Somehow I lost some of a version of what follows, but I think the rebuilding works, more or less.
Summary: Love and hate - so close in nature
Disclaimer: I do not own Julia McNamara or Ava Moore - they are Ryan Murphy's
Note: Now Amazon tribes and the great gas whales of Saturn know Julia is going to have a lesbian affair in Season Five of Nip/Tuck, Jen and I thought it time to say something about the one really slashy relationship she had in canon previously...
I always thought I would throw things at her.
I knew it.
Like you know things that stroke you on sad nights.
Sad nights as I lay alone or with sad men.
I would lie in rucked sheets with my eyes open in the darkness.
In waking dreams, I would throw things at her.
Glasses, ashtrays - whatever came to hand.
And not care if a corner chipped against her skull or marked one of those perfect cheekbones.
And spit and scream a mother's hatred at her with my jaw flopping wide like a hungry snake.
And not care what people thought about the crazy lady.
Just to see her bleed and cry and not be perfect.
And not dance away.
Laughing at the weak and at those who are not perfect.
I am weak and she made me see that I was not perfect, when I thought I was.
The thing about mothers though...
Apart from how you feel it like a torn scab when someone hurts your child.
The thing about having a mother is that you don't scream in front of them, you don't go mad and throw things.
The thing about being a mother is that you don't act like a crazy lady in front of your daughter.
And I was walking with Erika and Annie down a sunny East Village sidewalk when I saw a dark business suit and a jaunty hat a hundred yards up the street and knew as if I was next to her that it was Ava.
Perfect, like a dancer.
No-one else performs that confident langourous strut with such smoothness of execution; no-one in New York and no-one in Europe which is where she was supposed to be.
Where we sent her to exile, well away from my son.
Well away from my son's father.
Well away from me.
I hated her so very much.
I lay there on long sad nights and hissed my hatred of her, not caring if Sean heard, or other men.
She knew me so well.
Just by looking at my weak imperfect life.
She knew before I told her who my son's father was and who in our lives loved whom.
She knew with the carnivore instinct of her predator mind the shabby secret bargains and tottering building blocks of our lives.
I know that she knew things she never mentioned, that I keep secret even from myself.
She danced around us, smiling and perfect.
She touched us just once here and once there, and we fell down.
Torn to rags.
From a hundred yards away, she sees me and smiles, a smile that keeps her secrets and mine well locked behind her perfect teeth.
She sees my daughter and waves, and Annie jumps in the air a little and waves excitedly, because all she remembers is the friendship and the times we spent together before Matt and before Christian and before everything went to Hell.
She sees my mother and nods as if they were respectful colleagues.
As in a sense they are, because they both traffic in the secrets of human souls and it would be hard for me to say which of them is more irresponsible.
She sees me and she walks towards me, utterly perfect in her performance of the deceit of friendship and caring and respect.
And I do not throw things.
I do not scream hurtful true things at her face before she can drip honeyacid true things into my ears.
My anger and my hatred duck behind a polite smile and a wave.
I smile and we walk towards her and we are two rich women wrapped in the elegance of early middle age and not a soul can see the history and hatred between us.
History and hatred and a hint of other things.
She fucked the child I carried in my flesh; she fucked the man I dreamed of for years and kissed on his wedding day.
Something with her face spoke to me in dreams.
Spoke of death, rebirth and other lives. Spoke to me as if she was a part of me, as if she was the owner and mistress of a part of my soul.
Dressed in black, with a knowing perfect smile, and a dancer's legs and languid hands.
And a hat tilted jaunty over one eye.
So that every look was a wink of complicity.
I was in the worst of pain, and in my dreams she danced at the centre of that pain.
Why was she there in my weakness and long nights of despair?
Why does it matter that she fucked two of the three men I have loved in my life?
Matt went to her as an unhappy boy and left her a tortured man.
He has done worse before and since.
She and Christian played and fucked and played against each other.
As if sex were chess and the bed they fucked in was the board on which they played.
Christian has done worse before and since.
What do I know of her that is so bad?
She used to be a boy, and changed her skin for love.
She stole her lover's child and maybe fucked him.
The boy killed himself, and she left him for the maggots.
She is beautiful, with a beauty that is not all the work of blades.
She dances perfection, born to it or carved to it.
I am not perfect - I lie awake and do not dream and count the things I have done.
She, I guess, sleeps sound at nights.
I have done as bad.
I danced a tango with a madman;
I killed the mother that stands beside me or thought I did.
I found the man Sean would most hate me fucking, and fucked him.
In a dream, I fucked Kimber.
Who fucked all my men, and whom I do not hate like I do Ava.
Kimber was never my friend.
Kimber never betrayed me.
I envied Kimber's breasts, but I wanted nothing else that was hers.
Nor she of mine; it just worked out that she took it anyway.
And I do not hate her; just Ava, who was my friend.
I can be strong.
I can punish betrayal with venom.
I do nothing.
We make polite aimless chatter in the street, she and I.
We perform the dance of gentle indifference.
As my mother and daughter walk down the street a little and sit on a bench and watch me.
I do not scream and I do not throw things and I hate her still.
I hate her perfection.
And then again.
What do I know of what is in her mind?
I could scream at her, or I could reach over and seize that perfect pale throat between my hands, and I could choke her, or I could kiss her.
I could coil myself around her tight and still her dancing.
And I do not know what she would say or do.
She might weep or she might laugh or she might kiss me back with those perfect painted lips or bite me with those perfect teeth and I might bleed and I might squeal with pain and I might collapse in heat, wetness and confusion.
I do not know and I will never be weak again where she can see me.
So we peck each other's cheeks, polite in the sunshine, and strut away from each other.
There are ends to our story that will never happen because I cannot imagine her sighting languid against me, under my hand. Perfect still, but weak for me as I for her.
She is the betrayer from whom I must learn not to be betrayed again.
I can learn more from her.
She has much to teach
I can learn to tear myself to rags and rise in new skin.
I can dance with others the dance she and I danced in my dreams, languid against each other, moist and glittering and perfect under my hand.
There will be friends that will not betray me, soft under my hand.
I will do worse and better.