Post by Kit on Mar 29, 2011 23:01:46 GMT 10
Title: Words
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 457
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: People sometimes need to be cruel, while they recover.
Lark had left the workroom, straight-backed and silent, though Rosethorn tormented herself imagining what might happen as soon as she had passed out of sight of the door, of other people. She saw the slump of Lark’s shoulders, the slow rise of hands to her face. Coloured it all with the small sound—the low, sad exhalation that, in Lark, meant true anger and no words.
To Rosethorn, anger always came with words. Even now. Why did you do that? You’re vile. Wrong. Stupid. She was trying to help. Why does she always try to help? Can’t I just hate this? But it makes me hateful.
Mute, she let the words prick her, letting Lark dissolve over and over in her mind, and loathing herself for it.
“Lark is doing a valiant job of Not Weeping in the kitchen.”
Rosethorn opened her eyes, glaring at the familiar drawl. Crane, his back to the light, sneered down at her as he patted her knee. “You’re hurting people’s feelings.”
He laughed softly as she pushed his hand away, catching hers up by the wrist. “Not mine, as I have none.”
Hah. Crane was all feeling. High Minded and daft and easily rumpled, and he knew it. She caught his eyes. He smirked.
“Say it.”
I hate you. Her tongue was dead in her mouth.
“Go on.” He did not release her hand, though his grip was as impersonal and cold as any healer’s. She felt her pulse skittering, imagined it shying away from the pressure of his fingers. She glared.
“You tried for Lark, I know,” he said, level and thin and infuriating, still with that smirk on his face. She felt her jaw muscles clench. “But you don’t have to try with me, surely? Just say it, Niva. It’s all over your face.”
Air caught. He held her and sneered at her and her face ached with trying, and if she could bear the cost to her plants she’d have him tied up and out of her way before his slow, stately academic magic even stuttered awake. I hate you, you bastard.
“I hate…” The words collapsed, and he was laughing, now. Relieved and boyish and she’d kill him, except now he was kissing her the way no one had after the blue pox. Even Lark, wrung out from hope and waiting and love for her, had not done it. Not deeply. Not properly, as if she had not left a part of herself behind in that wild tangle of a garden that still woke her up sometimes, sweat soaked, while it called to her and left dandelion and torn grass scents in the back of her throat.
Crane kissed her as if she had not died. And it made sense that her first sensible words had been to him, and that they pained her.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 457
Pairing: Crane/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/F
Summary: People sometimes need to be cruel, while they recover.
Lark had left the workroom, straight-backed and silent, though Rosethorn tormented herself imagining what might happen as soon as she had passed out of sight of the door, of other people. She saw the slump of Lark’s shoulders, the slow rise of hands to her face. Coloured it all with the small sound—the low, sad exhalation that, in Lark, meant true anger and no words.
To Rosethorn, anger always came with words. Even now. Why did you do that? You’re vile. Wrong. Stupid. She was trying to help. Why does she always try to help? Can’t I just hate this? But it makes me hateful.
Mute, she let the words prick her, letting Lark dissolve over and over in her mind, and loathing herself for it.
“Lark is doing a valiant job of Not Weeping in the kitchen.”
Rosethorn opened her eyes, glaring at the familiar drawl. Crane, his back to the light, sneered down at her as he patted her knee. “You’re hurting people’s feelings.”
He laughed softly as she pushed his hand away, catching hers up by the wrist. “Not mine, as I have none.”
Hah. Crane was all feeling. High Minded and daft and easily rumpled, and he knew it. She caught his eyes. He smirked.
“Say it.”
I hate you. Her tongue was dead in her mouth.
“Go on.” He did not release her hand, though his grip was as impersonal and cold as any healer’s. She felt her pulse skittering, imagined it shying away from the pressure of his fingers. She glared.
“You tried for Lark, I know,” he said, level and thin and infuriating, still with that smirk on his face. She felt her jaw muscles clench. “But you don’t have to try with me, surely? Just say it, Niva. It’s all over your face.”
Air caught. He held her and sneered at her and her face ached with trying, and if she could bear the cost to her plants she’d have him tied up and out of her way before his slow, stately academic magic even stuttered awake. I hate you, you bastard.
“I hate…” The words collapsed, and he was laughing, now. Relieved and boyish and she’d kill him, except now he was kissing her the way no one had after the blue pox. Even Lark, wrung out from hope and waiting and love for her, had not done it. Not deeply. Not properly, as if she had not left a part of herself behind in that wild tangle of a garden that still woke her up sometimes, sweat soaked, while it called to her and left dandelion and torn grass scents in the back of her throat.
Crane kissed her as if she had not died. And it made sense that her first sensible words had been to him, and that they pained her.
QC by: journeycat