Since I enjoy replying to people who reply to me, I've decided to move blogs yet again. This will be the last post you will see from me unless you decide to follow me over to the livejournal community I've set up. As of now, I am caught up, so those who join will NOT be spammed with updates as I backlog stories.
I hope to see you there.
Link: http://community.livejournal.com/obscureddark/
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
FIC: A Good Place (Leverage/Glee, Parker/Brittany, PG-13)
FIC: A Good Place
Fandom: Leverage/Glee
Pairing: Parker/Brittany (AU--SIBCEST)
Not fair. Not fair. Everyone else gets to see Sophie--whatever her name is now, her real name--without a "special job". It's plain discrimination that Parker gets a text message an hour before her flight is scheduled to land and the party is supposed to start (Hardison bought those cute little champagne glasses, and she was in charge of the actual liquor so they got to spend the money for that on a big sign that says "WELCOME HOME" and damnit if she doesn't want to see Sophie cry a little when she sees it. But of course, now she won't get to.). A text message from Sophie herself, who's name Parker hasn't changed in her phone yet because Sophie hasn't told them what to change it to. And all of this hullabaloo is driving Parker just a little bananas already, but then she reads the text and it says "Go home" -- just like that. "Go home." And then an address, like Parker doesn't know it, like she hasn't known it for always.
It's really, really far away. In Ohio, and Parker is going to miss Sophie's coming home party completely if she goes, but she knows that she's not gonna get to see her at all if she doesn't do this, so damnit, there goes that dinero she's tucked away, and she's on an overnight, and she hates flying, which is really kind of silly since she loves the feeling of the wind in her hair when its just her and the drop line and the leather.
And the town is still stupid, which is how she remembers it. Nobody better tell her she doesn't remember it, because she totally does. Three years old is totally old enough to have memories, and she does, of this place. Of Lima, Ohio. Gross. It's named after a bean, or the bean is named after it. Either way, not awesome. Parker doesn't have anything with her, but she keeps her eyes on the streets as she walks: good roof for jumping there, fenced in yard here. She's always been at her best without any of the junk that Nathan makes her use, like precaution.
She presses the doorbell, freezing her face in a smile. When it opens, she starts up; "Excuse me, but are you happy with your cable ser--"
"Woah."
Blonde. Teenage. Cheerleading outfit; mostly red with white trim. Woah.
Parker attempts to yank the door from the girl's hand to pull it closed. "Sorry, wrong house," she mumbles, backing away.
Brittany's grip on the door is too tight for it to shut. "Who were you looking for?" She smiles happily, ready to offer any and all help to the blonde standing on her doorstep. "The Gradys next door are always coming over to complain about their T.V, maybe it's them you want?" She takes a step forward, removing the door as a potential barrier between them. "Or maybe the Smiths. They're two doors down. You really don't look like anyone from a cable company. You're too hot. Well, actually you look like me, and well. We're both hot, wouldn't you say so? Cable is kind of boring. I'm all about satellite. Much better service, Santana says so." She keeps moving forward, forcing Parker to walk backwards towards the street. This breaks about a gazillion rules in Parker's book, only starting with "Don't arrive at the home of someone who looks eerily like you."
But her sense of self-preservation isn't kicking in, oddly enough.
Parker clenches and unclenches her hands, then just gives up and asks, "What's your name." Of course, it doesn't come out sounding like a question, the way she has her mouth tight around the words.
"Brittany," she says, and touches Parker's shoulder, smiling, and right at that moment Parker's phone goes off, vibrating in her pocket, but it doesn't really matter because she's going to miss Sophie's party anyway, so she might as well ask Brittany out to coffee, right? It's sort of logical.
"Parker." They shake hands, as if conducting some sort of business deal. Brittany smiles, and Parker wants to rappel off buildings, kill bad guys, and break into bank vaults. They are urges she can't explain.
Brittany shifts on her feet. "So, are you going to come inside or what?"
Fandom: Leverage/Glee
Pairing: Parker/Brittany (AU--SIBCEST)
Not fair. Not fair. Everyone else gets to see Sophie--whatever her name is now, her real name--without a "special job". It's plain discrimination that Parker gets a text message an hour before her flight is scheduled to land and the party is supposed to start (Hardison bought those cute little champagne glasses, and she was in charge of the actual liquor so they got to spend the money for that on a big sign that says "WELCOME HOME" and damnit if she doesn't want to see Sophie cry a little when she sees it. But of course, now she won't get to.). A text message from Sophie herself, who's name Parker hasn't changed in her phone yet because Sophie hasn't told them what to change it to. And all of this hullabaloo is driving Parker just a little bananas already, but then she reads the text and it says "Go home" -- just like that. "Go home." And then an address, like Parker doesn't know it, like she hasn't known it for always.
It's really, really far away. In Ohio, and Parker is going to miss Sophie's coming home party completely if she goes, but she knows that she's not gonna get to see her at all if she doesn't do this, so damnit, there goes that dinero she's tucked away, and she's on an overnight, and she hates flying, which is really kind of silly since she loves the feeling of the wind in her hair when its just her and the drop line and the leather.
And the town is still stupid, which is how she remembers it. Nobody better tell her she doesn't remember it, because she totally does. Three years old is totally old enough to have memories, and she does, of this place. Of Lima, Ohio. Gross. It's named after a bean, or the bean is named after it. Either way, not awesome. Parker doesn't have anything with her, but she keeps her eyes on the streets as she walks: good roof for jumping there, fenced in yard here. She's always been at her best without any of the junk that Nathan makes her use, like precaution.
She presses the doorbell, freezing her face in a smile. When it opens, she starts up; "Excuse me, but are you happy with your cable ser--"
"Woah."
Blonde. Teenage. Cheerleading outfit; mostly red with white trim. Woah.
Parker attempts to yank the door from the girl's hand to pull it closed. "Sorry, wrong house," she mumbles, backing away.
Brittany's grip on the door is too tight for it to shut. "Who were you looking for?" She smiles happily, ready to offer any and all help to the blonde standing on her doorstep. "The Gradys next door are always coming over to complain about their T.V, maybe it's them you want?" She takes a step forward, removing the door as a potential barrier between them. "Or maybe the Smiths. They're two doors down. You really don't look like anyone from a cable company. You're too hot. Well, actually you look like me, and well. We're both hot, wouldn't you say so? Cable is kind of boring. I'm all about satellite. Much better service, Santana says so." She keeps moving forward, forcing Parker to walk backwards towards the street. This breaks about a gazillion rules in Parker's book, only starting with "Don't arrive at the home of someone who looks eerily like you."
But her sense of self-preservation isn't kicking in, oddly enough.
Parker clenches and unclenches her hands, then just gives up and asks, "What's your name." Of course, it doesn't come out sounding like a question, the way she has her mouth tight around the words.
"Brittany," she says, and touches Parker's shoulder, smiling, and right at that moment Parker's phone goes off, vibrating in her pocket, but it doesn't really matter because she's going to miss Sophie's party anyway, so she might as well ask Brittany out to coffee, right? It's sort of logical.
"Parker." They shake hands, as if conducting some sort of business deal. Brittany smiles, and Parker wants to rappel off buildings, kill bad guys, and break into bank vaults. They are urges she can't explain.
Brittany shifts on her feet. "So, are you going to come inside or what?"
Sunday, November 29, 2009
FIC: Among School Children (X-Men, Emma Frost, PG-13
Title: Among School Children
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Emma's treatise on schooling, on her own and as a new headmistress of the Xavier Institute. A new threat is on the rise.
Recipient: st_aurafina (for xmmficathon)
Request Used: #3: Emma Frost, new teacher at the school, new telepath on the team, #4: A new team line up!
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Post-X3, minor spoilers for Emma’s introduction in Wolverine: Origins and the Emma Frost series of comics. Also, some general comic stuff, but nothing specific.
Notes: Thanks to lyssie and distractedone for the beta reading on Emma, and to my sister, fishy73, for the grammar fixes.
*
Among School Children
and it seemed that our two natures blent - William Butler Yeats
*
without
*
She was given the chance to join them as a child—which is what she was then—but there was no way her father would have allowed it, not with the Frost name already cycling in the news over her disappearance, over Christian’s suicide attempt, and his company working its way through debt and reconstruction.
And hadn’t Emma gotten herself out of that place herself? Hadn’t she dealt with her powers (nurtured them, thrived, really) on her own all of these years? Why step back now, why hand herself over to a man in a wheelchair, why give someone else free reign over her mind—a place she had already conquered for herself.
Perhaps, she thought at the time, the place might provide a good home for orphan boys like Scott, with whom she’d braved the darkness, or wild creatures like the Wolverine, who needed taming. But Emma Frost would forge her own way, cast her own mold.
She didn’t believe in coddling. Still doesn’t.
*
When she started her own school, she didn’t think of it as a rivalry so much as an alternative. And where students were concerned, she turned away more than she accepted. After all, she didn’t have the time or energy to mother lost souls; that’s what Xavier’s was around for. Why bother taking the cases she can’t win?
Compared to the X-Men, and the disbanded and humiliated Brotherhood, Emma called the chosen few her Hellions, and they didn’t dare call her anything but Miss Frost. A few of them were faces she knew from the news, from the spectacular light show of the way things collapsed during the past months. Pyro triggered an alarm at her New York City high-rise, and she almost killed him for it, but after a moment in his mind, she found the switch to turn him to liquid fire and—clever boy—he could control it. Turns out, he wasn't bad with note taking either.
A few pathetic specimens came her way before finding the Institute: girls with utterly useless powers named Tabitha and Paige from backwards towns in the Midwest, sporting hickish accents and jean jackets. Emma kindly suggested that they take a taxi to Westchester.
The flyover states weren’t all bad, however, since they brought her mysterious triplets called the Cuckoos: Esme, Celeste and Sophie, telepaths with a hive mind, girls who took after Emma in ways more frightful than reassuring. Still, they rounded out her team (the brute force needed the balance of brains) nicely, and served as a backup, should Emma herself ever suffer an incapacitation, something Xavier’s Institute hadn’t planned so well.
*
But then, she couldn’t call it Xavier’s anymore, not without the strange burden of guilt that she hadn’t gotten involved in a war that wasn’t her fight to begin with. The man was dead, and his followers grieved. Of course, he was only one of many lost to the pointless violence between factions; Scott among them, and another, the telepath called Jean Grey, and those were just the named few. Many more didn’t have the benefit of a grave, buried anonymous under Phoenix’s psionic blast. If Xavier had survived the ordeal, he would have heard an earful from her—and every government agency on the planet, to be sure—about the idiocy of keeping a ticking bomb like The Phoenix under that kind of wraps. Though, in some light, Emma admired him for trying.
The school was cut off now; limping around headless and missing vital limbs. They had no telepath to run their precious Cerebro, and no real leader at the helm. (Not that Emma was interested, per se, but she managed to hear things, always.)
It didn’t take long for the call to come.
*
within
*
"Moira MacTaggert," Emma said, picking up the phone. Secretarial bills went down exponentially when the use of a little telepathy was involved.
"I'd prefer if you didn't invade my thoughts, Ms. Frost."
Emma laughed. "Hardly." She stepped over to her office window, overlooking busy New York streets. "Your business?"
"I--we--Emma, we'd like to make a formal offer to you, to be headmistress of the Institute. I'm sure you already know about us, and what we do--and with the death of Charles Xavier, well, we're left quite directionless in many ways."
The sun glinted against high-rise buildings. "You need a telepath to direct your students, and--oh yes. To use that silly machine of yours. Cerebro, you call it?"
"Ms. Frost..." Dr. MacTaggert's voice held a hint of warning, but a warning that had no real power behind it.
"My own students are invited as well, with--" she cleared her throat, smiled, "--equal opportunities as those already residing at the Institute. And your choosing of me is well researched, I'm sure, so I can assume that there will be no regrets or questioning or choices I make." They weren't questions.
"We'd like if you could start within the month."
"I look forward to it." She managed to lace the ice in her tone with sugar. Dr. MacTaggert was a fool, inviting Emma into their midst. She wouldn't play pawn to a dead man.
*
Emma was organizing her new desk--Dr. MacTaggert had insisted that she move into the mansion completely, to ensure full leadership capabilities--when the buzz started around the edges of her mind. Just the children, she thought, but then a louder voice broke through, one sparking with recognition. Rogue, and she had heard the story about the poor girl with hungry skin who had fallen for the lure of Worthington Labs' cure, leaving her life with the X-Men, vanishing when it looked like she would be useless to them after all. When it seemed like the cure had worked, that she was homo sapien, and not homo superior.
The girl looked younger than Emma expected, her cupid's bow lips pressed flat. "I want you to let me back on the team."
"And what, exactly, would you bring to a team? De-powered as you a--"
The desk began to rise, shaking off all of the books, the cup of pens... "What makes you think I would be back if I were still de-powered?" In a flash, Emma knew it was true--physical evidence aside. Rogue had been blissfully happy, pathetic really, living her make-believe life, making up for lost time. And now her skin was deadlier than ever and she could utilize--
"All of them?" Emma asked, hint of a smile at her lips. She'd have the Cuckoos fix her desk later (or Esme would do it, while Celeste and Sophie watched).
Rogue crossed her arms across her chest, frowned. "All of them."
Something to work with, then, finally. Unlike the welcome package the Institute came with. "Welcome back."
*
Of course, taking this position meant that she was back with the chaff as well as the wheat. And the merging of teams wasn't the smoothest of transitions, what with the male posturing going on between Bobby and Pyro. Poor Iceman was stuck in the elementary use of his powers, as he insisted that Emma stay out of his mind, that he could "figure things out on his own"; meanwhile even Wolverine had to acknowledge that John was a skilled asset to the team.
Emma took to watching practice from the observation deck, controlling the terrain they fought on with a mere tug on their consciousnesses (the only one who minded was, of course, Wolverine, who called the experience "fuckin' unnerving", to which Emma simply patted his hand and chided him on cursing in front of the children).
After dazzling a Sentinel with her ability to shed skin and reform her identity, Paige turned toward where she knew the observation deck was (the girl had a good sense of direction on her, Emma had to give her that) and shouted "Why don't you ever come down and fight with us, Miss Frost?" while managing to completely miss the battle continuing behind her turned back. Her brother, Sam, shot her a glare as he 'cannonballed' around that very Sentinel to prevent it from clobbering his little sister to bits.
"Wanna pay attention, Little Bit?" Wolverine shouted, readying to be launched by Colossus at one of the larger metal foes.
It wasn't the smaller Guthrie's fault, of course, that she was completely useless in battle, but that didn't mean that she couldn't learn to assist her brother, or her more gifted teammates. Emma imagined a small-sized Sentinel teetering towards Paige, and awoke her to the threat. Miss Guthrie, to your left. And please. Use your imagination, I doubt this machine is interested in your husking abilities.
"Precisely why I don't go down there. I'd be abusing them physically," Emma mumbled to herself, as Paige karate-chopped the high-tech robot. "Best leave that to Wolverine."
*
Another disturbance; Emma never could manage do get through these days without one. The Cuckoos alerted her with their shrill mental cry in one voice, The Angel has returned, and Sophie trailing with a fainter thought, Mine, no questions, to which Emma couldn't help but smile. She didn't bother with the inner workings of the triplets, let alone the dating and personal life of her students, unless it interfered with their learning--either academically or on the field. She expected Storm or Moira to deal with those minutiae. However, Warren Worthington didn't return to the campus of the Institute for Higher Learning on an everyday basis.
She and he would have a conversation.
*
Emma leaned back in her chair, having offered the boy coffee and having been twice refused. "Please tell me, Warren, what is so urgent?"
"Magneto has been spotted--"
"Hardly newsworthy."
"--using his powers--"
"Again, Warren, Rogue has returned. I've anticipated Magneto's return, sooner or later. Do remember that you are speaking to a telepath. Try and make this interesting."
Angel flexed his wings, pausing to look out of her office window at the courtyard below. "Mr. Lensherr is gathering forces on an island east of Africa." At her look, he continued. "I'm not surprised you haven't heard about the movement; it's taken me months using my father's company equipment to confirm what I do know--and that isn't much. My contact in Madagascar tells me that their numbers aren't so large yet, that he is building a base underground."
Emma was silent, filtering through the steady stream of information Warren allowed her to access along with his words. No easy maps, no lists of those joining up, no confirmation. "And what do you propose I do with this information, Mr. Worthington?" Emma smoothed the white linen of her finely tailored pants before looking up, meeting Warren's eyes.
He was surprised. "Why, take him down, of course. Professor Xavier--"
"Is no longer with us."
*
Before falling asleep each night, she took mental stock of the school and the students, peaking in at their states of mind, registering any threats, any danger. First her girls, The Cuckoos, squabbling gently with each other, then onto the other Institute faculty. Storm; reading over her lesson plan for the next day, hardly worth a second thought. Wolverine, who Emma often found more fascinating due to his dreams and repressed memories (and perhaps, that part of her remembered him from her childhood, though he didn't seem to), wasn't thinking much of anything tonight.
She considered the core group of students, from Rogue to little Kitty Pryde, and passed the usual corners of her mind searching for their thoughts.
Nothing.
Not merely a lack of substance, that wouldn't be cause for worry. But nothing. A blank.
Emma had no difficulty seeing Paige Guthrie; the girl was in the kitchen getting a late-night snack. And there, her Pyro. Already asleep and dreaming of a strange concoction to do with chocolate mousse--but the others?
She was shaken enough to find a robe and consider taking to the halls for a physical search, the thought becoming more and more absurd. However, just as she touched the doorknob, she felt a buzz, her mind blurring and then sharpening, until she could sense them all, acutely, every one.
*
She watched as Bobby took down a Sentinel, sluicing his path with ice, and quickly blasting all of the robot's joints with frozen crystals. A positive effort, but hardly effective--so proved when the Sentinel jerked free of its temporary holds and caught Bobby in a telekinetic hold, leaving him futilly shooting ice in a harmless direction. Rogue finished with the smaller opponent she was dueling mano-a-gloved mano, and moved on to rescue her former lover (interesting, what Emma picked up on during these little exercises) utilizing Magneto's power crush the Sentinel's skull from the inside, short-circuiting it.
As Bobby fell, she ironed-up her form, a la Colossus (delightful, Emma thought) to catch him.
You really sh-- Emma thought at Bobby, but caught heavy resistance. Something blocking her.
Clearing her throat, her anger rising, Emma pressed the intercom. "You might consider, Bobby, working with me on the next stage of your abilities. I think we both just witnessed your weaknesses."
*
"Dr. MacTaggert."
The door opened slowly, and the doctor entered Emma's office with a sigh. "I do wish you'd let me knock properly, Ms. Frost."
"Trouble in the labs?"
Moira sat down, pressing her fingers along the edge of Emma's desk, making the nails go white with pressure. "Actually, Ms. Frost, I thought we might talk."
Buzzing. Something--someone--trying to hedge in on her mind...? Emma awakened her senses.
Cuckoos, help me snuff out the intruder-- she called, but found only white noise.
"What have you done, Moira?"
She grasped her head, as suddenly, there was pain inside her head so intense as she could only remember experiencing when a prisoner of Weapon X.
Dr. MacTaggert blanched. "It's not what I've done."
Emma shut her eyes tight against the deluge.
"It was him. It's been him all along."
*
without
*
She is diamond, impenetrable. She'll be safe this way, her defenses up. She is all right but not right; the world is white, blank.
Emma cannot see, though she opens her eyes, notices the place around her has color and shape and form.
"My poor girl, I can't imagine what he must have..." The voice is gritty and alone, though she has heard it before, on news reels and in the memories of her students. "You're safe here, in any case. For now. Though we've limited idea of when Charles will strike."
She's afraid she won't be able to walk, not without the balance of a mental tail. "Here?"
"Genosha. And you can call me Erik."
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Emma's treatise on schooling, on her own and as a new headmistress of the Xavier Institute. A new threat is on the rise.
Recipient: st_aurafina (for xmmficathon)
Request Used: #3: Emma Frost, new teacher at the school, new telepath on the team, #4: A new team line up!
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Post-X3, minor spoilers for Emma’s introduction in Wolverine: Origins and the Emma Frost series of comics. Also, some general comic stuff, but nothing specific.
Notes: Thanks to lyssie and distractedone for the beta reading on Emma, and to my sister, fishy73, for the grammar fixes.
*
Among School Children
and it seemed that our two natures blent - William Butler Yeats
*
without
*
She was given the chance to join them as a child—which is what she was then—but there was no way her father would have allowed it, not with the Frost name already cycling in the news over her disappearance, over Christian’s suicide attempt, and his company working its way through debt and reconstruction.
And hadn’t Emma gotten herself out of that place herself? Hadn’t she dealt with her powers (nurtured them, thrived, really) on her own all of these years? Why step back now, why hand herself over to a man in a wheelchair, why give someone else free reign over her mind—a place she had already conquered for herself.
Perhaps, she thought at the time, the place might provide a good home for orphan boys like Scott, with whom she’d braved the darkness, or wild creatures like the Wolverine, who needed taming. But Emma Frost would forge her own way, cast her own mold.
She didn’t believe in coddling. Still doesn’t.
*
When she started her own school, she didn’t think of it as a rivalry so much as an alternative. And where students were concerned, she turned away more than she accepted. After all, she didn’t have the time or energy to mother lost souls; that’s what Xavier’s was around for. Why bother taking the cases she can’t win?
Compared to the X-Men, and the disbanded and humiliated Brotherhood, Emma called the chosen few her Hellions, and they didn’t dare call her anything but Miss Frost. A few of them were faces she knew from the news, from the spectacular light show of the way things collapsed during the past months. Pyro triggered an alarm at her New York City high-rise, and she almost killed him for it, but after a moment in his mind, she found the switch to turn him to liquid fire and—clever boy—he could control it. Turns out, he wasn't bad with note taking either.
A few pathetic specimens came her way before finding the Institute: girls with utterly useless powers named Tabitha and Paige from backwards towns in the Midwest, sporting hickish accents and jean jackets. Emma kindly suggested that they take a taxi to Westchester.
The flyover states weren’t all bad, however, since they brought her mysterious triplets called the Cuckoos: Esme, Celeste and Sophie, telepaths with a hive mind, girls who took after Emma in ways more frightful than reassuring. Still, they rounded out her team (the brute force needed the balance of brains) nicely, and served as a backup, should Emma herself ever suffer an incapacitation, something Xavier’s Institute hadn’t planned so well.
*
But then, she couldn’t call it Xavier’s anymore, not without the strange burden of guilt that she hadn’t gotten involved in a war that wasn’t her fight to begin with. The man was dead, and his followers grieved. Of course, he was only one of many lost to the pointless violence between factions; Scott among them, and another, the telepath called Jean Grey, and those were just the named few. Many more didn’t have the benefit of a grave, buried anonymous under Phoenix’s psionic blast. If Xavier had survived the ordeal, he would have heard an earful from her—and every government agency on the planet, to be sure—about the idiocy of keeping a ticking bomb like The Phoenix under that kind of wraps. Though, in some light, Emma admired him for trying.
The school was cut off now; limping around headless and missing vital limbs. They had no telepath to run their precious Cerebro, and no real leader at the helm. (Not that Emma was interested, per se, but she managed to hear things, always.)
It didn’t take long for the call to come.
*
within
*
"Moira MacTaggert," Emma said, picking up the phone. Secretarial bills went down exponentially when the use of a little telepathy was involved.
"I'd prefer if you didn't invade my thoughts, Ms. Frost."
Emma laughed. "Hardly." She stepped over to her office window, overlooking busy New York streets. "Your business?"
"I--we--Emma, we'd like to make a formal offer to you, to be headmistress of the Institute. I'm sure you already know about us, and what we do--and with the death of Charles Xavier, well, we're left quite directionless in many ways."
The sun glinted against high-rise buildings. "You need a telepath to direct your students, and--oh yes. To use that silly machine of yours. Cerebro, you call it?"
"Ms. Frost..." Dr. MacTaggert's voice held a hint of warning, but a warning that had no real power behind it.
"My own students are invited as well, with--" she cleared her throat, smiled, "--equal opportunities as those already residing at the Institute. And your choosing of me is well researched, I'm sure, so I can assume that there will be no regrets or questioning or choices I make." They weren't questions.
"We'd like if you could start within the month."
"I look forward to it." She managed to lace the ice in her tone with sugar. Dr. MacTaggert was a fool, inviting Emma into their midst. She wouldn't play pawn to a dead man.
*
Emma was organizing her new desk--Dr. MacTaggert had insisted that she move into the mansion completely, to ensure full leadership capabilities--when the buzz started around the edges of her mind. Just the children, she thought, but then a louder voice broke through, one sparking with recognition. Rogue, and she had heard the story about the poor girl with hungry skin who had fallen for the lure of Worthington Labs' cure, leaving her life with the X-Men, vanishing when it looked like she would be useless to them after all. When it seemed like the cure had worked, that she was homo sapien, and not homo superior.
The girl looked younger than Emma expected, her cupid's bow lips pressed flat. "I want you to let me back on the team."
"And what, exactly, would you bring to a team? De-powered as you a--"
The desk began to rise, shaking off all of the books, the cup of pens... "What makes you think I would be back if I were still de-powered?" In a flash, Emma knew it was true--physical evidence aside. Rogue had been blissfully happy, pathetic really, living her make-believe life, making up for lost time. And now her skin was deadlier than ever and she could utilize--
"All of them?" Emma asked, hint of a smile at her lips. She'd have the Cuckoos fix her desk later (or Esme would do it, while Celeste and Sophie watched).
Rogue crossed her arms across her chest, frowned. "All of them."
Something to work with, then, finally. Unlike the welcome package the Institute came with. "Welcome back."
*
Of course, taking this position meant that she was back with the chaff as well as the wheat. And the merging of teams wasn't the smoothest of transitions, what with the male posturing going on between Bobby and Pyro. Poor Iceman was stuck in the elementary use of his powers, as he insisted that Emma stay out of his mind, that he could "figure things out on his own"; meanwhile even Wolverine had to acknowledge that John was a skilled asset to the team.
Emma took to watching practice from the observation deck, controlling the terrain they fought on with a mere tug on their consciousnesses (the only one who minded was, of course, Wolverine, who called the experience "fuckin' unnerving", to which Emma simply patted his hand and chided him on cursing in front of the children).
After dazzling a Sentinel with her ability to shed skin and reform her identity, Paige turned toward where she knew the observation deck was (the girl had a good sense of direction on her, Emma had to give her that) and shouted "Why don't you ever come down and fight with us, Miss Frost?" while managing to completely miss the battle continuing behind her turned back. Her brother, Sam, shot her a glare as he 'cannonballed' around that very Sentinel to prevent it from clobbering his little sister to bits.
"Wanna pay attention, Little Bit?" Wolverine shouted, readying to be launched by Colossus at one of the larger metal foes.
It wasn't the smaller Guthrie's fault, of course, that she was completely useless in battle, but that didn't mean that she couldn't learn to assist her brother, or her more gifted teammates. Emma imagined a small-sized Sentinel teetering towards Paige, and awoke her to the threat. Miss Guthrie, to your left. And please. Use your imagination, I doubt this machine is interested in your husking abilities.
"Precisely why I don't go down there. I'd be abusing them physically," Emma mumbled to herself, as Paige karate-chopped the high-tech robot. "Best leave that to Wolverine."
*
Another disturbance; Emma never could manage do get through these days without one. The Cuckoos alerted her with their shrill mental cry in one voice, The Angel has returned, and Sophie trailing with a fainter thought, Mine, no questions, to which Emma couldn't help but smile. She didn't bother with the inner workings of the triplets, let alone the dating and personal life of her students, unless it interfered with their learning--either academically or on the field. She expected Storm or Moira to deal with those minutiae. However, Warren Worthington didn't return to the campus of the Institute for Higher Learning on an everyday basis.
She and he would have a conversation.
*
Emma leaned back in her chair, having offered the boy coffee and having been twice refused. "Please tell me, Warren, what is so urgent?"
"Magneto has been spotted--"
"Hardly newsworthy."
"--using his powers--"
"Again, Warren, Rogue has returned. I've anticipated Magneto's return, sooner or later. Do remember that you are speaking to a telepath. Try and make this interesting."
Angel flexed his wings, pausing to look out of her office window at the courtyard below. "Mr. Lensherr is gathering forces on an island east of Africa." At her look, he continued. "I'm not surprised you haven't heard about the movement; it's taken me months using my father's company equipment to confirm what I do know--and that isn't much. My contact in Madagascar tells me that their numbers aren't so large yet, that he is building a base underground."
Emma was silent, filtering through the steady stream of information Warren allowed her to access along with his words. No easy maps, no lists of those joining up, no confirmation. "And what do you propose I do with this information, Mr. Worthington?" Emma smoothed the white linen of her finely tailored pants before looking up, meeting Warren's eyes.
He was surprised. "Why, take him down, of course. Professor Xavier--"
"Is no longer with us."
*
Before falling asleep each night, she took mental stock of the school and the students, peaking in at their states of mind, registering any threats, any danger. First her girls, The Cuckoos, squabbling gently with each other, then onto the other Institute faculty. Storm; reading over her lesson plan for the next day, hardly worth a second thought. Wolverine, who Emma often found more fascinating due to his dreams and repressed memories (and perhaps, that part of her remembered him from her childhood, though he didn't seem to), wasn't thinking much of anything tonight.
She considered the core group of students, from Rogue to little Kitty Pryde, and passed the usual corners of her mind searching for their thoughts.
Nothing.
Not merely a lack of substance, that wouldn't be cause for worry. But nothing. A blank.
Emma had no difficulty seeing Paige Guthrie; the girl was in the kitchen getting a late-night snack. And there, her Pyro. Already asleep and dreaming of a strange concoction to do with chocolate mousse--but the others?
She was shaken enough to find a robe and consider taking to the halls for a physical search, the thought becoming more and more absurd. However, just as she touched the doorknob, she felt a buzz, her mind blurring and then sharpening, until she could sense them all, acutely, every one.
*
She watched as Bobby took down a Sentinel, sluicing his path with ice, and quickly blasting all of the robot's joints with frozen crystals. A positive effort, but hardly effective--so proved when the Sentinel jerked free of its temporary holds and caught Bobby in a telekinetic hold, leaving him futilly shooting ice in a harmless direction. Rogue finished with the smaller opponent she was dueling mano-a-gloved mano, and moved on to rescue her former lover (interesting, what Emma picked up on during these little exercises) utilizing Magneto's power crush the Sentinel's skull from the inside, short-circuiting it.
As Bobby fell, she ironed-up her form, a la Colossus (delightful, Emma thought) to catch him.
You really sh-- Emma thought at Bobby, but caught heavy resistance. Something blocking her.
Clearing her throat, her anger rising, Emma pressed the intercom. "You might consider, Bobby, working with me on the next stage of your abilities. I think we both just witnessed your weaknesses."
*
"Dr. MacTaggert."
The door opened slowly, and the doctor entered Emma's office with a sigh. "I do wish you'd let me knock properly, Ms. Frost."
"Trouble in the labs?"
Moira sat down, pressing her fingers along the edge of Emma's desk, making the nails go white with pressure. "Actually, Ms. Frost, I thought we might talk."
Buzzing. Something--someone--trying to hedge in on her mind...? Emma awakened her senses.
Cuckoos, help me snuff out the intruder-- she called, but found only white noise.
"What have you done, Moira?"
She grasped her head, as suddenly, there was pain inside her head so intense as she could only remember experiencing when a prisoner of Weapon X.
Dr. MacTaggert blanched. "It's not what I've done."
Emma shut her eyes tight against the deluge.
"It was him. It's been him all along."
*
without
*
She is diamond, impenetrable. She'll be safe this way, her defenses up. She is all right but not right; the world is white, blank.
Emma cannot see, though she opens her eyes, notices the place around her has color and shape and form.
"My poor girl, I can't imagine what he must have..." The voice is gritty and alone, though she has heard it before, on news reels and in the memories of her students. "You're safe here, in any case. For now. Though we've limited idea of when Charles will strike."
She's afraid she won't be able to walk, not without the balance of a mental tail. "Here?"
"Genosha. And you can call me Erik."
Friday, November 13, 2009
FIC: High F (Glee, Rachel/Kurt, NC-17)
High F
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: Glee, Rachel/Kurt, NC-17, spoilers for "Wheels"
"Melancholy isn't very attractive on you," came Rachel Berry's voice from the stairs leading down to Kurt's bedroom. Rachel Berry's voice was something that most definitely did not belong there. Kurt put down the math book he was trying to absorb and turned to eye her.
"It takes a certain type to wear breaking and entering well." He blinked. "My compliments."
"Similar style, wrong brand," Rachel clarified. "Your dad let me in."
"Oh, in that case..." Kurt let the sentence hang in the air, not rising from his desk chair, simply waiting for Rachel to reveal her motive or intent, whatever it may be. He wasn't in any hurry. If she wanted to stand there all day looking like a half-startled lemur, than far be it from him to interrupt.
"I thought we could work on that note. The high F."
Oh, that.
She smoothed out her skirt and looked at him, bright-eyed. "I feel bad about the solo, Kurt, because you were really good, well, aside from the whole... being a guy thing? And the note. And well, I thought that the note we can fix! So. We can work on it, if you want."
Rachel smiled, quite exuberantly, and it was a shame to realize that she was going to get wrinkles prematurely because of that habit. "Sure," Kurt said, waving his hand, unable to watch her embarrass herself any longer. After all, knowing Rachel Berry, she would probably stand there, grinning, until she decided to stomp right back up those stairs, and then Kurt would have to explain the whole mess to his dad, and...
"Let me find my Wicked songbook," he murmured.
Behind him, Kurt heard the sounds of Rachel getting comfortable, probably on his bed--hopefully not managing to wrinkle or damage anything. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect, after all this was his personal space, and not Glee club. He'd made a point to steer clear of Rachel thus far; who knew what she was capable of.
Where had he put that book? Moved somewhere while he used it for practice this week...
"So, Kurt. I was thinking."
He cleared his throat. "Not a good sign."
"We should have sex."
It definitely didn't take all of Kurt's willpower not to turn around then, but it took a lot of it. "I believe you've missed a major part of this equation."
A laugh; or rather. A nervous twitter. "Oh, I know you're gay."
A long pause. Too long.
"I just think that it would be a good idea..."
"Rachel, the fact of the matter is that I'm intrinsically not attracted to you. And that probably wouldn't change if I were straight. You do realize this?" He forced himself to keep looking through stacks of papers.
Rachel sighed. As if he was the one missing the point. "Kurt, it would really help if you just looked at me."
He turned around, slowly, rotating in his office chair, legs crossed at the knee.
"I fail to see the point in this whole... arrangement," Kurt said, swallowing quickly as he eyed the strap-on Rachel held, limp, in her hand. "I don't need a beard."
Rachel pouted. The audacity of which action Kurt did not fail to miss.
"And you, Miss Berry. I fail to understand what you might, well, get out of fucking me. Aside from the knowledge that you might be skilled at topping the most effeminate boy in school. Which, I'm sure we're both already aware of." Kurt stopped, rolled his eyes, and returned to his search for the song book.
He wondered what, in fact, she had told his father. "Hey Mr. Hummell. I'm here to work my female wiles on your son, that ok?" He looked up slowly, "Really, Rachel, I--" and was interrupted by her standing--all of a sudden--freakishly close to him, kissing him full on the mouth. It was an act that wasn't altogether horrible, but the knowledge that it was Rachel Berry at the other end of the kiss... well.
Kurt pushed her back gently and tapped a single digit against her full lips. "Mm. Now, I know I haven't given you the impression I'm interested in that."
She breathed in and out, her chest lifting with every breath. "But the rest?" Rachel's eyes on him were intense, and he had to admit that there was a reason Rachel usually got what she wanted.
He made a noise, deep in his throat, clearing something away. "Not because I like you, trust me. Just..."
Kurt licked his lips; they tasted like chapstick.
"Perhaps it wouldn't be entirely uncalled for, to have the Glee club's second official Diva-off."
*
"Trust me, Kurt, I know what I'm doing."
"Right, from you vast multitudes of experience at pegging all the guys on the football team?" Kurt shot back, over his shoulder, knowing the dig would hurt.
Rachel was applying still more lube to the purple dildo, and from the look of concentration on her face, she most definitely did not know what she was doing. ...Which put her about even with Kurt. "Actually, I was going on all the years of being completely fucked by life, if you must know." Kurt raised an eyebrow, knowing he couldn't really succeed in looking dashing while laying face-down on his comforter. "Okay, I think I'm ready."
"I'm the one who's supposed to say that, you realize?"
Rachel cracked a smile, tugging her skirt further up (and really, if there was anything more ridiculous to be seen in life than Rachel Berry in a sweater, skirt, and a purple dildo, than Kurt very definitely hadn't seen it) and snapping a finger under the waistband of Kurt's underwear. "It'll probably hurt more if you leave those on."
"Ah, you do know what you're doing." Something against him, and Kurt shook out a breath.
Her finger, slick with lube, teasing and pushing. "I told you. Trust me."
*
Kurt could almost believe that this was someone else, that he was somewhere else. That all of this was happening, but in a much better way. Maybe with roses strewn on the bed, or even with stronger hands holding him down. With his eyes closed, focusing on the way Rachel--the dildo--moved in and out of him, occasionally hitting that, oh... that spot, it was good.
There would be fingernail marks on his hips tomorrow.
"It's good, right?" Her voice cut through the illusion, just out of breath, and there again was the whisper of the harness against his ass, the rough cloth of her off-brand sweater rubbing his back.
Sighing reluctantly to catch his breath, Kurt answered, "You aren't terrible at this." He may have arched into her movements, but of course no one would know either way.
"I can jerk you off. If you want. I've been researching that too." She kept up, pounding quite enthusiastically. Not that he would have expected any differently. Still, it wasn't just brute fucking; there was a style to it. Sometimes Rachel would pause, fill him completely, and then leave him empty only to push the dildo deeper than before. It was just a little bit breathtaking.
Kurt's fingers tightened around his comforter--it would need to be washed asap, a stain just wouldn't do--and he came with a groan, unexpected as this whole afternoon had been. "No," he whispered, loose from the orgasm, "I'd rather you didn't."
Rachel pulled out, carefully, like she did everything, really. Only the fingers tugged into his flesh belied the passion beneath it all. She cleared her throat. "Was that your first time?"
He was grateful to her for turning around while she undid the harness, whether it was for her privacy or his. "With a girl, or...?"
"Well, it was mine. Assuming that you don't define sex as penis-into-vagina," Kurt winced, "and I figured you don't."
Kurt reassembled some form of dignity, though his hair was mussed and he was certain his face pinked. He tugged his underwear back up, and zipped his pants. The comforter got folded and immediately placed in the washer without a second glance.
"Just so you know," Rachel continued, placing the dildo and harness in a neat pile on top of her school bag, "I have absolutely zero expectation that this will happen again."
"Lord knows what it would do to our reputations."
Rachel looked down and actually blushed. "What, the sex or dressing in non-designer clothes."
Kurt laughed. "Are you still up for the song? I plan on getting whatever solo Shu dangles in front of us next time."
"Oh, I doubt that. Even with the hours of work it might take."
"Hours?"
"Hours. That high F's a bitch."
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: Glee, Rachel/Kurt, NC-17, spoilers for "Wheels"
"Melancholy isn't very attractive on you," came Rachel Berry's voice from the stairs leading down to Kurt's bedroom. Rachel Berry's voice was something that most definitely did not belong there. Kurt put down the math book he was trying to absorb and turned to eye her.
"It takes a certain type to wear breaking and entering well." He blinked. "My compliments."
"Similar style, wrong brand," Rachel clarified. "Your dad let me in."
"Oh, in that case..." Kurt let the sentence hang in the air, not rising from his desk chair, simply waiting for Rachel to reveal her motive or intent, whatever it may be. He wasn't in any hurry. If she wanted to stand there all day looking like a half-startled lemur, than far be it from him to interrupt.
"I thought we could work on that note. The high F."
Oh, that.
She smoothed out her skirt and looked at him, bright-eyed. "I feel bad about the solo, Kurt, because you were really good, well, aside from the whole... being a guy thing? And the note. And well, I thought that the note we can fix! So. We can work on it, if you want."
Rachel smiled, quite exuberantly, and it was a shame to realize that she was going to get wrinkles prematurely because of that habit. "Sure," Kurt said, waving his hand, unable to watch her embarrass herself any longer. After all, knowing Rachel Berry, she would probably stand there, grinning, until she decided to stomp right back up those stairs, and then Kurt would have to explain the whole mess to his dad, and...
"Let me find my Wicked songbook," he murmured.
Behind him, Kurt heard the sounds of Rachel getting comfortable, probably on his bed--hopefully not managing to wrinkle or damage anything. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect, after all this was his personal space, and not Glee club. He'd made a point to steer clear of Rachel thus far; who knew what she was capable of.
Where had he put that book? Moved somewhere while he used it for practice this week...
"So, Kurt. I was thinking."
He cleared his throat. "Not a good sign."
"We should have sex."
It definitely didn't take all of Kurt's willpower not to turn around then, but it took a lot of it. "I believe you've missed a major part of this equation."
A laugh; or rather. A nervous twitter. "Oh, I know you're gay."
A long pause. Too long.
"I just think that it would be a good idea..."
"Rachel, the fact of the matter is that I'm intrinsically not attracted to you. And that probably wouldn't change if I were straight. You do realize this?" He forced himself to keep looking through stacks of papers.
Rachel sighed. As if he was the one missing the point. "Kurt, it would really help if you just looked at me."
He turned around, slowly, rotating in his office chair, legs crossed at the knee.
"I fail to see the point in this whole... arrangement," Kurt said, swallowing quickly as he eyed the strap-on Rachel held, limp, in her hand. "I don't need a beard."
Rachel pouted. The audacity of which action Kurt did not fail to miss.
"And you, Miss Berry. I fail to understand what you might, well, get out of fucking me. Aside from the knowledge that you might be skilled at topping the most effeminate boy in school. Which, I'm sure we're both already aware of." Kurt stopped, rolled his eyes, and returned to his search for the song book.
He wondered what, in fact, she had told his father. "Hey Mr. Hummell. I'm here to work my female wiles on your son, that ok?" He looked up slowly, "Really, Rachel, I--" and was interrupted by her standing--all of a sudden--freakishly close to him, kissing him full on the mouth. It was an act that wasn't altogether horrible, but the knowledge that it was Rachel Berry at the other end of the kiss... well.
Kurt pushed her back gently and tapped a single digit against her full lips. "Mm. Now, I know I haven't given you the impression I'm interested in that."
She breathed in and out, her chest lifting with every breath. "But the rest?" Rachel's eyes on him were intense, and he had to admit that there was a reason Rachel usually got what she wanted.
He made a noise, deep in his throat, clearing something away. "Not because I like you, trust me. Just..."
Kurt licked his lips; they tasted like chapstick.
"Perhaps it wouldn't be entirely uncalled for, to have the Glee club's second official Diva-off."
*
"Trust me, Kurt, I know what I'm doing."
"Right, from you vast multitudes of experience at pegging all the guys on the football team?" Kurt shot back, over his shoulder, knowing the dig would hurt.
Rachel was applying still more lube to the purple dildo, and from the look of concentration on her face, she most definitely did not know what she was doing. ...Which put her about even with Kurt. "Actually, I was going on all the years of being completely fucked by life, if you must know." Kurt raised an eyebrow, knowing he couldn't really succeed in looking dashing while laying face-down on his comforter. "Okay, I think I'm ready."
"I'm the one who's supposed to say that, you realize?"
Rachel cracked a smile, tugging her skirt further up (and really, if there was anything more ridiculous to be seen in life than Rachel Berry in a sweater, skirt, and a purple dildo, than Kurt very definitely hadn't seen it) and snapping a finger under the waistband of Kurt's underwear. "It'll probably hurt more if you leave those on."
"Ah, you do know what you're doing." Something against him, and Kurt shook out a breath.
Her finger, slick with lube, teasing and pushing. "I told you. Trust me."
*
Kurt could almost believe that this was someone else, that he was somewhere else. That all of this was happening, but in a much better way. Maybe with roses strewn on the bed, or even with stronger hands holding him down. With his eyes closed, focusing on the way Rachel--the dildo--moved in and out of him, occasionally hitting that, oh... that spot, it was good.
There would be fingernail marks on his hips tomorrow.
"It's good, right?" Her voice cut through the illusion, just out of breath, and there again was the whisper of the harness against his ass, the rough cloth of her off-brand sweater rubbing his back.
Sighing reluctantly to catch his breath, Kurt answered, "You aren't terrible at this." He may have arched into her movements, but of course no one would know either way.
"I can jerk you off. If you want. I've been researching that too." She kept up, pounding quite enthusiastically. Not that he would have expected any differently. Still, it wasn't just brute fucking; there was a style to it. Sometimes Rachel would pause, fill him completely, and then leave him empty only to push the dildo deeper than before. It was just a little bit breathtaking.
Kurt's fingers tightened around his comforter--it would need to be washed asap, a stain just wouldn't do--and he came with a groan, unexpected as this whole afternoon had been. "No," he whispered, loose from the orgasm, "I'd rather you didn't."
Rachel pulled out, carefully, like she did everything, really. Only the fingers tugged into his flesh belied the passion beneath it all. She cleared her throat. "Was that your first time?"
He was grateful to her for turning around while she undid the harness, whether it was for her privacy or his. "With a girl, or...?"
"Well, it was mine. Assuming that you don't define sex as penis-into-vagina," Kurt winced, "and I figured you don't."
Kurt reassembled some form of dignity, though his hair was mussed and he was certain his face pinked. He tugged his underwear back up, and zipped his pants. The comforter got folded and immediately placed in the washer without a second glance.
"Just so you know," Rachel continued, placing the dildo and harness in a neat pile on top of her school bag, "I have absolutely zero expectation that this will happen again."
"Lord knows what it would do to our reputations."
Rachel looked down and actually blushed. "What, the sex or dressing in non-designer clothes."
Kurt laughed. "Are you still up for the song? I plan on getting whatever solo Shu dangles in front of us next time."
"Oh, I doubt that. Even with the hours of work it might take."
"Hours?"
"Hours. That high F's a bitch."
Saturday, November 7, 2009
FIC: A Lack of Color (The Office, Pam, PG)
Title: A Lack of Color
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Post-"Double Date", Pam struggles to figure out where she stands. Pam/Karen friendship, Pam/Jim.
Rating: PG
Thanks to nalakaori_chan for the beta!
When Pam gets home all she wants to do is cry and sleep and never show her face at "that place" again, and of course Jim is being almost ridiculously nice to her, making her feel awful for caring so much about the whole thing in the first place. But, really, she's right. This is her mom she's talking about, and Michael just came in and he had no right to act like that only to dump her on her ass; hasn't her mom suffered enough.
She keeps replaying the moment when her hand made contact with his face, and it wasn't nearly enough; everything bubbling to the surface, and Michael stupidly crying when she was the one who should have been falling apart.
"I'm craving peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches," she tells Jim, because he won't stop looking at her, and even though the idea of the two half-solids swirling together on wheat bread turns her stomach in the wrong way, she knows they don't have Marshmallow Fluff in the house, and she just needs one second to breathe.
Jim must sense something, because he's out the door fast, careful not to jangle the keys too loudly, probably remembering the time that set off a four-hour migraine punctuated by vomiting on either end. Everything is interrupted by sickness these days--even when Pam feels wonderful; like a beautiful glowing pregnant thing, there's an underlying ugh waiting to rise up and attack without warning. And as a result (they have to be so careful) everything around her is shades of gray and white.
They've been meaning, and wanting, to paint this place for months, but as long as the thought has been there, Jim's had the question, "Won't this be bad for the baby?" and one day, when Pam bought brick red paint on a whim, just to look at something else, opening the can brought on a wave of dry heaves that left her over the toilet for hours.
So maybe her mom just wanted to be happy, and maybe Pam didn't have the authority--the whatever--to interfere in their relationship. In the grown-up stuff. Maybe she should have just... sat back and watched. Let Michael parade her mother around the office and make MILF jokes and hold back the urge to puke that for once was actually called for. She rubs her eyes, wondering if she took things too far.
Knowing that the problem will never be Michael, because this is his office. Knowing that there are too many things in life she's been ignoring, and maybe--just maybe--it's time to stop.
*
Ten minutes later she calls Jim, crying. "I'm sorry," she says, barely understandable, "I'm not even hungry. Will you come back and just hold me and not say anything about today or earlier or work or anything at all?"
"I'm already on my way."
*
There isn't even a weekend to let things mull over, to let Michael work up a dramatic story for why he doesn't have a bruise (Pam tries not to listen, but she overhears Phyllis telling Andy she's pretty sure he's wearing makeup, and in a little way, it makes her feel better). The next morning, she resumes the endless hours of calling and failing, letting the feeling really sink in that I'm not good at this, and What have I done--not hitting Michael, that had to happen. But with her life.
Her life.
Half-way to lunch, Pam has to take a snack break. She's found that eating small snacks helps keep the nausea down. Nibbling on crackers (she spread on the peanut butter Jim bought last night, packed them in a baggie), she idly checks her email, expecting maybe a shame note from her mother or a forward from someone she used to know.
Instead; k.filippelli@d-m.com - Sub: no invite means no present, right?
Pam can feel herself digesting, or the baby moving, and she clicks on the message.
Kidding, kidding. I assume you're still at this address and not Halpert x2 as Michael would likely find that too confusing. Heard the kid was conceived in sin--don't ask how I know, the gossip mill of DM runs wide and deep. Any case, happy for you. I have some left over maternity clothes/awesome shea butter lotion that you might be interested in? (Totally not implying that you have stretch marks, as that is something a jealous ex might engage in, ha) Keep answering phones like you own the place, Beesley.
*
Pam thinks of a thousand replies, starts at least six. She wants to tell Karen that she's not a receptionist anymore, that she's moved on, up. In the end, all she sends is "That sounds nice, thank you. Maybe we can meet for coffee/tea/water/something kid friendly?" She types her work number, then her cell, as an after thought. "PS I slapped Michael yesterday. He dated my mom, and then dumped her."
After hitting send, not a minute passes before her desk phone rings--without going through Erin--and she picks up. "Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam," she says, without a second thought, the rhythm never having left her.
Karen doesn't ask any questions like "Seriously?" or "You did WHAT?" but merely says, smiling (Pam can tell--that old saying that you can tell when someone is smiling into the phone is true) "Pam Beesley--Halpert--whatever? You are awesome. I absolutely need to hear more."
*
Ty is only eight months, but spending an afternoon watching him, beginning to stand up holding onto tables, crawling all around, and even chattering is exhausting. Pam gets home and sprawls out on the bed, smiling.
"I like this color on you," Jim says, touching her stomach. Neither of them can stop touching her stomach; it's really wonderful, actually.
"New top," Pam breathes, tucking her hands up under her head. "I got a bunch. A friend said she won't need them, at least for awhile." She doesn't ever think that she's lying, because, honestly, why would Jim want to know.
He lies down next to her, kisses her cheek.
*
She tugs off her coat on Monday morning, knowing the movement exposes her body a bit more than she's used to. But Karen's style is different than hers, and this was all that was clean this morning, and didn't require ironing. Ironing is no one's friend.
"Mmmm," Michael cave-man-voices, out from his office. "Pregnancy boobies!" He must immediately realize he's gone too far, because his hands, which were reaching out, retract, and he turns away.
Pam narrows her eyes. "Really, Michael?"
"No, no." He clears his throat. "You're right."
Pam sits at her desk for just as long, in that same awful chair, but her back doesn't hurt when she gets home.
*
"I'm throwing you a shower. You need to have a shower."
Pam blinks. "My mom's doing that, Karen."
"So? We can work together. That's great."
"My mom who I cried to every day when you and Jim were dating?"
Karen smiles, touches Pam's knee. "So it's that mom."
"But if I can get over it than so can she, right? I mean, you do have some good qualities."
"So do you, you know."
She sighs, smiles. Looks at Karen's face--no hint of a joke or lie there--and, despite everything, Pam says, "I know."
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Post-"Double Date", Pam struggles to figure out where she stands. Pam/Karen friendship, Pam/Jim.
Rating: PG
Thanks to nalakaori_chan for the beta!
When Pam gets home all she wants to do is cry and sleep and never show her face at "that place" again, and of course Jim is being almost ridiculously nice to her, making her feel awful for caring so much about the whole thing in the first place. But, really, she's right. This is her mom she's talking about, and Michael just came in and he had no right to act like that only to dump her on her ass; hasn't her mom suffered enough.
She keeps replaying the moment when her hand made contact with his face, and it wasn't nearly enough; everything bubbling to the surface, and Michael stupidly crying when she was the one who should have been falling apart.
"I'm craving peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches," she tells Jim, because he won't stop looking at her, and even though the idea of the two half-solids swirling together on wheat bread turns her stomach in the wrong way, she knows they don't have Marshmallow Fluff in the house, and she just needs one second to breathe.
Jim must sense something, because he's out the door fast, careful not to jangle the keys too loudly, probably remembering the time that set off a four-hour migraine punctuated by vomiting on either end. Everything is interrupted by sickness these days--even when Pam feels wonderful; like a beautiful glowing pregnant thing, there's an underlying ugh waiting to rise up and attack without warning. And as a result (they have to be so careful) everything around her is shades of gray and white.
They've been meaning, and wanting, to paint this place for months, but as long as the thought has been there, Jim's had the question, "Won't this be bad for the baby?" and one day, when Pam bought brick red paint on a whim, just to look at something else, opening the can brought on a wave of dry heaves that left her over the toilet for hours.
So maybe her mom just wanted to be happy, and maybe Pam didn't have the authority--the whatever--to interfere in their relationship. In the grown-up stuff. Maybe she should have just... sat back and watched. Let Michael parade her mother around the office and make MILF jokes and hold back the urge to puke that for once was actually called for. She rubs her eyes, wondering if she took things too far.
Knowing that the problem will never be Michael, because this is his office. Knowing that there are too many things in life she's been ignoring, and maybe--just maybe--it's time to stop.
*
Ten minutes later she calls Jim, crying. "I'm sorry," she says, barely understandable, "I'm not even hungry. Will you come back and just hold me and not say anything about today or earlier or work or anything at all?"
"I'm already on my way."
*
There isn't even a weekend to let things mull over, to let Michael work up a dramatic story for why he doesn't have a bruise (Pam tries not to listen, but she overhears Phyllis telling Andy she's pretty sure he's wearing makeup, and in a little way, it makes her feel better). The next morning, she resumes the endless hours of calling and failing, letting the feeling really sink in that I'm not good at this, and What have I done--not hitting Michael, that had to happen. But with her life.
Her life.
Half-way to lunch, Pam has to take a snack break. She's found that eating small snacks helps keep the nausea down. Nibbling on crackers (she spread on the peanut butter Jim bought last night, packed them in a baggie), she idly checks her email, expecting maybe a shame note from her mother or a forward from someone she used to know.
Instead; k.filippelli@d-m.com - Sub: no invite means no present, right?
Pam can feel herself digesting, or the baby moving, and she clicks on the message.
Kidding, kidding. I assume you're still at this address and not Halpert x2 as Michael would likely find that too confusing. Heard the kid was conceived in sin--don't ask how I know, the gossip mill of DM runs wide and deep. Any case, happy for you. I have some left over maternity clothes/awesome shea butter lotion that you might be interested in? (Totally not implying that you have stretch marks, as that is something a jealous ex might engage in, ha) Keep answering phones like you own the place, Beesley.
*
Pam thinks of a thousand replies, starts at least six. She wants to tell Karen that she's not a receptionist anymore, that she's moved on, up. In the end, all she sends is "That sounds nice, thank you. Maybe we can meet for coffee/tea/water/something kid friendly?" She types her work number, then her cell, as an after thought. "PS I slapped Michael yesterday. He dated my mom, and then dumped her."
After hitting send, not a minute passes before her desk phone rings--without going through Erin--and she picks up. "Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam," she says, without a second thought, the rhythm never having left her.
Karen doesn't ask any questions like "Seriously?" or "You did WHAT?" but merely says, smiling (Pam can tell--that old saying that you can tell when someone is smiling into the phone is true) "Pam Beesley--Halpert--whatever? You are awesome. I absolutely need to hear more."
*
Ty is only eight months, but spending an afternoon watching him, beginning to stand up holding onto tables, crawling all around, and even chattering is exhausting. Pam gets home and sprawls out on the bed, smiling.
"I like this color on you," Jim says, touching her stomach. Neither of them can stop touching her stomach; it's really wonderful, actually.
"New top," Pam breathes, tucking her hands up under her head. "I got a bunch. A friend said she won't need them, at least for awhile." She doesn't ever think that she's lying, because, honestly, why would Jim want to know.
He lies down next to her, kisses her cheek.
*
She tugs off her coat on Monday morning, knowing the movement exposes her body a bit more than she's used to. But Karen's style is different than hers, and this was all that was clean this morning, and didn't require ironing. Ironing is no one's friend.
"Mmmm," Michael cave-man-voices, out from his office. "Pregnancy boobies!" He must immediately realize he's gone too far, because his hands, which were reaching out, retract, and he turns away.
Pam narrows her eyes. "Really, Michael?"
"No, no." He clears his throat. "You're right."
Pam sits at her desk for just as long, in that same awful chair, but her back doesn't hurt when she gets home.
*
"I'm throwing you a shower. You need to have a shower."
Pam blinks. "My mom's doing that, Karen."
"So? We can work together. That's great."
"My mom who I cried to every day when you and Jim were dating?"
Karen smiles, touches Pam's knee. "So it's that mom."
"But if I can get over it than so can she, right? I mean, you do have some good qualities."
"So do you, you know."
She sighs, smiles. Looks at Karen's face--no hint of a joke or lie there--and, despite everything, Pam says, "I know."
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Drabble: There is Nothing Here to Stop Me (Whip It, Bliss/Bloody Holly, PG-13)
There is Nothing Here to Stop Me
I is for Impulse, Whip It, Bliss (Babe Ruthless)/Bloody Holly, for poisonarrows
Holly strips down in the locker room, pealing off her jacket, now slick with sweat. Her breasts are fully visible through the white tank top she still has on, but she keeps that on, along with a pair of boy's underwear, something that Bliss wonders about, quickly stealing a glance, afraid for a moment that her eyes reveal too much of what she's thinking. Which, right now, is a jumble of sensations, mostly, and images: teetering on the edge of obscene (how must those blonde curls smell, feel, now... damp), colliding quickly with almost ridiculously teenage ideas, wondering how HOlly's hair stays so cute, swept up in pigtails, for all of practice, the tiny tendrils pressed to her forehead that she now swipes away with the back of a wrist.
"See something ya like, Ruthless?" And, Christ, Bliss isn't as subtle as she thought, not by a long shot, though to her credit, she shrugs and turns around, starting on her changing routine as though there isn't a half-nude New Zealander staring curiously at her back.
Down to her own shorts and sports bra, Bliss starts to wonder if Holly has moved on; shrugged into another top and snuck out of the room. But there have been no tell-tale sounds of lockers slamming, or movement. Bliss shivers. "I was just curious," she says, anticipating the question, speaking into her open locker, shaking out the pair of jeans she wore in.
"Don't have any equipment you don't, love. Unless you count these arm muscles," Holly replied, laughing. She could have been angry, she could have hip-checked Bliss right then and there, so... this was going pretty well, all things considered. Still, its a good thing she can't see how red in the face Bliss is getting; wouldn't be good for teasing. And its not like she means to be embarrassed.
Halfway into the second leg of her jeans, Bliss turns around, nearly toppling in the process. Holly's watching her, bemused, not about to lift a finger. She still hasn't dressed further than panties and tank top. Bliss swallows. "I was... wondering." She can't force herself to finish the thought, let alone the sentence. Images bubble into her mind of limbs tangling in the back seat of a car, skates tossed in the front, covered in a pile of clothes. Lips against a neck, the release of a long, shaking breath.
Holly tugs the bands out of her hair, shaking the wavy blonde mass loose. "Tell you what, Babe. We win? I'll answer whatever questions you have." She gets up and moves back to her locker, letting Bliss slowly release her held breath. A t-shirt slithers over her head and pulls across Holly's breasts. "Scouts' honor."
She flashes a smile, tugs on a pair of cut-off jean shorts and lets Bliss think on that awhile, still half-in her jeans. After a long minute, Bliss licks her lips, slips her jeans off again and heads back out to the track. A little extra practice never hurt.
I is for Impulse, Whip It, Bliss (Babe Ruthless)/Bloody Holly, for poisonarrows
Holly strips down in the locker room, pealing off her jacket, now slick with sweat. Her breasts are fully visible through the white tank top she still has on, but she keeps that on, along with a pair of boy's underwear, something that Bliss wonders about, quickly stealing a glance, afraid for a moment that her eyes reveal too much of what she's thinking. Which, right now, is a jumble of sensations, mostly, and images: teetering on the edge of obscene (how must those blonde curls smell, feel, now... damp), colliding quickly with almost ridiculously teenage ideas, wondering how HOlly's hair stays so cute, swept up in pigtails, for all of practice, the tiny tendrils pressed to her forehead that she now swipes away with the back of a wrist.
"See something ya like, Ruthless?" And, Christ, Bliss isn't as subtle as she thought, not by a long shot, though to her credit, she shrugs and turns around, starting on her changing routine as though there isn't a half-nude New Zealander staring curiously at her back.
Down to her own shorts and sports bra, Bliss starts to wonder if Holly has moved on; shrugged into another top and snuck out of the room. But there have been no tell-tale sounds of lockers slamming, or movement. Bliss shivers. "I was just curious," she says, anticipating the question, speaking into her open locker, shaking out the pair of jeans she wore in.
"Don't have any equipment you don't, love. Unless you count these arm muscles," Holly replied, laughing. She could have been angry, she could have hip-checked Bliss right then and there, so... this was going pretty well, all things considered. Still, its a good thing she can't see how red in the face Bliss is getting; wouldn't be good for teasing. And its not like she means to be embarrassed.
Halfway into the second leg of her jeans, Bliss turns around, nearly toppling in the process. Holly's watching her, bemused, not about to lift a finger. She still hasn't dressed further than panties and tank top. Bliss swallows. "I was... wondering." She can't force herself to finish the thought, let alone the sentence. Images bubble into her mind of limbs tangling in the back seat of a car, skates tossed in the front, covered in a pile of clothes. Lips against a neck, the release of a long, shaking breath.
Holly tugs the bands out of her hair, shaking the wavy blonde mass loose. "Tell you what, Babe. We win? I'll answer whatever questions you have." She gets up and moves back to her locker, letting Bliss slowly release her held breath. A t-shirt slithers over her head and pulls across Holly's breasts. "Scouts' honor."
She flashes a smile, tugs on a pair of cut-off jean shorts and lets Bliss think on that awhile, still half-in her jeans. After a long minute, Bliss licks her lips, slips her jeans off again and heads back out to the track. A little extra practice never hurt.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Drabble: Cool Change (X-Men, Rogue/Storm, PG)
Title: Cool Change
Author: Aphrodite_mine
Info: X2, Rogue/Storm (hints of Rogue/Logan and Rogue/Bobby), PG. Title is from a CSI episode.
Additional Note: Significantly revised from the (never posted) first version for my Metric Table. Prompt here is "The only way out is to give in" from "Empty"
It wouldn't be Logan who saved her this time, or Bobby if she was realistic with herself. He was along for the ride in more ways than the literal, standing behind her, breathing down her neck in horror but never having enough balls to grab the controls himself. He could never save her. They were too busy lost in their own trouble and try as she might, she couldn't really blame them for it. After all, there was more to the universe than a troubled little girl with hungry skin, and why shouldn't—really—why shouldn't her sworn protector and her boyfriend be allowed a few moments of self-absorption? The term was ironic, she thought in passing as the jet made a backwards swoop upwards and into the open air along the river. She was gripping the steering controls so tightly that her white gloves only belied the skin turning that same shade underneath. This was even scarier than being in that machine with Magneto's hands cupping her face, his life pouring into hers. This was worse because she had been the one to take the wheel, to sit down in Storm's chair and make the decision that even though she had no idea what she was doing, she had to be the one to flip the switches and come to the rescue.
The computer system made alarming noises, and Bobby's tightening grip on her shoulder wasn't helping either. She thinks that she may have screamed, swerving and shooting the Blackbird forward on gusts of air, seeing only her friends and knowing, instinctively, the danger that was to come. Perhaps today she was to be the hero, but that wasn't what was on her mind. She was taken back there—alone in that whirling menace, energy pumping through her, around her… the metal was everywhere and while she could not control what it was doing, she could feel it, feel it slowing killing her. It was taking beyond what she had to give, spreading out and further out and she was losing the feeling in her fingers, they were gripped so tightly around the controls. She looked through the viewscreen with terrified eyes and somehow managed to land the jet abruptly on a bank of snow.
The bars were still whirling, still taking, taking from her when Bobby stepped away and the hatch lowered to let the others on board. A noise behind her and even though this machine is taking everything, she still has the energy to jump at the sound. The Professor and Nightcrawler appearing, but they ignore her. She's still trapped there, watching helplessly as the energy spreads out through the night sky. Helpless to stop what-
A hand on her shoulder. "Rogue, honey. It's okay." Her eyes open into a pair of darker eyes, knowing, deep eyes, a smooth concerned face and a hand to peel her own from the steering wheel. They are all here, most the worse for wear, and Storm holds her and guides her to her seat. It will be okay, she thinks, even though Pyro—John—is gone, and Jean…
Rogue thinks she can save herself now, and when they get home from Washington, its not Logan or Bobby she seeks. She finds those dark, and sometimes all-white eyes and a gentle hand. It's not much, but in those hard days ahead she thinks that they might be able to save each other.
Author: Aphrodite_mine
Info: X2, Rogue/Storm (hints of Rogue/Logan and Rogue/Bobby), PG. Title is from a CSI episode.
Additional Note: Significantly revised from the (never posted) first version for my Metric Table. Prompt here is "The only way out is to give in" from "Empty"
It wouldn't be Logan who saved her this time, or Bobby if she was realistic with herself. He was along for the ride in more ways than the literal, standing behind her, breathing down her neck in horror but never having enough balls to grab the controls himself. He could never save her. They were too busy lost in their own trouble and try as she might, she couldn't really blame them for it. After all, there was more to the universe than a troubled little girl with hungry skin, and why shouldn't—really—why shouldn't her sworn protector and her boyfriend be allowed a few moments of self-absorption? The term was ironic, she thought in passing as the jet made a backwards swoop upwards and into the open air along the river. She was gripping the steering controls so tightly that her white gloves only belied the skin turning that same shade underneath. This was even scarier than being in that machine with Magneto's hands cupping her face, his life pouring into hers. This was worse because she had been the one to take the wheel, to sit down in Storm's chair and make the decision that even though she had no idea what she was doing, she had to be the one to flip the switches and come to the rescue.
The computer system made alarming noises, and Bobby's tightening grip on her shoulder wasn't helping either. She thinks that she may have screamed, swerving and shooting the Blackbird forward on gusts of air, seeing only her friends and knowing, instinctively, the danger that was to come. Perhaps today she was to be the hero, but that wasn't what was on her mind. She was taken back there—alone in that whirling menace, energy pumping through her, around her… the metal was everywhere and while she could not control what it was doing, she could feel it, feel it slowing killing her. It was taking beyond what she had to give, spreading out and further out and she was losing the feeling in her fingers, they were gripped so tightly around the controls. She looked through the viewscreen with terrified eyes and somehow managed to land the jet abruptly on a bank of snow.
The bars were still whirling, still taking, taking from her when Bobby stepped away and the hatch lowered to let the others on board. A noise behind her and even though this machine is taking everything, she still has the energy to jump at the sound. The Professor and Nightcrawler appearing, but they ignore her. She's still trapped there, watching helplessly as the energy spreads out through the night sky. Helpless to stop what-
A hand on her shoulder. "Rogue, honey. It's okay." Her eyes open into a pair of darker eyes, knowing, deep eyes, a smooth concerned face and a hand to peel her own from the steering wheel. They are all here, most the worse for wear, and Storm holds her and guides her to her seat. It will be okay, she thinks, even though Pyro—John—is gone, and Jean…
Rogue thinks she can save herself now, and when they get home from Washington, its not Logan or Bobby she seeks. She finds those dark, and sometimes all-white eyes and a gentle hand. It's not much, but in those hard days ahead she thinks that they might be able to save each other.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Drabble: Landscapes (X-Men, Rogue/Wolverine, R)
Title: Landscapes
Author: Aphrodite_mine
Summary: A bit of seduction. An old prompt, for willowaus and mage_girl, although I don't know if this pairing does it for either of you, it does technically fulfill both requests.
Category: X-Men, Rogue/Wolverine
She is lying in the tub. She is naked, face down, back arched ever-so-slightly. She is in his tub, his shower has a tub and she is lying in it, breathing slowly, when he comes in. He sees the rounded, white cheeks of her ass rising from the water like two gentle swells of land. She is porcelain.
He growls, startled.
"Oh," she says. She makes her expression match his, she knows how to wear it. "Oh, I must have gotten confused. You in my head, you know… and…" She is lying in his tub and lying. She wonders if he can smell her, or if the water numbs his senses.
He rubs at his sideburns, then one sweep over his eyes. He does not even pretend to look away from her.
She likes the way her breasts feel in the water, so naked and weightless. She likes the press of the tub against her belly, just grazing the undersides of her breasts. They are free and gently swaying if she moves the water. She doesn't. She lies still, watching him, sensing his need, knowing the itch in his hands having felt it in her own. She thinks her nipples must be hardening and slides a hand beneath her chest to be sure.
"You shouldn't be here, kid." His voice is gruff. His face is a bit sad.
She thinks it's funny that he is calling her 'kid' when she is laid out before him, naked and glorious, and oh-so-not a kid. She turns to her side, slightly, watching carefully for the moment when the peak of her nipple just begins to break free of the water. "I want you to touch me," she says, her voice coming out louder than she'd planned in her head. She'd wanted to seduce him, gentle, but it comes out more like a command.
He doesn’t look away for a long time, after that.
Author: Aphrodite_mine
Summary: A bit of seduction. An old prompt, for willowaus and mage_girl, although I don't know if this pairing does it for either of you, it does technically fulfill both requests.
Category: X-Men, Rogue/Wolverine
She is lying in the tub. She is naked, face down, back arched ever-so-slightly. She is in his tub, his shower has a tub and she is lying in it, breathing slowly, when he comes in. He sees the rounded, white cheeks of her ass rising from the water like two gentle swells of land. She is porcelain.
He growls, startled.
"Oh," she says. She makes her expression match his, she knows how to wear it. "Oh, I must have gotten confused. You in my head, you know… and…" She is lying in his tub and lying. She wonders if he can smell her, or if the water numbs his senses.
He rubs at his sideburns, then one sweep over his eyes. He does not even pretend to look away from her.
She likes the way her breasts feel in the water, so naked and weightless. She likes the press of the tub against her belly, just grazing the undersides of her breasts. They are free and gently swaying if she moves the water. She doesn't. She lies still, watching him, sensing his need, knowing the itch in his hands having felt it in her own. She thinks her nipples must be hardening and slides a hand beneath her chest to be sure.
"You shouldn't be here, kid." His voice is gruff. His face is a bit sad.
She thinks it's funny that he is calling her 'kid' when she is laid out before him, naked and glorious, and oh-so-not a kid. She turns to her side, slightly, watching carefully for the moment when the peak of her nipple just begins to break free of the water. "I want you to touch me," she says, her voice coming out louder than she'd planned in her head. She'd wanted to seduce him, gentle, but it comes out more like a command.
He doesn’t look away for a long time, after that.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Fic: All I Ever Wanted (Skins/Trans-verse, Katie/Naomi, PG-13)
All I Ever Wanted
[Z is for Zoo/zeal?, Katie/Naomi, Skins/Trans, for curt_tone; get well soon, S!]
Katie sighs like she's lost something, and when she speaks, you realize that in all probability, she has. That the mumbled conversation you and James have been avoiding for weeks has probably been exhausting for no other reason than that she makes them so, but you love her, so you'll comfort her. And it will be alright. "They're bringing the girls here for vacation," she says into your neck, tucking against your body, pulling her legs up into your lap.
"And?" you suggest, knowing her too well. The girls have stayed before, for nights and weekends, with and without their mothers (and if you're honest, its the latter that are the more stressful events).
"And the dogs," Katie dead-pans, pulling back, and sighs. "Don't even bother giving me that look, I'm well aware what I've been talked into, but we haven't seen them in ages, and we definitely owe them this favor and besides, the kennels are massively expensive this time of year." You're not certain what look you're meant to be giving, but it quickly dissolves into a gentle smile.
You poke Katie in the side. "She gave you an earful, didn't she?"
"Just a bit. I'm honestly a bit shocked Effy hasn't gotten my sister on some sort of medication. I believe she's going senile at a young age."
You draw a quick shape on Katie's thigh with your fingertip, smudge it out. "Are you certain it doesn't run in the family?"
+
"Good evening, Aunt Naomi, say good evening Alice. Alice packed her own bag for the week, but Mum was quite appalled at the state of things, and told Mumsy to fix a quick dinner whilst she fixed us up, sis and I. And Alice wasn't too happy about leaving behind her ballet costume, were you Alice? There was quite a crying fit if you ask me, but between the three of us we calmed her down and well, Aunt Naomi, here we are. Where's Aunt Katie and Cousin Jimmy? Mum said he's got a new gaming system he'd let me have a go at."
In the door--pushing her little sister in front of her like a gift--Lota introduces herself in a single breath, not pausing for replies or answers, slinging her backpack and duffel in the hallway, kicking off her mary janes, and dashes up the stairs. She's comfortable enough in the house that she knows her way. Even has a room of her own--her's an Alice's--designated for visits. You've almost forgotten what it's like to be around someone this young, or this... loud. Alice is a bit different, slinking back towards the door frame and lurking back to watch after "Mum and Mumsy" (neither of which are titles you managed to acquire, you think, relieved) heft the dogs from the car.
Katie's out of the bathroom, still drying her hands together. "I thought I heard--"
"Look, Alli, Aunt Katie's here as well. We'll have a mad time this week, the lot of us."
Over the doggy noises, suddenly there are four grown-up bodies at the door talking at once: "You've got my email, Katie?"
"No nuts--absolutely no nuts."
"Christ, you'd think I was half-imbecile."
"They sleep outside, right?" You reach for Fred's leash--not moving as fast as he used to, but still wagging his tail--and when the twins, and a very maternal Stonem stare you down for roughly the equivalent of the time it takes to take a few steps back, you kneel in front of Alice, dwarfed by the adults, and tweak her chin. "If your mums and your aunt had any sense of humor, they'd know I meant the dogs."
Katie is first to crack a smile, and you sigh, knowing you've got to run the dogs out back while she sorts out the details.
"Aunt Katie," you hear, sliding open the back door, "Jim isn't sharing the controller! I'm the guest!"
And a minute later the tell-tale sounds of Alice gearing up for a good cry.
+
The girls are in bed--Alice out cold, breathing from her mouth and curled on her side, arms squeezed around the pillow, Lota still tossing, sighing occasionally. You've told Jimmy goodnight, "Ten more minutes, okay?" pressed a kiss to his forehead, fluffed his hair back.
"Apparently," Katie says, when you step down the stairs, trying to avoid the creeks, "that brother of Effy's would like to take Jim for a trip. During school recess, perhaps. Says Jim's been raving to him about adventure and exploring--they share emails, you know."
You do, a little; that Jimmy grins at dinner when he's had an email from Uncle Tony, that they keep in correspondence, that she and Katie've talked about it, and despite all the bullshit in the world, it's simply nice for Jim to have a friend, and right, maybe a role model thrown in.
"What sort of a trip?" You're not sure of the right question to ask.
"I blame you entirely." The words are harsh, but Katie is smiling, and she gets up, comes towards you, touches your face. "In fact, I don't think I can tolerate you putting the idea that we need a vacation--fucking--privacy into our son's head. It's incredibly rude."
Your eyes slip closed and you lean into her. "But that's why you keep me around, remember?"
[Z is for Zoo/zeal?, Katie/Naomi, Skins/Trans, for curt_tone; get well soon, S!]
Katie sighs like she's lost something, and when she speaks, you realize that in all probability, she has. That the mumbled conversation you and James have been avoiding for weeks has probably been exhausting for no other reason than that she makes them so, but you love her, so you'll comfort her. And it will be alright. "They're bringing the girls here for vacation," she says into your neck, tucking against your body, pulling her legs up into your lap.
"And?" you suggest, knowing her too well. The girls have stayed before, for nights and weekends, with and without their mothers (and if you're honest, its the latter that are the more stressful events).
"And the dogs," Katie dead-pans, pulling back, and sighs. "Don't even bother giving me that look, I'm well aware what I've been talked into, but we haven't seen them in ages, and we definitely owe them this favor and besides, the kennels are massively expensive this time of year." You're not certain what look you're meant to be giving, but it quickly dissolves into a gentle smile.
You poke Katie in the side. "She gave you an earful, didn't she?"
"Just a bit. I'm honestly a bit shocked Effy hasn't gotten my sister on some sort of medication. I believe she's going senile at a young age."
You draw a quick shape on Katie's thigh with your fingertip, smudge it out. "Are you certain it doesn't run in the family?"
+
"Good evening, Aunt Naomi, say good evening Alice. Alice packed her own bag for the week, but Mum was quite appalled at the state of things, and told Mumsy to fix a quick dinner whilst she fixed us up, sis and I. And Alice wasn't too happy about leaving behind her ballet costume, were you Alice? There was quite a crying fit if you ask me, but between the three of us we calmed her down and well, Aunt Naomi, here we are. Where's Aunt Katie and Cousin Jimmy? Mum said he's got a new gaming system he'd let me have a go at."
In the door--pushing her little sister in front of her like a gift--Lota introduces herself in a single breath, not pausing for replies or answers, slinging her backpack and duffel in the hallway, kicking off her mary janes, and dashes up the stairs. She's comfortable enough in the house that she knows her way. Even has a room of her own--her's an Alice's--designated for visits. You've almost forgotten what it's like to be around someone this young, or this... loud. Alice is a bit different, slinking back towards the door frame and lurking back to watch after "Mum and Mumsy" (neither of which are titles you managed to acquire, you think, relieved) heft the dogs from the car.
Katie's out of the bathroom, still drying her hands together. "I thought I heard--"
"Look, Alli, Aunt Katie's here as well. We'll have a mad time this week, the lot of us."
Over the doggy noises, suddenly there are four grown-up bodies at the door talking at once: "You've got my email, Katie?"
"No nuts--absolutely no nuts."
"Christ, you'd think I was half-imbecile."
"They sleep outside, right?" You reach for Fred's leash--not moving as fast as he used to, but still wagging his tail--and when the twins, and a very maternal Stonem stare you down for roughly the equivalent of the time it takes to take a few steps back, you kneel in front of Alice, dwarfed by the adults, and tweak her chin. "If your mums and your aunt had any sense of humor, they'd know I meant the dogs."
Katie is first to crack a smile, and you sigh, knowing you've got to run the dogs out back while she sorts out the details.
"Aunt Katie," you hear, sliding open the back door, "Jim isn't sharing the controller! I'm the guest!"
And a minute later the tell-tale sounds of Alice gearing up for a good cry.
+
The girls are in bed--Alice out cold, breathing from her mouth and curled on her side, arms squeezed around the pillow, Lota still tossing, sighing occasionally. You've told Jimmy goodnight, "Ten more minutes, okay?" pressed a kiss to his forehead, fluffed his hair back.
"Apparently," Katie says, when you step down the stairs, trying to avoid the creeks, "that brother of Effy's would like to take Jim for a trip. During school recess, perhaps. Says Jim's been raving to him about adventure and exploring--they share emails, you know."
You do, a little; that Jimmy grins at dinner when he's had an email from Uncle Tony, that they keep in correspondence, that she and Katie've talked about it, and despite all the bullshit in the world, it's simply nice for Jim to have a friend, and right, maybe a role model thrown in.
"What sort of a trip?" You're not sure of the right question to ask.
"I blame you entirely." The words are harsh, but Katie is smiling, and she gets up, comes towards you, touches your face. "In fact, I don't think I can tolerate you putting the idea that we need a vacation--fucking--privacy into our son's head. It's incredibly rude."
Your eyes slip closed and you lean into her. "But that's why you keep me around, remember?"
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Drabble: ch-ch... (Degrassi, Mia/Ellie, PG)
Drabble: ch-ch...
Info: [Q is for Quit, Degrassi, Mia/Ellie season 3, for fishy73]
Everyone at Lakehurst knows that Ellie's mom isn't together, and her dad isn't there anymore to take care of things. Not everyone was there to witness Ellie's breakdown, the revelation of the angry marks on her arms and the principal escorting her to the nurse (for what? What was Ms. Hollerman supposed to do?) but they sure heard about it.
It's possible, probable even, that Mia still has the text message from Lucas about "the emo freak" who was totally going to be put to sleep. "Hell," he'd told her the next day, "If she wants to die so bad, someone should just put her out of her misery. I don't know why we all get off on suicide prevention. Everyone would be a lot happier if people like her weren't around."
And she didn't know it then, but maybe in the weeks to come Mia starts to understand that Ellie doesn't want to die, because she still comes to school, snapping a rubberband around her wrist, adding deeper shades of black to her wardrobe. She's late; starts having dreams about blood. Ellie offering her a steak knife, saying "Here's an easy way to find out."
The day she gets the pink plus sign, Ellie doesn't show up, and the day after either.
Mia's throat closes up anytime she tries to tell anyone, even though she feels swollen with knowledge, with lies. She comes home from gymnastics and digs through a pile of papers, knowing it has to be here. The school registry; Ellie's number.
"I transferred schools."
"I'm going to have a baby."
Info: [Q is for Quit, Degrassi, Mia/Ellie season 3, for fishy73]
Everyone at Lakehurst knows that Ellie's mom isn't together, and her dad isn't there anymore to take care of things. Not everyone was there to witness Ellie's breakdown, the revelation of the angry marks on her arms and the principal escorting her to the nurse (for what? What was Ms. Hollerman supposed to do?) but they sure heard about it.
It's possible, probable even, that Mia still has the text message from Lucas about "the emo freak" who was totally going to be put to sleep. "Hell," he'd told her the next day, "If she wants to die so bad, someone should just put her out of her misery. I don't know why we all get off on suicide prevention. Everyone would be a lot happier if people like her weren't around."
And she didn't know it then, but maybe in the weeks to come Mia starts to understand that Ellie doesn't want to die, because she still comes to school, snapping a rubberband around her wrist, adding deeper shades of black to her wardrobe. She's late; starts having dreams about blood. Ellie offering her a steak knife, saying "Here's an easy way to find out."
The day she gets the pink plus sign, Ellie doesn't show up, and the day after either.
Mia's throat closes up anytime she tries to tell anyone, even though she feels swollen with knowledge, with lies. She comes home from gymnastics and digs through a pile of papers, knowing it has to be here. The school registry; Ellie's number.
"I transferred schools."
"I'm going to have a baby."
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Drabble: Orbital decay (Skins, Effy/Naomi, PG)
Drabble: Orbital decay
by aphrodite_mine
Effy/Naomi; blue; midnight, for B
200 words
A series of definitions arise through what she lacks: 1) Naomi has no father (figure), fashion sense, free time. 2) She isn’t gay, isn’t straight, isn’t bi, isn’t pansexual, whatever-the-fuck that entails, and no, she really would rather you toss off than try and figure it out. 3) She isn’t dating Emily, or any other clingy redhead. She isn’t dating anyone, isn’t interested.
They’re hardly an identifiable as a group anymore, everyone applied to a simple label. Simple enough, at least. Emily is the lesbian, Katie the slut. Freddie the stoner, JJ the mental case. Cook is crazy, Pandora is useless, Thomas is nice, simple. Maybe there’s more, maybe not. When people break up, so do friendships, and Naomi never expected to gain anything from losing her heart.
Effy is the only other who isn’t.
It troubles Naomi, sometimes. Not that she doesn’t know who Effy is; she likes that, almost, but that they’re both alone, both circling. She might ask JJ about orbits and collisions, but doesn’t. She knows that Effy isn’t 1) a friend, friendly, focused. 2) In love, seeking love, seeking anything.
Naomi pictures them as masses of nothing, instead, hurtling dark and light, around the earth.
by aphrodite_mine
Effy/Naomi; blue; midnight, for B
200 words
A series of definitions arise through what she lacks: 1) Naomi has no father (figure), fashion sense, free time. 2) She isn’t gay, isn’t straight, isn’t bi, isn’t pansexual, whatever-the-fuck that entails, and no, she really would rather you toss off than try and figure it out. 3) She isn’t dating Emily, or any other clingy redhead. She isn’t dating anyone, isn’t interested.
They’re hardly an identifiable as a group anymore, everyone applied to a simple label. Simple enough, at least. Emily is the lesbian, Katie the slut. Freddie the stoner, JJ the mental case. Cook is crazy, Pandora is useless, Thomas is nice, simple. Maybe there’s more, maybe not. When people break up, so do friendships, and Naomi never expected to gain anything from losing her heart.
Effy is the only other who isn’t.
It troubles Naomi, sometimes. Not that she doesn’t know who Effy is; she likes that, almost, but that they’re both alone, both circling. She might ask JJ about orbits and collisions, but doesn’t. She knows that Effy isn’t 1) a friend, friendly, focused. 2) In love, seeking love, seeking anything.
Naomi pictures them as masses of nothing, instead, hurtling dark and light, around the earth.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Drabble: I'll be a saint (Degrassi, Jane/Darcy, PG-13)
Drabble: I'll be a saint
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: S is for Sneaking Out, Degrassi, Jane/Darcy, for velvet_talon
Jane can't help staring at the phone for a moment before answering. No way is Darcy calling her from Africa; no way is Darcy calling her at all. Maybe by some freak accident someone got her cell number and that someone just happens to be calling Jane at seven thirty two on a Friday night. On a Friday night that Jane happens to be spending staring at old photo albums, wondering why she's such a freak.
She answers anyway.
"Um, hey. Is this Jane?"
"This is."
A release of breath. "It's Darcy, hey."
"Um... why are you calling me."
"Didn't you hear? I'm back. I'm in Toronto."
"That still doesn't explain why I'm talking to you right now."
Darcy sighs. "Look, Jane, don't say anything, but Spinner and I talked yesterday."
"Wha--"
"Just listen for a minute, okay?" She takes a breath. "He told me about what happened."
"I don't know what he said, but Spin has no right to--"
"Jane, he told me about your dad, and when you were little."
She's quiet, trying to understand what she feels, hearing the words through the phone. "He didn't have the right."
"No. He didn't."
Jane closes the photo album and closes her eyes. "Why did you call me, Darcy?" She swallows and hates herself when tears come to her eyes.
"You won't feel like this forever, okay? It won't always be like this. Like everyone can see; like you're wearing a stain. You won't always feel trapped. You won't always feel crazy." Her voice sounds earnest. Jane doesn't know if she's ever heard Darcy sound so real.
She wants to laugh but it comes out harder; wet.
When Darcy speaks again, her voice is quieter. "Do you want to get out of the house? Mom's letting me borrow the car for the night."
Jane won't be able to explain this to herself in the morning. But, she thinks, she won't have to. "Yeah," she says. "I do."
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: S is for Sneaking Out, Degrassi, Jane/Darcy, for velvet_talon
Jane can't help staring at the phone for a moment before answering. No way is Darcy calling her from Africa; no way is Darcy calling her at all. Maybe by some freak accident someone got her cell number and that someone just happens to be calling Jane at seven thirty two on a Friday night. On a Friday night that Jane happens to be spending staring at old photo albums, wondering why she's such a freak.
She answers anyway.
"Um, hey. Is this Jane?"
"This is."
A release of breath. "It's Darcy, hey."
"Um... why are you calling me."
"Didn't you hear? I'm back. I'm in Toronto."
"That still doesn't explain why I'm talking to you right now."
Darcy sighs. "Look, Jane, don't say anything, but Spinner and I talked yesterday."
"Wha--"
"Just listen for a minute, okay?" She takes a breath. "He told me about what happened."
"I don't know what he said, but Spin has no right to--"
"Jane, he told me about your dad, and when you were little."
She's quiet, trying to understand what she feels, hearing the words through the phone. "He didn't have the right."
"No. He didn't."
Jane closes the photo album and closes her eyes. "Why did you call me, Darcy?" She swallows and hates herself when tears come to her eyes.
"You won't feel like this forever, okay? It won't always be like this. Like everyone can see; like you're wearing a stain. You won't always feel trapped. You won't always feel crazy." Her voice sounds earnest. Jane doesn't know if she's ever heard Darcy sound so real.
She wants to laugh but it comes out harder; wet.
When Darcy speaks again, her voice is quieter. "Do you want to get out of the house? Mom's letting me borrow the car for the night."
Jane won't be able to explain this to herself in the morning. But, she thinks, she won't have to. "Yeah," she says. "I do."
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Drabble: just a kiss (Skins RPF, Nick/Kaya, PG-13)
Drabble: just a kiss
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: E is for Ecstasy, Skins RPF, Nick/Kaya, for xthe_ingenue
Nick doesn't too often think about the fact that she's quite a bit younger. Age, after all, goes into the category of things he'd rather not ponder, along side "hey, you're the wee chap from About A Boy; how's it feel to be the one real name in Skins?" and possibly, maybe, according to his girlfriend, internalising Tony Stonem a bit too completely.
The end result of all this avoidance is that Kaya Scodelario comes drinking with the rest of the cast and Nick is proclaimed an asshole.
*
And in truth, that may not be the real end result at all, because if Nick has learned anything from Skins, its that drinking does a lot more starting of shit than ending of it. During the course of the night, he gets asked for his autograph twice, flashed, punched in the arm by Bailey--sure to leave a mean bruise that he'll have to explain in the morning (why they go out when they have to work in the morning is a mystery no one knows the answer to)--and kissed just once.
It is a kiss that he'll remember the next day, sitting across from Kaya at the Stonem's dinner table, making faces and acting altogether brotherly. It is a kiss that he'll remember well into the night, wondering if she is simply trying to catch him off his guard, or just being Kaya.
*
He's quite sure that no one saw them duck into the alley, press against brick and sigh together; her small body tight against his. She laughed into the night, and he was quiet, for once.
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: E is for Ecstasy, Skins RPF, Nick/Kaya, for xthe_ingenue
Nick doesn't too often think about the fact that she's quite a bit younger. Age, after all, goes into the category of things he'd rather not ponder, along side "hey, you're the wee chap from About A Boy; how's it feel to be the one real name in Skins?" and possibly, maybe, according to his girlfriend, internalising Tony Stonem a bit too completely.
The end result of all this avoidance is that Kaya Scodelario comes drinking with the rest of the cast and Nick is proclaimed an asshole.
*
And in truth, that may not be the real end result at all, because if Nick has learned anything from Skins, its that drinking does a lot more starting of shit than ending of it. During the course of the night, he gets asked for his autograph twice, flashed, punched in the arm by Bailey--sure to leave a mean bruise that he'll have to explain in the morning (why they go out when they have to work in the morning is a mystery no one knows the answer to)--and kissed just once.
It is a kiss that he'll remember the next day, sitting across from Kaya at the Stonem's dinner table, making faces and acting altogether brotherly. It is a kiss that he'll remember well into the night, wondering if she is simply trying to catch him off his guard, or just being Kaya.
*
He's quite sure that no one saw them duck into the alley, press against brick and sigh together; her small body tight against his. She laughed into the night, and he was quiet, for once.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Drabble: Close (Alias, Lauren/Sark, R)
Title: Close
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: L is for Love, Alias, Lauren Reed/Sark, R. For distractedone. Spoilers for season 3.
--
It's power, plain and simple. How she feels, in various states of undress, around him.
"Come on, now, don't keep a gentleman waiting."
She is aware of her lips curving, the way her body blocks the single lamp, casting shadows on the opposite wall. She twists, turns, tugs panties down. Black.
"I wasn't aware that you were a gentleman, Mr. Sark."
His hands are in turns rough, hard, cautious.
Fingers tight around his throat, Lauren waits until his every sinew is pulled tight. Releases. She thinks, imagining the face of her husband with some difficulty, that this is the closest thing to love that she's ever felt.
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: L is for Love, Alias, Lauren Reed/Sark, R. For distractedone. Spoilers for season 3.
--
It's power, plain and simple. How she feels, in various states of undress, around him.
"Come on, now, don't keep a gentleman waiting."
She is aware of her lips curving, the way her body blocks the single lamp, casting shadows on the opposite wall. She twists, turns, tugs panties down. Black.
"I wasn't aware that you were a gentleman, Mr. Sark."
His hands are in turns rough, hard, cautious.
Fingers tight around his throat, Lauren waits until his every sinew is pulled tight. Releases. She thinks, imagining the face of her husband with some difficulty, that this is the closest thing to love that she's ever felt.
FIC: Until We Bleed (Transatlanticism/Skins, Emily/Effy, PG-13)
Title: Until We Bleed
Author: Aphrodite_mine
Info: Emily/Effy, Sivi’s Transatlanticism Skins-verse, PG-13 [Spoiler note: takes place during Trans 2 aka Either/Or. You should read that before reading this.]
--
There is a point, Emily thinks, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, when she’s going to have to accept this.
*
Tuesday afternoon. There are papers to grade and lessons to plan. The hour changes from seven to nine seventeen before Emily moves, before she registers the weight of the pen in her hand.
Effy clears her throat—rather, a throat clears, and the noise can only be attributed to Effy because they are alone. Clearly alone—from the kitchen doorway, leans in to the living room. “I’m making pasta. Want to help me so I don’t give myself food poisoning?”
Everything moves underwater.
Emily shakes her head. She’ll eat a few bites, later, when it’s cold, when Effy takes the papers from her hands and holds the fork in front of her. She’ll wish for food poisoning, just so something might explain away the darkness under her eyes and the pain in her belly.
*
It’s okay for Effy to hang up the phone when Emily enters the room, for Effy to be silent, for Effy to be evasive. Effy is Effy.
Effy, who swallowed darkness every day of her teenage years, and broke down silent time and again, laughs into the receiver and whispers secrets that Emily isn’t supposed to hear.
They don’t know how to speak anymore; not when Effy talks through bright colors and black and white and grays and comes from the darkroom with red-rimmed eyes but nothing to say. Not when all Emily knows to do is make red marks on papers, to put them down when the words run together.
*
“We can’t do this anymore.”
“We can. We will.”
*
In the morning, there are fresh papers on top of her school bag. “What’s this?” she asks Effy, not even bothering to pick them up or look at the stack beyond a cursory glance.
Effy breathes in her third cup of coffee. “Options,” she answers, and doesn’t look back up.
Emily’s hand shakes over the pot. “Fuck you.”
*
She’s packing up for morning class when Effy ambushes her with words.
“Just look it over, Emily. I’ve been talking to Naomi, and she has some connections, and I don’t fully understand the process, but.”
A blink. “So Naomi’s involved now. Perhaps she, or my sister would donate their functional ovaries to our cause and save the paperwork.”
A look. Emily can’t read Effy’s eyes anymore. Maybe she doesn’t want to. “Of course, Emily. That’s what this is about.”
Silence again. Emily dismisses class early when she breaks down reading Wordsworth aloud.
*
It’s there again, staring her in the face, when she gets home.
Tucked into the first stapled packet is a piece of notebook paper written on in Naomi’s familiar handwriting. Hope this helps, Stonem. There’s a branch I’m vaguely familiar with that actually runs a website with names and photos and everything. Eases the process, I guess. Good luck.
Emily turns a page, stares the word adoption down.
Her stomach flips, but she keeps going.
*
Somewhere on page 32 it stops feeling like giving up and starts feeling like starting again.
*
Faces scroll past and she reads on.
Each name, she whispers quietly to herself, allowing, maybe, the hint of aural memory to take root and bloom.
*
There is a girl. Blue, blue eyes, the equal to which Emily has only seen on one other. Wispy brown hair over slightly pointed ears. She likes to laugh the description says.
She says the name--Lota Maria Lota Maria Lota Maria--over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer. Emily finds the words pour out of her, her tongue helpless to do anything but curl around the sounds. They pour out of her like sugar and honey.
The door slams and she startles, doesn’t want to stop, but the sounds quit, caught in her throat. She doesn’t know it, but she’s crying, mouthing the name. The computer screen is bright. Emily forgot to turn on a light.
Effy doesn’t say a word. She comes behind Emily and wraps her up like a blanket, an envelope. After a minute, Emily can feel the breath coming in regular intervals against her neck and Effy’s lips moving: “Lota.”
It’s barely a whisper, but they hear.
*
On the third visit and more paperwork than Emily’s seen in her entire life, Lota recognizes them. She waves, abandons her block tower, smiles.
“Hi,” says Effy.
“Hello,” says Emily, breathing easy despite the tears in her eyes.
Morning has barely begun.
Author: Aphrodite_mine
Info: Emily/Effy, Sivi’s Transatlanticism Skins-verse, PG-13 [Spoiler note: takes place during Trans 2 aka Either/Or. You should read that before reading this.]
--
There is a point, Emily thinks, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, when she’s going to have to accept this.
*
Tuesday afternoon. There are papers to grade and lessons to plan. The hour changes from seven to nine seventeen before Emily moves, before she registers the weight of the pen in her hand.
Effy clears her throat—rather, a throat clears, and the noise can only be attributed to Effy because they are alone. Clearly alone—from the kitchen doorway, leans in to the living room. “I’m making pasta. Want to help me so I don’t give myself food poisoning?”
Everything moves underwater.
Emily shakes her head. She’ll eat a few bites, later, when it’s cold, when Effy takes the papers from her hands and holds the fork in front of her. She’ll wish for food poisoning, just so something might explain away the darkness under her eyes and the pain in her belly.
*
It’s okay for Effy to hang up the phone when Emily enters the room, for Effy to be silent, for Effy to be evasive. Effy is Effy.
Effy, who swallowed darkness every day of her teenage years, and broke down silent time and again, laughs into the receiver and whispers secrets that Emily isn’t supposed to hear.
They don’t know how to speak anymore; not when Effy talks through bright colors and black and white and grays and comes from the darkroom with red-rimmed eyes but nothing to say. Not when all Emily knows to do is make red marks on papers, to put them down when the words run together.
*
“We can’t do this anymore.”
“We can. We will.”
*
In the morning, there are fresh papers on top of her school bag. “What’s this?” she asks Effy, not even bothering to pick them up or look at the stack beyond a cursory glance.
Effy breathes in her third cup of coffee. “Options,” she answers, and doesn’t look back up.
Emily’s hand shakes over the pot. “Fuck you.”
*
She’s packing up for morning class when Effy ambushes her with words.
“Just look it over, Emily. I’ve been talking to Naomi, and she has some connections, and I don’t fully understand the process, but.”
A blink. “So Naomi’s involved now. Perhaps she, or my sister would donate their functional ovaries to our cause and save the paperwork.”
A look. Emily can’t read Effy’s eyes anymore. Maybe she doesn’t want to. “Of course, Emily. That’s what this is about.”
Silence again. Emily dismisses class early when she breaks down reading Wordsworth aloud.
*
It’s there again, staring her in the face, when she gets home.
Tucked into the first stapled packet is a piece of notebook paper written on in Naomi’s familiar handwriting. Hope this helps, Stonem. There’s a branch I’m vaguely familiar with that actually runs a website with names and photos and everything. Eases the process, I guess. Good luck.
Emily turns a page, stares the word adoption down.
Her stomach flips, but she keeps going.
*
Somewhere on page 32 it stops feeling like giving up and starts feeling like starting again.
*
Faces scroll past and she reads on.
Each name, she whispers quietly to herself, allowing, maybe, the hint of aural memory to take root and bloom.
*
There is a girl. Blue, blue eyes, the equal to which Emily has only seen on one other. Wispy brown hair over slightly pointed ears. She likes to laugh the description says.
She says the name--Lota Maria Lota Maria Lota Maria--over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer. Emily finds the words pour out of her, her tongue helpless to do anything but curl around the sounds. They pour out of her like sugar and honey.
The door slams and she startles, doesn’t want to stop, but the sounds quit, caught in her throat. She doesn’t know it, but she’s crying, mouthing the name. The computer screen is bright. Emily forgot to turn on a light.
Effy doesn’t say a word. She comes behind Emily and wraps her up like a blanket, an envelope. After a minute, Emily can feel the breath coming in regular intervals against her neck and Effy’s lips moving: “Lota.”
It’s barely a whisper, but they hear.
*
On the third visit and more paperwork than Emily’s seen in her entire life, Lota recognizes them. She waves, abandons her block tower, smiles.
“Hi,” says Effy.
“Hello,” says Emily, breathing easy despite the tears in her eyes.
Morning has barely begun.
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