Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

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allegrita
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Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by allegrita »

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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: PG-13 for gore and implied violence

Author's Note: This story was written for Champagne Challenge #103, the theme of which is to write a story about what happens after Mick reveals himself to Beth at the end of Episode 2, "Out of the Past."

Thanks so much to Lunalux for being my beta for this story. I certainly couldn't have done it without you, my dear--and it wouldn't have been as much fun, anyhow. :hug:


Digging

Where did he go? Damn that guy, he's always disappearing the instant I turn around. But tonight I'm not just annoyed—I’m really worried.

I heard the shots, and before I could get out of the car Julia ran out of the warehouse, screaming, “He’s killing him!”

I jumped out and grabbed her arm. “Who? Who’s hurt, Julia?”

She hiccupped a sob. “Lee Jay, he— he shot your friend.”

“Mick? Oh my god! Where are they?”

She pointed. “In there.”

I left her by the car and ran inside.

I burst through the door just in time to see Lee Jay brandishing a welding torch at Mick, threatening to burn him alive. Suddenly the images from my nightmare flashed through my mind. The scary lady in white, the sharp teeth, the blood—and the man with strong arms, who saved me. But mostly I thought of the fire, and the scary lady looming up out of the flames, clawing at the window. Fire—like the fire that was threatening Mick.

I aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.

Oh god.

One second he was gloating, shoving that torch into Mick’s face—and the next he had this look of absolute disbelief on his face, his hand to his neck. And blood started to spurt out between his fingers.

I watched him crumple to the floor. He didn’t move as the pool of red spread out from his body, but I needed to be sure. I moved forward, step by step, trying to keep the shaking gun pointed at him. I stood by the coffee table looking down at him, terrified that he’d get up and terrified that he wouldn’t.

When I heard his voice, I jumped a mile; then my knees almost gave way as I realized that they were showing footage on TV of the speech he’d given at the book signing.

I stood there, shaking, until I heard the sirens. Then I went outside and sat on this little cinderblock wall as cops and paramedics swarmed the place. Nobody paid any attention to me as I sat there. I guess they didn’t see the gun in my lap.

* * *

I’ve been sitting here for what seems like forever, but it’s probably only been half an hour, maybe an hour. Even with all the activity, this little corner is quiet enough for me to think, but my thoughts keep running in circles. What happened to Mick? One minute he was clutching his shoulder, trying to get up off the floor, and the next time I looked up he was gone, I was the only living person in that warehouse. I can’t believe he just…left. How badly hurt is he? Why didn’t he wait for the paramedics? Did he go to a hospital on his own?

I still can’t believe that the only thing he said to me was, “I thought I told you to stay in the car.” Well, you’re welcome, Mick. I guess I owed you one.

And then there’s…I just can’t seem to get my mind around the fact that I’ve killed someone. Snuffed out a life, just like that. But Lee Jay deserved to die—I know that. He deserved to die.

I see them wheeling his body out on a gurney, so I stuff the gun into my purse and follow it. Carl Davis is talking with Julia as she sits in the open back door of an ambulance. He has a notebook in his hand and he’s writing down her statement.

“It’s OK. It’s OK, just slow down,” he says, reaching toward her arm but not quite touching it. She looks like if you touch her, she’ll just shatter.

“Mick—Mick saved me.” Julia’s voice is quavering; she’s wiping her tears, but they fall as fast as she can brush them away. “Mick saved me. I was so wrong.”

Yeah, Julia, I think to myself, you were wrong. So was I. We were all wrong, except Mick.

Carl’s trying to get Julia to focus. “OK, so Mick shot Lee Jay.”

I walk up as Julia says, “No.”

“No, I did,” I say. My voice sounds so calm. Carl stares and steps toward me, but I keep going, cutting between the coroner’s wagon and a cop car. My purse is dangling from my hand. It feels heavy. Oh, yeah—the gun is in it.

I can hear Carl calling, his voice blending into the hubbub. “Hey, hey, hey! Beth! Where you going?” I keep walking, staring straight ahead. I know Carl will catch up with me tomorrow. I can give him a statement then. I have to get out of here— what’ll I say to Josh if he shows up? Hi honey, I just shot a man in cold blood—and by the way, the guy whose name I call out in my sleep, whose ass we saved tonight, has disappeared. Again.

I don’t think so.

“Beth, get back here!” Carl’s voice is a little, tinny sound, no competition against the shouting inside my head. So many questions—who is Mick, really? Why is he in my dreams? And what did Lee Jay mean when he said he knew what Mick was?

I shake my head, trying to clear it. How did he know so much about Lee Jay? He said it was his dad who was involved in that case back in the 80’s—but that cop, Bobby, told me that the real Mick St. John never had a son. So how did he know? And why is he using the name of a guy who must be—what, 70, 80 years old by now? I don’t get it. Another mystery to stack on top of the pile of mysteries associated with this man who calls himself Mick St. John. I wonder what his real name is. I wonder where he is.

Well, maybe he went back to his place. I’ve got to find out if he’s OK. I’ve got to try, anyway.

I walk numbly along, looking for my car, until I realize—shit—we came in Mick’s car. I’m stranded. Damn it.

“Come on, get it together, Beth.” I take a breath and blow it out slowly. Then I dig my phone out of my purse and call Steve.

* * *

Steve’s truck pulls over to the curb as dawn begins to color the eastern sky a pale orange. I unfasten my seat belt and reach for the door handle.

Steve’s looking at me with a big crease between his eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you, Beth?”

“No, no…I can grab a cab home. Thanks, Steve. Go home to your nice, long-suffering wife. And please tell her again that I apologize for stealing you away in the middle of the night.”

“Are you kidding? I’m just pissed off that I missed all the action,” he says, laughing.

“Don’t worry, we’ll do a follow-on first thing, OK? I’ll make sure Mo assigns you.”

“Sure. If I don’t hear from you by noon, I’ll call you.”

“You got it.” I get out and he drives off. I stand on the sidewalk, watching his truck until it turns a corner and disappears, and then I look up at the imposing stone building in front of me. OK, time to go find out what the hell’s up. I open the lobby door and smile at the sleepy guy behind the desk, saying, “Visiting the penthouse.”

He’s seen me before; he recognizes me. “OK, miss.”

I ride up the private elevator. You know, I didn’t think about this before—but what the hell? He’s got a concierge and a private elevator to his floor. He’s a PI who lives in a penthouse. Who is this guy?

The elevator opens. I’m hurrying down the hall toward his office when I notice a door standing open on my right. I turn inside and see him on his knees with his back to the door, bent over the table that runs along the back of his couch.

“Mick?”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t turn around—he doesn’t even move. I hesitate in the doorway, trying to figure out what to say.

“You ran off again. One second you were there and then you were…gone.” My voice kind of fades out. I can see blood dripping down the back of his coat. “Are—are you OK?”

He takes a couple of gasping breaths. “Please leave.” His voice sounds…odd, and his body is shaking, bent over the table. Is he crying?

I venture farther inside. “Not without answers,” I say. I can feel my reporter’s instinct clicking in, fighting with the shock from before. There’s a story here, and I’m not leaving till I find out what it is. I’ve got the advantage now. He’s got to give me something, he owes me that much.

I walk over to the couch, trying to get a better look at him, but he starts violently and spins away, collapsing in a heap on the floor. I can barely see him from where I’m standing—just his hands, covered with blood, and his head. There’s something really wrong. He’s moving his head in these weird little jerks, and breathing in whistling gasps.

Hey. Those big magnifying lenses have fallen onto the couch cushions. And what are those bag things on the table?

Mick is clutching another one of the bags. Is that a straw sticking out of it? No, it’s a flexible plastic tube. He’s holding it in the hand with the ring. The moonstone gleams, catching the light every time his hand twitches.

I can’t remember what I wanted to ask him—everything feels surreal. All I can think of is my dream of the scary lady and the man with strong arms. The man with Mick’s face.

“I keep dreaming about you,” I say, staring at the ring on his hand. “Why?” I don’t sound like me at all.

He doesn’t answer. He’s still breathing raggedly, his head and hands jerking, his face turned away from me.

What’s wrong with him? I can’t see. I walk around the partition toward the back of the couch, and he holds a bloody hand up to cover his face.

“Please don't look at me.” He’s whimpering, begging, but I can’t give up now—I’m so close. As I round the edge of the wall that separates us, I can finally see him more clearly. He looks awful. His face is gray, and his whole body is twitching as if he’s got some horrible neurological disorder. He’s covered with blood and he looks like he couldn’t stand up to save his life. He must be hurt even worse than I thought.

I stop short as I realize what he’s holding. That’s what those things on the table are—blood donation bags. What’s he doing—trying to give himself a transfusion?

“Oh my god.” My voice is quiet and a little shaky. I’m feeling kind of sick, watching him twitch like that. I take a step closer, then another, and he finally looks up at me.

His eyes— they’re so pale! They’re supposed to be dark blue, maybe gray. What happened to them? And there’s blood running down his chin, as if he’s been…

No, no way—

I gasp, putting my hand to my mouth. He stares at me, his body shaking. He looks...desperate.

His teeth are stained red. Oh god, he really has been drinking it. And his canine teeth are so long and sharp. What the hell— I swallow hard. “What are you?” I try to sound calm, but my heart is beating a million times a minute.

He looks at me with despair in those weird eyes, anguish on that ashen face. He twitches again, but he looks me full in the face. Not hiding.

“I'm a vampire.”

* * *

I stand there with my hand over my mouth, staring at him. At his fangs. At the blood on his chin. He’s lying propped up against the wall by the couch, watching me, his hands and head jerking.

At last I crouch down near him, but not too close, ready to jump away if he attacks me. “You’re hurt.”

He doesn’t say anything, just breathes those harsh, painful, tearing breaths, and looks at me with his spooky, pale eyes.

After another minute, I crawl up to him and reach out a shaking hand, scared to touch him. “Mick?”

Nothing. I’m not even sure he’s conscious, although his eyes are open.

I finally gather enough courage to touch him. He jerks and tries to scoot away from me, but he’s trapped against the table. He has nowhere to go.

“Please, I— please leave,” he says again. The tone rises at the end of the sentence, like he’s asking a question.

“No, I’m not leaving. You’re hurt. You need a doctor.”

“No,” he whispers. “No doctors. Please, just go.”

I rock back onto my heels and squat there, looking at him. “You’re sick. You’re hurt. Let me help.”

He almost sobs as he speaks. “I have to drink—I need to—” He takes a deep breath and says very firmly, “Beth, you can’t help me. Please leave.”

I stand up, looking down at him. “OK, I’ll go.” I turn and walk through the door, pulling it almost, but not quite, closed. I know he has that little camera setup, so I make sure to stay out of view. There’s a little alcove across the hall from his apartment door; I step back into the shadows to wait. Maybe he’ll call someone, someone he trusts, to help him. If someone else comes, I’ll…I’m not sure what I’ll do. But someone needs to come. He’s hurt really bad.

I slide down the wall till I’m sitting on the floor in the dark. OK, I’ll give him 20 minutes, and if nobody comes by then, I’m going back in. To pass the time, I think back over tonight. Not when I— I can’t think about that right now. But earlier, before we went to the warehouse. When Lee Jay was talking to Mick on the phone, he said, “I know what you are, Mick.” Lee Jay knew that he’s a—vampire? Come on…

I think back to Mick’s and my conversation when we were tracking Julia’s car. I was mad, tired of him blowing me off. I said, “What did he mean, ‘I know what you are’?” Of course, he changed the subject, tried to divert my attention. Finally I said something snide about wishing he’d answer a question without evading or disappearing.

And he came back with, “We all have secrets, Beth.” Well, he’s got a doozy of a secret, doesn’t he? No wonder he didn’t want to talk about what Lee Jay meant! He said he wasn’t evading, but that’s all he’s ever done. Well, now I know why. Holy crap.

I look at my watch. Time’s up, and no one has come. I tiptoe back to his door and cautiously push it open. I can’t see him. He’s no longer sitting where he was. There are two empty blood bags on the floor, but where is he?

I push the door closed and set my purse down, careful not to let the gun make a noise as it hits the floor. I tiptoe in, peeking around the lighted column toward the kitchen area. He’s standing near the sink, shirtless, with his back to me. Blood is dripping down his back and soaking into his jeans. He grunts and then drops something with a clink into a jar on the counter. I walk closer, trying to see what he’s doing.

He has a scalpel and a pair of forceps. He’s taking bullets out of himself!

He picks up another bag of blood and starts sucking on the tube, squeezing the bag. I swallow hard, forcing back the taste of bile. There’s no time for that now. He’s in trouble and he needs help.

“Mick.”

He drops the bag onto the counter and spins around, crouching, nearly falling. “Beth! I thought I told you to—”

“Leave? Yeah, well, you told me to stay in the car, too, and maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t. Let me help.”

He pulls himself to a stand and then braces his hands on the counter, obviously holding himself up. He’s not doing so well. “Beth, please, just go. I have to get this buckshot out. I’m allergic to silver.”

“It’s silver? Is that what’s making you—”

He looks at me, twitching. “I have to get it out.”

“Well, how are you gonna get it out of your back? You need my help.”

“I can—” He stops and hangs his head, defeated. “OK.”

I walk up close to him and examine him front and back. There are five oozing wounds on the front of his shoulder, and ten or more on the back. He got two good loads.

I pull out the bar stool and gesture toward it. “Sit down.” He slumps down on it, sighing.

“Where’s that scotch I brought? You’re going to need something; this is gonna hurt like hell.”

He’s leaning on the countertop with his head bowed, his weight on his elbows. He looks up and shakes his head. “It’s OK,” he says with a ghost of his wry smile. “I won’t faint.”

I wash my hands in the sink, shake them dry, and walk back around to stand next to him. He grimaces as I press my fingertips against the wounds on his back. I can feel the little pellets; they’re not too far beneath the skin. He’s still bleeding sluggishly, and the skin around the wounds is ash gray. I’ve got to get them out of him right away.

I pick up the scalpel. “Do you have any rubbing alcohol?”

He points to a bottle on the counter, and I pour a couple inches of alcohol into an old-fashioned glass and put the scalpel and the forceps into the glass to soak. Then I pour some over my hands. They’re not shaking, at least.

“OK…I’m ready…but I don’t know exactly what to do.”

He looks at me, his face sober. “You don’t have to do this, Beth.”

“Yeah. I do. But you need to tell me what to do.”

He looks at the blood bag on the counter and then back up at me. “OK. You’ll need to enlarge each hole with the scalpel, to make room for the forceps. Then use the forceps to grab the pellet and pull it out.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly, turning my face to the side. “OK.” I pick up the scalpel. “I think you should lie down.”

“OK.” He leans forward until his upper body is lying on the countertop. He turns his head away from me and says, “All right, go ahead. Make a cut.”

I swallow and bring the scalpel to his back. I can feel his muscles tensing under my hands as I cut a slice about a quarter-inch out from the first wound. “OK…now what?”

“Did you cut deep?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I’m taking slow breaths through my nose.

“Good. Now push the forceps into the hole until they hit the pellet.”

I put the scalpel back into the glass of rubbing alcohol and pick up the forceps, sticking them into the wound. Mick makes a sound like, “Uhh!”

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I say, snatching the forceps out.

“No, don’t stop, it’s OK. I might make noises but don’t stop, OK?”

“OK.” I push them into the hole until I can feel them hitting metal. “I got it.”

“Good. Now grab it and pull it out.”

I pull it out and he grunts again, but I don’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I wet a clean dishtowel with alcohol and press it to his shoulder, trying to stop the little gush of blood that follows the pellet out of the wound.

“You did good,” he says. “Now get the next one.” He sounds utterly exhausted, but he’s talking to me like a coach. Well, good. I need encouragement, and maybe encouraging me gives him something to concentrate on.

I put the forceps into the glass and take the scalpel to cut into the next hole. Then I switch to the forceps and pull out the second ball. As I wipe the blood off, I notice that the first hole is a little smaller than it was. I swear, I can see it getting smaller in front of my eyes. I stare at it, my mouth dropping open, as it gets tinier and shallower and finally just… disappears.

After a minute he says, “Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I…” I’m in shock. “You, uh…your shoulder.”

He turns his head back toward me. “What?” Then I can see understanding dawn. “Oh. Once the silver’s gone, I can heal.”

I swallow. “Yeah, uh, I guess you can.” I take a shaky breath and try not to look as freaked out as I feel.

He pushes himself up a little and looks at me, his eyebrows knitted and his face serious. “Are you OK? Do you want to go?”

“No, I’m…” I shake my head.

He sits all the way up, wincing. “Beth, you can go.”

I look at him, barely able to stay on the stool. “I’m not leaving. Please…lie down again.”

He lowers himself to the countertop again and I use the scalpel to make room for the forceps in the third wound. This one is deeper, and I know I’m really hurting him as I dig into the muscle of his shoulder. He cries out and then bites back the cry, his shoulders knotted with tension.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I say as I worry the ball out of his back and drop it into the little jar. It’s half-full of bullets.

He lets his breath go as I wipe the wound clean. “Don’t be. You’re doing great.” The second wound has completely healed by now.

I breathe in slowly through my nose, cut into the next hole, and extract another piece of shot. Mick and I both exhale at the same time, and I realize we’ve both been holding our breaths as I pulled out the pellet. I start to laugh, a nervous reaction, I guess, and I figure I’d better stop laughing, or I won’t be able to stop.

Mick says, “You OK?” He’s wounded, sick, and he’s asking me if I’m OK.

“Yeah. Sorry. This is just…” I shrug.

“I know.”

“I’m OK.” I switch forceps for scalpel and start on the next hole.

Time seems to stand still, marked only by the sound of Mick’s breathing (punctuated by groans and that strange, ragged, twitchy gasping) and the clink of little silver balls joining all the other metal in the jar. It seems like I’ve been doing this forever, like I’ll never get it all out of him. But finally I’m down to the last little oozing hole. I take the scalpel, cut into him, stick the forceps in, feel for the shot, and pull it out as quickly as I can. I wipe the last wound with the alcohol-soaked towel. The wound shrinks away to nothing before my eyes. His back is smooth and unblemished. Like it never happened—except for the blood.

Mick sighs as I wipe off his back. “Thank you.”

“I need to check and make sure all the buckshot is gone,” I say, running my fingers across the perfect skin of his shoulder.

“It’s gone. I would feel it burning me if there was any left.”

“Oh…OK,” I say, lamely. It burns him?

Mick pushes himself up to a sitting position. “OK, I can take it from here.”

I touch his arm. “Are you sure? I can do the rest.” He looks so tired and sick, I really want to stay and finish the job.

He looks at me and one corner of his mouth goes up for a second. “If you really don’t mind…”

I just look at him. “Turn around. There are only a few more.”

“Yeah…I took out a few before you got here,” he says, standing up and helping me reposition the chair. He sits and leans back against the countertop, his weight on his elbows.

“OK.” I douse my hands with more alcohol and grip the scalpel tightly. I put my arm behind his shoulder to brace him and begin extracting the silver pellets from Mick’s shoulder and chest.

I’ve got this down to a science by now. The first four go smoothly, but the last one is nasty, and it takes forever to work the pellet out. At last, the shot joins its buddies with a little clink, and I put the forceps and scalpel into the sink. Mick takes a deep, slow breath and sighs the air out.

I’ve been busying myself washing the instruments with water and detergent, and rinsing out the dishtowel. “All gone?”

He stretches. “Yeah, it’s gone.”

“Good.” I sigh and roll my shoulders to relax them.

Mick is looking down at his hands, playing with his ring. When he looks up at me, his face looks gaunt, but he’s no longer that horrible gray color, and his eyes have returned to their normal greeny-blue. “Thank you, Beth.” He sits up straight and crosses his arms over his chest.

“You’re welcome.” Now that it’s done I feel really strange, standing here alone with this man, this…whatever he is. I can see in his eyes that knows what I’m thinking.

“Do you need a ride home?”

I look at him sitting there, swaying on the barstool. I’m not gonna ask him to drive me all the way to Santa Monica. “No, I’m good. I have a ride.”

He cocks his head for a second. “No, you don’t.” Damn. I should’ve expected him to be perceptive.

I sigh. “Look, you’re in no shape to go anywhere. I’ll grab a cab.”

He looks at me. “I’ll get you a cab. Hang on.” He stands up, holding onto the counter, and pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket. He pulls up a contact and in a few seconds he says, “Stan? It’s Mick. I need a cab for my guest.”

Silence while the guy on the other end speaks. Then Mick says “Thanks, man,” and hangs up. “It’ll only be a few minutes, there are always cabs at the Biltmore.”

“OK…I guess I’ll go downstairs and wait for it, then.” I go over to pick up my purse, and when I stand back up, he’s standing right there. I jump.

He puts his hand out as if to touch my arm, then lets it drop again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I pull my purse up onto my shoulder. “It’s OK, I just need to get home.”

“Beth, I never thanked you for—for what you did. You saved my life.”

“Well, I guess you owe me a fifth of scotch, then,” I say, trying to laugh it off.

He grins weakly. “I guess I do.”

I turn toward the door. “The cab will be here any minute. I’ve got to go.” I open the door and step out into the hall, then turn around as he starts to follow me.

“No—please don’t bother, I’ll be fine.” I don’t know whether I’m worried about him or scared of him. A little of both, I guess.

He stops. “OK. Of course.” He steps back toward the door, giving me a free path to the elevator.

I stand there uncomfortably. “OK, so…take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

I turn and walk down the hall.

Mick says, “Beth.” I look back. He’s standing there with no shirt on, holding onto the door. “Thanks.”

“It’s OK.” I half-wave and then walk to the elevator. As soon as I push the button, the doors open. I step inside and press the lobby button.

Riding down, I think about tonight. It’s gonna take me a while to process everything. Especially what happened in Mick’s apartment. I went up there for answers, but I got a million more questions instead.

Well…I’ll keep digging. That’s what I’m good at.
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lunalux
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by lunalux »

You know I love this. I love the detail, the interaction between Mick and Beth, okay she's seen the monster and hasn't headed for the hills.....She's even dug the buckshot out of his back....okay so she got no answers and we see her going back half hearted at first but undaunted in Episode 3 -- and the rest, as they say, is history.

Thanks so much, I've enjoyed reading this so much -- every time. No thanks needed -- I love our chats and commiserations about all things ML. After all you've done for me, there's about fifty stories I can beta before I feel I have begun to return the favor.

xo
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Last edited by lunalux on Wed Mar 11, 2009 1:29 am, edited 2 times in total.
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cassysj
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by cassysj »

That was a heavy duty initiation for Beth. Although that would explain why Mick digging out of Josef's back in Sleeping Beauty would be ho hum! Bored now! Don't even have to watch. Also when she staked Morganline, she would be thinking what's the drama, I didn't come in with a silver letteropener. This was very interesting it made me re-think a lot of other Beth moments. I don't even like Beth as a general rule but this story shows her in a very positive strong light.
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by wpgrace »

Oh I LOVE this!!

I love that he thanked her and that you started out telling us what happened at the warehouse!!!!! Lots of blanks filled in and lots of holes plugged, Alle!!!!!!!!!!

And very appropriate for MickBeth at that point, and for what would come in the next ep too!!!

This is a wonderful challenge!
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by Raven »

Great line...
I stood by the coffee table looking down at him, terrified that he’d get up and terrified that he wouldn’t.
With few words...it's vividly clear how trapped Mick truly is...
I finally gather enough courage to touch him. He jerks and tries to scoot away from me, but he’s trapped against the table. He has nowhere to go.
Well, he’s got a doozy of a secret, doesn’t he? :lol:
What was most impressive to me was that Mick, in the short time Beth has known him, has left a huge impression on her, so much so that regardless that he's a vampire, she's calm and reliving all the clues that now bring sense and truth to this unbelievable reality. She's not completely freaked out and it's because it's Mick...and somehow, she knows she's safe with him.
That was really great Alle. I never thought of that senario and it was gripping...I was all tense reading it. I loved Beth's strength and how Mick knew instinctively that he could trust her.
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by darkstarrising »

What I really like about this is the way you feel how worried / curious Beth is as she looks for Mick, yet when confronted with the truth, the curiosity is still there and she's only a little bit afraid. She's able to throw a couple of one-liners back at Mick, but there tinged with just a bit of nervousness.

Yet he's nervous as well, not just because his secret has been discovered, but because she has discovered it....yet he allows her to help. He keeps saying 'you can go', but what you hear is 'please stay'

Nicely done!!
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by lynnrxgal »

A great postscript to an amazing scene...

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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by Luxe de Luxe »

This is great Allie.... when I started reading it I thought you'd given yourself too hard a task writing in Beth's POV - I thought her reactions to Mick's obvious pain and injury were just weird - and I wondered how you'd deal with that. But you made it make sense. I could see that she was still freaked out and not quite herself because of the shooting. Really good job.
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by mitzie »

Wow--that was powerful and intense!! That really filled in all the glaring holes from the show!!! Very realistic. I would have liked to have seen this version of the episode on screen!!!! Truly excellent!!!! :clapping: :clapping: :yahoo: :dizzy: :juggle: :yahoo: :yahoo: :clapping: :clapping: :Mickangel: :seesaw: :yahoo: :clapping: :clapping: :heart: :clapping: :clapping: :thud: :thud: :thud: :thud: :thud: :notworthy: :rose:

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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by PNWgal »

Another Beth POV!

Alle, this was wonderful. Not only did you fill in the blanks with what happened after "I'm a vampire", you did a lovely job of answering other questions, like how Beth got to Mick's in the first place.

I cringed all the way through Beth digging those pellets out of Mick...fantastic detail.

Just...so good, Alle. So so good.
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by redwinter101 »

Lovely, alle. I particularly enjoyed the first section - Beth's reaction to the shooting and her (more than justified) anger that Mick had just disappeared.

The "digging" scene was lovely too - although I can't help but wonder, if Beth had been the one to help him, would she still have been so unsure that he really was a vampire at the start of Dr. F?

Mick's pain and gratitude are palpable. Gratitude can be such a demeaning emotion - but you avoid that beautifully by making it so heartfelt.

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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by allegrita »

Lunalux, you know it's not a contest. :hug: Tell you what, I'll do yours if you do mine. ;) Thanks for helping me keep it honest.

cassysj, thank you very much for your comment! I'm honored and thrilled that you liked this story. I know you aren't fond of Beth and I'm grateful that you gave it your attention. :rose:

wpgrace, thanks for liking the warehouse stuff. That episode had so many holes that I just longed to fill... :)

Raven, that's what I was trying to show, and if you got it I'm really glad.

darkstarrising, that's how I felt about them. He feels so vulnerable, but he trusts her...and he needs her, though it pains him to admit it. And he wants desperately for her to stay, but he will give her opportunity after opportunity to bail if she wants to go.

lynnrxgal, thanks--I miss it too! Every day.

Luxe de Luxe, I wanted to do this through Beth's eyes in real time because I agree with you, her reactions were just... weird. Her tone of voice, her affect--they seemed so off. But the more I thought about it, the more I imagined that it was shock, and the images of her dreams/memories, that put her into that half-dazed, dreamy state. And then her curiosity would yank her back to the present and she'd go into "reporter" mode...and then she'd sink back into shock. I saw this scene as Beth's way of recovering from the shock of having shot Lee Jay. She compartmentalized that and dealt with the crisis at hand. And then she'll process it later...as much as she deals with anything. Mostly, she puts those traumas into boxes in the back room of her brain.

mitzie, what a wonderful compliment--I would just die of shock and joy if someone ever told me they wanted to film something I wrote. Especially something Moonlight. :melts:

PNWgal, :blushing: I'm honored. Am I terrible for being a little happy that I made you cringe?

redwinter101, here's the beginning of the scene from Ep. 3:

MICK: Beth.
BETH: Okay, I'm here to talk to you about, um, you.
MICK: Maybe you should come in.
BETH: I really need you to tell me that I didn't see what I saw, what I think I saw, the other night. The blood, the fangs. I heard what you said.
MICK: That I'm a vampire.
BETH: How am I supposed ...are you the only one or are there other vampires?


OK...here's what hit me about that scene: why didn't Beth ask Mick why he was no longer hurt??? Isn't that the first question you'd ask an evidently hale and hearty guy who you last saw twitching and nearly dead, not to mention bleeding all over your second favorite of his coats???

No... Beth had to know that he could heal. That's the only possible answer I could come up with. So...that's why I wrote it that way. I realize it's a bit of a stretch. I decided it could work because the whole loft scene was such a surreal experience for Beth. Thank goodness Beth just puts things into compartments in her mind. :snicker:
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by wpgrace »

allegrita wrote:OK...here's what hit me about that scene: why didn't Beth ask Mick why he was no longer hurt??? Isn't that the first question you'd ask an evidently hale and hearty guy who you last saw twitching and nearly dead, not to mention bleeding all over your second favorite of his coats???
Ok that was funny enough to deserve a mention and a :giggle:
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by coco »

Yay! This was wonderful Alle :clapping:
I adore anything from Beth's POV and you filled in all the blanks superbly.
Lovely interaction from early Mick/Beth :clapping:
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Re: Digging (M/B, PG-13 - Champagne Challenge #103)

Post by allegrita »

wpgrace wrote:
allegrita wrote:OK...here's what hit me about that scene: why didn't Beth ask Mick why he was no longer hurt??? Isn't that the first question you'd ask an evidently hale and hearty guy who you last saw twitching and nearly dead, not to mention bleeding all over your second favorite of his coats???
Ok that was funny enough to deserve a mention and a :giggle:
Thanks, grace--I felt deeply sad for the Henley, too...
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