Good For A Storm,
Part 1
By Missy



SERIES: Good For a Storm
PARTS: One of four or more
RATING: R (Character death and gruesome description thereof, possible language, mature themes, heavy angst, possible sexual content)
DISTRIBUTION: To LW, Kai and FG so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine. Â Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"
Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!
CATEGORY: L&L; Drama
PAIRING: L/L
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: Laverne must deal with the rammifications of the decision she made in "These Kisses"
NOTES: You must read the story "These Kisses" for any of this to make sense; also, the possibility of alternate chapters being sent through Impure Thoughts exists. Please subscribe to the list or go to the archive for more details.
****

"Woman you've got too many brambles hiding underneath these bushes. But I'm always good for a storm."
-Tori Amos,
Cooling

She peered through the blinds and was greeted with the very same vision that greeted her days before; weeping supplicants, burning candles, crucifixes stuck into the lawn.

Allowing the blinds to slip back into place, she groaned, shuffling across the room. Things were probably never going to be the same for her, but weeping, praying, shrieking worshipers of all ages did nothing to reestablish the notion of Regular Life.

She laughed to herself because, somehow, she had become the saint that she'd been taught to pray to. The only question that seemed to circulate among them being: what kind of saint was she? A martyr, who could heal the sick because she, like a lady Lazarus, had risen from the grave?

They would not, could not understand that God had only a nudging hand in her return to Earth. Even if he had blessed it, the great factor in her new life was..

"Lenny?" She asked, as he came bounding down the stairs, "Can ya pick up some milk?"

He pulled on his Lone Wolf jacket, not at all surprised that, between the two of them, Carmine and Squiggy the larder was now empty. "OK, we need bread, milk, an' some beef, right?"

She nodded, "Getta good cut; nothin' fatty, all right?"

He nodded, "Stay low, Vernie," He smirked. She reached out to touch his open hand, but he clenched his hand into a fist, and drew away from her offered limb. He ducked out of the apartment, ready to face another day.

Laverne shrugged, returning to what seemed a now-daily effort; keeping the apartment clean. Funny; she'd allowed Shirley to do more than half of the chores when they lived together, and when her father died she'd allowed everything around her to just fall apart. Cleaning herself and her apartment, then dodging every single phone call that came through, had spent the past two weeks of her life.

It was easier than sleeping, the prospect of which struck her cold. She wouldn't sleep without knowing for sure that someone she trusted lay nearby, and in most cases that person was Lenny.

She wanted just to avoid everything; the hunt for her rapists; the fervor surrounding her second lease on life; everything. It just made her want to crawl back into bed.

A knock sounded at the door, and knowing, just knowing, that it was yet another reporter trying to muscle into her life. She'd had enough of them, and, finally, her old temper had breached the saintly veneer she had worn for too long.

She ripped open the door, shouting, "I have no comm..." But in her doorway stood someone that she'd never dreamed, planned or prayed for.

Shirley Meeney. Mrs. Doctor Shirley Meeney, standing in her doorway with a big smile and a plate of brownies, as though she could feed away the pain.

"Vernie?" She smiled, speaking as though to a moron.

Laverne's response was succinct, and vicious, "Go to hell," She snapped, slamming the door shut on close to twenty years of friendship.




Back to Part 4 of "These Kisses"

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