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apocalypsosTitle: All The Popular Girls In High School
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Spoilers: “Landslide”
Summary: Candice is just a mask.
Author’s note: I wanted to write something about Candice, and then![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
foenix tossed out an idea that barreled through my writer’s block like a two-year-old with a pituitary disorder throwing a temper tantrum. WOOHOO!
*** All The Popular Girls In High School ***
*
Pretty little Candice is born in the men’s bathroom of a trendy bar in Dallas. It’s hard to keep from laughing at the reflection in the mirror. The real girl is in Oklahoma somewhere working on her third kid with the high school quarterback. She probably hasn’t been able to fit into a skirt this small since graduation.
Candice exits the bathroom with her pleated skirt dancing around her pale thighs and the ends of her sleek dark hair brushing over her bare shoulders.
A guy spots her leaving the men’s room, starting in surprise, but when she winks at him he smirks and winks back.
He sends her a drink, the first of many she doesn’t have to pay for, and that’s the start.
*
The boy asks Candice to prom in the place he figures she’s least likely to say no. They’re in her kitchen cramming for their history midterm and none of her friends are around. She’s never been very good with history. “I so don’t even get why I’m supposed to know what some stupid gay guy in tights did in England five hundred years ago” had been her exact words when she’d asked him to tutor her.
He likes to think she wasn’t paying enough attention to him to see his teeth grind together at that.
He hadn’t turned her down, though.
Her mom moves though the living room dusting the furniture, whistling something that sounds like it could be an Elvis Presley song if it were in tune. She made them oatmeal cookies like always.
Candice ate more of them than he did for a change.
His hands are clammy and gross when he asks. The words slip past his lips while he wipes his palms across his jeans.
It takes her a long moment to stop gaping at him when he asks, and then she laughs. God, she laughs loud and long like it’s the best damn joke he’s ever told and yeah, okay, he should have known better.
And it hurts, pins and needles scraping cold and cruel across his skin. She might as well have poured ice water over his head.
“You’re kidding, right?” she says.
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, even goes so far as to slap her hand down on the kitchen table.
She ends up flunking history and having to retake it in summer school. When she walks to school on the first and scowls at him as he rides past on his bike he whistles happily and nearly rides right into a stop sign.
*
Candice gets into places that she’s never gotten into before. If it’s got a bouncer and a relatively high bar on the beauty scale for its clientele it only takes a tilt of her hips and a smile on her lips to get in.
She learns to flirt in steps. She trails freshly manicured fingertips over chins sandpaper-rough with a fashionable level of stubble. She always teases even when she’s serious.
It’s like any other subject, getting guys to dangle from your fingertips with wanting you. You learn it and you twist it. You study and observe. You learn from the mistakes of other women.
You become what they want you to be and they’ll give you anything you ask for.
*
The boy tells the guys at the comic book store and they sympathize. They all have that story. Jose hit on that blonde who worked at Hooters. Donny got shot down by the hot redhead at the library. That sort of thing.
On prom night he’s supposed to be at the country club drinking spiked punch and showing Candice that he might be a big guy but his grandma taught him to ballroom dance with grace and style.
Instead he heads down to the comic book store to roleplay with the guys until two in the morning.
They pour vodka down his throat like it’s going out of style and give him a free Silver Surfer T-shirt. If they kill more princesses than they rescue no one mentions it.
*
She comes home one night reeking of cigarette smoke and scotch and cheap cologne, ready to strip down and wash the weight of her new life from her skin.
Thompson is sitting on her ratty old couch, out of place in neat expensive clothes and perfectly shined shoes. He flips through her yearbook, her family photo album, and she snaps, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He just smirks.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I know the camera adds five pounds but this is pushing it, don’t you think?”
*
Boys are stupid.
Well, men and boys, but after a while Candice tends to think of them all as boys. Their maturity and intelligence drops like an Acme anvil the second she saunters past them. Their gazes drop to her breasts or her legs, to the curve of her ass or the way the hem of her skirt skims over her thighs.
It’s funny how she never realized how dumb guys could be when she actually was one.
She still is, really. Underneath the blinding white of her smile and the taunting heat behind her eyes she’s still Harold. Poor fat acne-scared Harold, who once asked out the wrong girl and spent the rest of his school years mentally drowning out the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears.
Maybe that’s why the kid starts to grow on Candice.
Micah’s him. Fifteen years and a hundred and fifty pounds ago, just as smart and just as excited over a good graphic novel.
Sometimes she thinks she’s really going to miss the little punk after the bomb goes off and he burns.
Sometimes a part of her thinks she’ll be relieved, and hates it.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Heroes
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Spoilers: “Landslide”
Summary: Candice is just a mask.
Author’s note: I wanted to write something about Candice, and then
foenix tossed out an idea that barreled through my writer’s block like a two-year-old with a pituitary disorder throwing a temper tantrum. WOOHOO!*
Pretty little Candice is born in the men’s bathroom of a trendy bar in Dallas. It’s hard to keep from laughing at the reflection in the mirror. The real girl is in Oklahoma somewhere working on her third kid with the high school quarterback. She probably hasn’t been able to fit into a skirt this small since graduation.
Candice exits the bathroom with her pleated skirt dancing around her pale thighs and the ends of her sleek dark hair brushing over her bare shoulders.
A guy spots her leaving the men’s room, starting in surprise, but when she winks at him he smirks and winks back.
He sends her a drink, the first of many she doesn’t have to pay for, and that’s the start.
The boy asks Candice to prom in the place he figures she’s least likely to say no. They’re in her kitchen cramming for their history midterm and none of her friends are around. She’s never been very good with history. “I so don’t even get why I’m supposed to know what some stupid gay guy in tights did in England five hundred years ago” had been her exact words when she’d asked him to tutor her.
He likes to think she wasn’t paying enough attention to him to see his teeth grind together at that.
He hadn’t turned her down, though.
Her mom moves though the living room dusting the furniture, whistling something that sounds like it could be an Elvis Presley song if it were in tune. She made them oatmeal cookies like always.
Candice ate more of them than he did for a change.
His hands are clammy and gross when he asks. The words slip past his lips while he wipes his palms across his jeans.
It takes her a long moment to stop gaping at him when he asks, and then she laughs. God, she laughs loud and long like it’s the best damn joke he’s ever told and yeah, okay, he should have known better.
And it hurts, pins and needles scraping cold and cruel across his skin. She might as well have poured ice water over his head.
“You’re kidding, right?” she says.
She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, even goes so far as to slap her hand down on the kitchen table.
She ends up flunking history and having to retake it in summer school. When she walks to school on the first and scowls at him as he rides past on his bike he whistles happily and nearly rides right into a stop sign.
Candice gets into places that she’s never gotten into before. If it’s got a bouncer and a relatively high bar on the beauty scale for its clientele it only takes a tilt of her hips and a smile on her lips to get in.
She learns to flirt in steps. She trails freshly manicured fingertips over chins sandpaper-rough with a fashionable level of stubble. She always teases even when she’s serious.
It’s like any other subject, getting guys to dangle from your fingertips with wanting you. You learn it and you twist it. You study and observe. You learn from the mistakes of other women.
You become what they want you to be and they’ll give you anything you ask for.
The boy tells the guys at the comic book store and they sympathize. They all have that story. Jose hit on that blonde who worked at Hooters. Donny got shot down by the hot redhead at the library. That sort of thing.
On prom night he’s supposed to be at the country club drinking spiked punch and showing Candice that he might be a big guy but his grandma taught him to ballroom dance with grace and style.
Instead he heads down to the comic book store to roleplay with the guys until two in the morning.
They pour vodka down his throat like it’s going out of style and give him a free Silver Surfer T-shirt. If they kill more princesses than they rescue no one mentions it.
She comes home one night reeking of cigarette smoke and scotch and cheap cologne, ready to strip down and wash the weight of her new life from her skin.
Thompson is sitting on her ratty old couch, out of place in neat expensive clothes and perfectly shined shoes. He flips through her yearbook, her family photo album, and she snaps, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He just smirks.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I know the camera adds five pounds but this is pushing it, don’t you think?”
Boys are stupid.
Well, men and boys, but after a while Candice tends to think of them all as boys. Their maturity and intelligence drops like an Acme anvil the second she saunters past them. Their gazes drop to her breasts or her legs, to the curve of her ass or the way the hem of her skirt skims over her thighs.
It’s funny how she never realized how dumb guys could be when she actually was one.
She still is, really. Underneath the blinding white of her smile and the taunting heat behind her eyes she’s still Harold. Poor fat acne-scared Harold, who once asked out the wrong girl and spent the rest of his school years mentally drowning out the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears.
Maybe that’s why the kid starts to grow on Candice.
Micah’s him. Fifteen years and a hundred and fifty pounds ago, just as smart and just as excited over a good graphic novel.
Sometimes she thinks she’s really going to miss the little punk after the bomb goes off and he burns.
Sometimes a part of her thinks she’ll be relieved, and hates it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-05-15 11:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-15 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-15 11:51 am (UTC)It takes away a good bit of my ire at "they made Candice a fat girl with a power and she used it to become a thin pretty girl."
Stephen King reference intentional?
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Date: 2007-05-15 12:10 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-05-15 11:10 pm (UTC)-blue
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Date: 2007-05-16 02:23 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-05-17 09:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-17 11:01 am (UTC)You've made me sort of like Candice, and that's quite an achievement. Or at least you've made me understand her. And at the same time, it fits seamlessly with canon.
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Date: 2007-05-17 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-07-26 05:13 pm (UTC)