Post by Kit on Mar 10, 2011 23:02:43 GMT 10
Title: Delay [2]
Rating: G
Word Count: 304
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: Tris, returning home, states the obvious.
Tris was trying very, very hard.
Glaki had loved the cottage at first sight, her shouts rising even above the dog’s ecstatic barking for a near-remembered home—“Look! Look, Bear. Look at the garden! Is it your garden?”—and she had come to Lark’s arms, in the end, as easily and gladly as cotton. Though it was, everyone noticed, still Trisana’s hand she held.
“You’re putting her in Briar’s room?” Squinting through darkened spectacles even indoors, Tris had to lean heavily into the kitchen table, her skin sweat streaked and grey.
“Comas and six-year-olds would be an unhappy mix.”
“Nearly seven.”
Lark grinned, kissing Tris’s damp cheek. “My apologies.”
Tris was flushed. “Oh, I know she’ll be just fine, here. If you could put up with me you could put up with anyone—”
“Tris—”
“—it’s just, Daja’s house is far, to a child who might miss me—oh, no.” Tris bit her lip, hard, head falling forward to the table’s scrubbed surface.
“Tris, please.” Lark reached for her, firm. “You’re not well—”
“Glaki’s trying to get into Rosethorn’s workroom,” the younger woman managed, rather inexplicably. “I’m sorry. You did lock it...” Groaning under her breath, and then shaking her head in annoyance over that concession, Tris got to her feet and began for the door, Lark following.
She sighed. “I did. But how are you—?”
“—New trick. Nothing special,” said Tris, striding ahead despite her discomfort.
“Away from there, my girl, that’s not a place for you or Little Bear to ever—oh, Lark.” Tris halted, unable to tear her eyes away from the familiar, now shut-in, workroom. The place of harsh words and baby birds, mint and marjoram and sprouting grain.
“Lark,” she said, starkly artless. “It looks so dead.”
Lark, standing behind Tris’s broad back, shuddered.
QC by: journeycat
Rating: G
Word Count: 304
Pairing: Lark/Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: Tris, returning home, states the obvious.
Tris was trying very, very hard.
Glaki had loved the cottage at first sight, her shouts rising even above the dog’s ecstatic barking for a near-remembered home—“Look! Look, Bear. Look at the garden! Is it your garden?”—and she had come to Lark’s arms, in the end, as easily and gladly as cotton. Though it was, everyone noticed, still Trisana’s hand she held.
“You’re putting her in Briar’s room?” Squinting through darkened spectacles even indoors, Tris had to lean heavily into the kitchen table, her skin sweat streaked and grey.
“Comas and six-year-olds would be an unhappy mix.”
“Nearly seven.”
Lark grinned, kissing Tris’s damp cheek. “My apologies.”
Tris was flushed. “Oh, I know she’ll be just fine, here. If you could put up with me you could put up with anyone—”
“Tris—”
“—it’s just, Daja’s house is far, to a child who might miss me—oh, no.” Tris bit her lip, hard, head falling forward to the table’s scrubbed surface.
“Tris, please.” Lark reached for her, firm. “You’re not well—”
“Glaki’s trying to get into Rosethorn’s workroom,” the younger woman managed, rather inexplicably. “I’m sorry. You did lock it...” Groaning under her breath, and then shaking her head in annoyance over that concession, Tris got to her feet and began for the door, Lark following.
She sighed. “I did. But how are you—?”
“—New trick. Nothing special,” said Tris, striding ahead despite her discomfort.
“Away from there, my girl, that’s not a place for you or Little Bear to ever—oh, Lark.” Tris halted, unable to tear her eyes away from the familiar, now shut-in, workroom. The place of harsh words and baby birds, mint and marjoram and sprouting grain.
“Lark,” she said, starkly artless. “It looks so dead.”
Lark, standing behind Tris’s broad back, shuddered.
QC by: journeycat