, and its teasing of a different variety.

 

When we go to bed later, I put the paper penguin with my menagerie. He watches and smiles. Neither of us bother with pajamas. I turn off the light and slid between the sheets. They are flannel, but still feel cool against my skin, until he slides closer. I turn to him, still blind from the light, we almost bump heads in reaching for each other, and laugh when we do bump noses. For as hard as we work to communicate at times, this comes easy as breathing.

 

We lay together afterwards, and he spoons around me, cheek against my shoulder.

 

“I love you,” He whispers, touching my chest.

 

“I love you too.” I smile as he kisses my shoulder. His fingers tangle a bit in the chain around my neck, and he fingers the St. Medallion that hangs from it. St. Jude.

 

When he turns on his back in his sleep, I shift too, turning to face him, watch him, now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness.

 

I kiss the corner of his sleeping mouth, and smile as he wiggles closer to me.

 

He wouldn't believe me if I told him, but my patron gives me hope, because only He could have found someone to love me. We are different, my love and I, and I am undeserving, but my lover loves me anyway. I am a hopeless cause, but it doesn't matter, because as long as there is St. Jude, nothing is truly hopeless and even I can find peace.

 

 

Irish Speaks: So this was pretty different from my typical work, A) it's a one shot. B) it's in first person present tense. Dee's voice was surprisingly hard to capture, and I'm not convinced I did it. Its also a very simplistic styling, which isn't my usual M.O. either. So um, yeah, let me know if I suck or if you feel like I did a good job capturing Dee. And really, please feel free to tell me I didn't. I honestly cant tell.

 

 

 

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