Post by Kit on Apr 1, 2011 13:10:10 GMT 10
Title: In the clear air [3]
Rating: G
Word count: 313
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round: 1/F
Summary: They both extend themselves.
The tomato plants were restrained, and new herbs laid down. Lark tried to think of their roots weaving through the earth. She saw skeins of them, caught over stones and unravelling to force greater distance. Newness. She shook her head.
“Trying to think it out in thread metaphor?”
She laughed, surprised, as Crane eased his back, eyes never quite resting on her face. “How did you know?”
“You’ve been making a basket weave out of the weeds. You’re all over dandelion stains.”
Lark looked at her hands. Blossom fragments had stuck to her skin, a shade of yellow halfway between Crane’s Air Dedicate hues and Trangshi dye, with white fluid dried to a cracking shell. Her nailbeds were black. And there was a woven mat at her feet. She hadn’t even noticed. For a few hours, she had not even thought.
“Stay for dinner,” she said, soft and sudden.
“With all those infants?” Crane wrinkled his nose.
“Please.”
“Lark—”
“—you know, I was always careful never to ask,” she said, words low and fast. One dirty, dry hand was at her throat and she did not remember how it came to be there. Her body, her arms, felt none of it. “Not that it was unclear how you had loved each other. How you still did. I have done my best to learn you.”
Crane shifted, finally looking at the still kneeling woman. “Your forbearance,” he told her, “Has always been one of your more infuriating aspects.”
She grinned, and then her face settled again into its thin, fine, searching look. “I want you to tell me about her,” she said. “Share what stories you can. I think we both need it.”
Crane reached down, and took her gently by the shoulders to help her to her feet. He was slow, precise, and careful never to touch her filthy hands.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: G
Word count: 313
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round: 1/F
Summary: They both extend themselves.
The tomato plants were restrained, and new herbs laid down. Lark tried to think of their roots weaving through the earth. She saw skeins of them, caught over stones and unravelling to force greater distance. Newness. She shook her head.
“Trying to think it out in thread metaphor?”
She laughed, surprised, as Crane eased his back, eyes never quite resting on her face. “How did you know?”
“You’ve been making a basket weave out of the weeds. You’re all over dandelion stains.”
Lark looked at her hands. Blossom fragments had stuck to her skin, a shade of yellow halfway between Crane’s Air Dedicate hues and Trangshi dye, with white fluid dried to a cracking shell. Her nailbeds were black. And there was a woven mat at her feet. She hadn’t even noticed. For a few hours, she had not even thought.
“Stay for dinner,” she said, soft and sudden.
“With all those infants?” Crane wrinkled his nose.
“Please.”
“Lark—”
“—you know, I was always careful never to ask,” she said, words low and fast. One dirty, dry hand was at her throat and she did not remember how it came to be there. Her body, her arms, felt none of it. “Not that it was unclear how you had loved each other. How you still did. I have done my best to learn you.”
Crane shifted, finally looking at the still kneeling woman. “Your forbearance,” he told her, “Has always been one of your more infuriating aspects.”
She grinned, and then her face settled again into its thin, fine, searching look. “I want you to tell me about her,” she said. “Share what stories you can. I think we both need it.”
Crane reached down, and took her gently by the shoulders to help her to her feet. He was slow, precise, and careful never to touch her filthy hands.
QC by: journeycat