Post by Kit on Mar 30, 2011 23:07:18 GMT 10
Title: In the clear air [2]
Rating: G
Word Count: 238
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Crane and Lark consider tomato plants.
They had stayed quiet, for the most part. Crane’s instructions were simple and precise, Lark finding a rhythm in sorting and sifting, transplanting and, despite her protests, some gentle grafting, though a laugh was startled from the dour man as fine, curling tendrils from tomato plants stuck to her skin; fast as the most disobedient of wool.
“It’s not your magic,” he said. “They simply persist, that way.” Fingers deft, he took one pale green, spice-scented tip and peeled it away from her, tutting as if to a disobedient child.
“Trust her plants to be wilful.”
“You’re not allowed to steal one for the greenhouse,” she told him. “She’d never forgive me.”
Crane sniffed, eyebrows raised and superior. “Lark, that’s hardly—”
“—has she forgiven you?”
Another laugh, sharp and surprised. “Witch.”
“Besides.” Lark smirked, tying the plant, warm and alive and briefly tamed, to its stake with a knot she’d learnt from an Aliput seamstress. “She gave you one, remember? An exchange?”
“A petty cousin to blackmail!”
“Even so. Have you made it grow?”
“If she continues to take this long to return,” he said, loftiness lost in the soft, wistful gloom of the space and Lark’s worried eyes, “I shall have propagated a new species. Without her help.”
Lark pretended not to see as Crane stroked the plant again. His fingertips were gentle on the leaves, and his face briefly flushed with something that was not offended dignity.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: G
Word Count: 238
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: Crane and Lark consider tomato plants.
They had stayed quiet, for the most part. Crane’s instructions were simple and precise, Lark finding a rhythm in sorting and sifting, transplanting and, despite her protests, some gentle grafting, though a laugh was startled from the dour man as fine, curling tendrils from tomato plants stuck to her skin; fast as the most disobedient of wool.
“It’s not your magic,” he said. “They simply persist, that way.” Fingers deft, he took one pale green, spice-scented tip and peeled it away from her, tutting as if to a disobedient child.
“Trust her plants to be wilful.”
“You’re not allowed to steal one for the greenhouse,” she told him. “She’d never forgive me.”
Crane sniffed, eyebrows raised and superior. “Lark, that’s hardly—”
“—has she forgiven you?”
Another laugh, sharp and surprised. “Witch.”
“Besides.” Lark smirked, tying the plant, warm and alive and briefly tamed, to its stake with a knot she’d learnt from an Aliput seamstress. “She gave you one, remember? An exchange?”
“A petty cousin to blackmail!”
“Even so. Have you made it grow?”
“If she continues to take this long to return,” he said, loftiness lost in the soft, wistful gloom of the space and Lark’s worried eyes, “I shall have propagated a new species. Without her help.”
Lark pretended not to see as Crane stroked the plant again. His fingertips were gentle on the leaves, and his face briefly flushed with something that was not offended dignity.
QC by: journeycat