The Only Constant
Author: Zeelee
For: Seanan
Requested characters used: Jenny Sparks - The Authority
Summary: Six days to live. PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. Am poor. Don't sue.
Notes: Thanks to illmantrim and Houie for beta-ing and hand-holding.
You would think that the Spirit of the Twentieth Century would have a
good memory. If not a perfect one, then at least a decent one.
And maybe it's that her memory has been clouded by too many unfiltered
cigarettes and countless gallons of alcohol. Or maybe the human brain
just isn't equipped to remember a hundred years' worth of events. Or
maybe that's just the trade-off you get for taking on the role of
not-really-Messiah-but-kind-of.
The Spirit of the Twentieth Century can't remember the last time she
felt sorry for killing a person. Can't even remember clearly the
first time she took a life.
It wouldn't be quite so disquieting if she could bring herself to
care. To feel disgusted with herself, or horrified at how casually
she kills.
But every single bastard who died with lightning thrumming in his
veins deserved what he got. And she's not sorry.
Still. She's going to die soon herself (it's Christmas Eve—in seven
days), and what has she got to show for it?
The twentieth century was one long blood bath. Maybe--*maybe*--less
of a blood bath than it could have been if Jenny hadn't been there.
Sometimes she doubts that.
Like right now. Open bottle of whiskey in one hand (already
half-gone), two lit cigarettes in the other, and nothing on the telly
except sappy christmas specials that will only make her feel worse
about pretty much everything. Her oldest jazz records playing in the
background, for nostalgia's sake.
Jenny's never really been fond of this particular holiday. Or any
holiday, come to think of it.
She takes another swig, and the whiskey burns in her throat. It feels
almost as good as electricity does.
"Don't tell me you're staying up here and drinking alone on
Christmas Eve?" she hears a skeptical voice behind her say.
Apollo. She doesn't bother to turn around.
"Once you've seen as many pointless commercial holidays as I have, the
novelty wears off," she replies.
Apollo snorts. "Sure. Go and pull the jaded routine again. Come on,
Jenny, the leader of the world's most powerful superhero organization
isn't allowed to sit by herself and sulk on Christmas Eve."
Jenny twists around to look at him, scowling. "So why aren't you
out there gaffing about if you're so damn spirited?" Half a bottle of
whiskey, and her words have only just started to slur.
He grins at her. "I was just leaving. The Midnighter and I are
going to see what Christmas Eve is like in Tokyo."
"Bully for you," she says. "Go on then and leave me alone."
Instead he gives her that annoyingly brilliant smile of his and flops
down on the couch next to her.
"Why are you getting smashed alone on Christmas Eve, Jenny?" he asks,
his face amused.
"I need a reason?" She scowls at him, but he just smiles back serenely. Git.
He nudges her. "You could at least offer to share."
"You know where the liquor cabinet is. Get some yourself."
He gives her a sorrowful look that somehow makes his features even
more beautiful. "You wound me. Generosity is one of the traits of a
true leader, you know."
"Not when the true leader is a 99-year old lush it isn't." The
sorrowful look deepens, and she curses and hands over the bottle.
She watches him smugly take a drink, beautiful lips wrapping around
the bottle-neck without letting a drop spill. Pretty golden boy who
manages to have a pretty sun-god smile despite all the horrors he's
seen.
Jenny wonders how long that will last.
He stops drinking, stretching back luxuriously with a sigh. That
perfect body, on display in tight white spandex all the bloody time.
She licks her lips. There was a time, not all that long ago, when she
would have seduced him - or tried to, at least. Jenny's not sure if she
could pry him away from the Midnighter, and she doesn't particularly
want to try. If for no other reason, than because she's tired.
And it would be bad for the team and all that, but Jenny knows
herself, and knows she would have done something to fuck this team up
eventually. That's just the way these things work.
"I'm too damn old, Apollo." And fuck she must be more drunk than
she thought, or she wouldn't have said that.
He just laughs. "I'll believe that when I see it."
She scowls and grabs the bottle from him. "I'm not some bloody
messiah or something, you know." She wonders if she can knock
herself out before she says anything else. Since when is she a
maudlin, confessional drunk?
"I know that, Jenny." Apollo sounds amused. Serene little bugger.
She scowls. "I'm not, okay? I'm just a stupid girl that the universe
randomly picked to come save the whole fucking century. Not that I
did a bang-up job with that or anything, and god, Apollo, get the fuck
out of here before I start reciting bloody poetry at you or
something. I'm too drunk to converse."
He looks like he's holding back a guffaw. "Sure, Jenny. I'll see you
around. Try to get out and celebrate a bit, all right?"
"I am celebrating," she mutters to herself. Takes another drink and
ends up spilling whiskey on her shirt.
She turns on the TV and stands up, only swaying a little. The view
from the Carrier's window is more interesting by far than anything the
television has to offer.
They're passing through a dimension that looks to be underwater,
except that the water is... orange. Ish. And the fish-life appear to
have human feet. Jenny blinks. Tries to take another swig, but the
bottle is empty.
A few bottles and hours later, Jenny realizes it's past midnight. Six
days to go.
What are you supposed to do when you know exactly when you will die?
Jenny vaguely recalls that she should have a better answer to that
question, one that includes more than just getting as drunk as she
possibly can.
"Happy Unbirthday to me," she says to the glossy emptiness of the
Carrier. If she concentrates, she can almost hear an echo.