Post by Kit on Apr 24, 2011 0:09:43 GMT 10
Title: Bells and spires
Rating: PG
Word count: 264
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 2/B
Summary: Homecomings. In my Delay/Clear air universe
“It’s all dead, isn’t it? You can tell me. I know. I’m sure it is. I promise. I’ve expected—”
Briar is sleeping now, the new man’s grip an imprint, still, in Lark’s waist and shoulders. Evvy watches him.
And Rosethorn is talking. Talking. Four years blurred and shaken by a spill of sounds that Lark can’t quite separate, though she has not—cannot—let go of her hand. She is as mute as Comas. Had found, in those first few moments of surprise and thereness—the split of time where she had to accept that Rosethorn was not only breathing, but that it was air Lark shared—that she had met her student’s eyes and found understanding in answer to her own panic. And then Rosethorn’s hand, all new callouses against old skin, had found hers. No more thought.
“I can make it all right again, Lark. With a season’s kindness and—oh.”
Lark hears the crack in her voice, and shudders, blinking sensation away enough to see the stunned, starved expression on Rosethorn’s face as she takes in the plants about her workroom. Mid-spring greenery twisting towards a new sun.
“You let Crane in here.”
Lark laughs, hoarse and small, as Rosethorn draws them both forward enough for her to kneel, and she runs a crinkled, fine mint leaf between free forefinger and thumb.
“And you? I can feel you in some of these. You've never planted a thing in your life.”
When Rosethorn finally met her eyes smiling and stunned, Lark is surprised to find that she was is the one crying. And that it is Rosethorn, still scuffed and cage-marked, who pulls her into tight embrace.
Rating: PG
Word count: 264
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 2/B
Summary: Homecomings. In my Delay/Clear air universe
“It’s all dead, isn’t it? You can tell me. I know. I’m sure it is. I promise. I’ve expected—”
Briar is sleeping now, the new man’s grip an imprint, still, in Lark’s waist and shoulders. Evvy watches him.
And Rosethorn is talking. Talking. Four years blurred and shaken by a spill of sounds that Lark can’t quite separate, though she has not—cannot—let go of her hand. She is as mute as Comas. Had found, in those first few moments of surprise and thereness—the split of time where she had to accept that Rosethorn was not only breathing, but that it was air Lark shared—that she had met her student’s eyes and found understanding in answer to her own panic. And then Rosethorn’s hand, all new callouses against old skin, had found hers. No more thought.
“I can make it all right again, Lark. With a season’s kindness and—oh.”
Lark hears the crack in her voice, and shudders, blinking sensation away enough to see the stunned, starved expression on Rosethorn’s face as she takes in the plants about her workroom. Mid-spring greenery twisting towards a new sun.
“You let Crane in here.”
Lark laughs, hoarse and small, as Rosethorn draws them both forward enough for her to kneel, and she runs a crinkled, fine mint leaf between free forefinger and thumb.
“And you? I can feel you in some of these. You've never planted a thing in your life.”
When Rosethorn finally met her eyes smiling and stunned, Lark is surprised to find that she was is the one crying. And that it is Rosethorn, still scuffed and cage-marked, who pulls her into tight embrace.