Post by Deleted on Apr 15, 2013 16:11:11 GMT 10
Title: Work in Progress
Rating: PG
Word Count: 661
Pairing: Dedicate Crane/Dedicate Lark/Dedicate Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: A picnic in the sunshine is just what she needs.
It does people as much good to be out in the sun as it does plants with large, waxy leaves.
Lark brings a soft square of cotton that she keeps folded, for now, because they are all willing to sit cross-legged or curled up, or what have you, on the sweet-scented grass.
("Maybe weeds have some sort of function, after all," Briar remarked with a grin, and Lark shooed him away, hiding her smile. Rosethorn shook her head, but she was smiling too.)
She's the first there, but doesn't worry about it. There's no emergency blazing through the temple that she's aware of -- though it could change, as quickly as a loose thread carelessly pulled might unravel an untidy weave, Lark thinks, with a touch of sadness, a stronger taste of anger -- and no, she's not going to think about that today. She smoothes the cotton along its folds, takes a deep breath, and smiles with determination at the sky.
Lark wonders if Rosethorn decided not to come, at the last moment. Lark wouldn't hold it against her; the sound of temple bells is louder here than almost anywhere else. It's why, despite the soft grass, the sunny day, and the primroses blooming in the cool, damp dirt in the corners of this small enclosure, people don't like coming here.
("At least no one will see me--" Rosethorn said. The sentence dropped off unfinished, and Lark and Rosethorn stared at each other. Rosethorn started again. "I'm coming. We're having it there.")
No. Rosethorn is coming, she knows it.
There's food, though not much, in the small basket she brought. Lark had been busy in the morning, settling in kids who did not dare settle in, and the food had brought smiles to their faces like no placating words or clean, airy rooms had so far. She had wanted to wait until the dishes looked less lonely to set them out, but she has nothing better to do but chatter in her own head, so Lark begins to distribute them on the grass.
Rosethorn does come. She arrives not long after Lark has finished, and shifted to stretch -- as warm and relaxed as a cat bathing under the sunlight.
"Now there's a sight for sore eyes," Rosethorn remarks, her grin decidedly private and her eyes full of promise.
They are alone, so Lark laughs. It's usually her who makes open overtures. She takes in Rosethorn's wind-rumpled hair, the fat back on her cheeks, and she says, "It really is."
There's something tense around Rosethorn's shoulders, but that can be dealt with soon enough.
Rosethorn's basket is larger. It's food, too, and candy as light as air. Lark approves.
It's not so long after that before Crane makes an appearance.
Lark is caught half-laugh again, which is always a good feeling, but she freezes when she sees him. There is dirt under his fingernails, dirt on the hem of his (expensive, surely he knows that's badly suited for gardening!) habit, and strangest of all, dirt streaked across his hair.
"You looked like you angered a particularly irritable cat," Rosethorn says, a wobble in her voice.
Crane scowls at her. "You are uncannily correct. Several cats. At least your previous students were--" He pauses, searching for the right word, but comes up empty.
It is the most beautiful sound in the world: Rosethorn laughing. Lark had missed it even more than she'd known these past three years, and she had hungered for it plenty.
"At least you didn't have to travel with her. What's the occasion again?" her lover pauses for breath to ask.
Lark shrugs. "It's summer, that's all, Rosie."
Rosethorn looks like she's about to protest, but Crane begins to relate his woes again -- exchanging a knowing glance with Lark, while Rosethorn isn't looking.
They wait for the temple bells to ring, but Lark watches Rosethorn, and notices Rosethorn isn't watching the Hub.
It's a work in progress, for all of them.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 661
Pairing: Dedicate Crane/Dedicate Lark/Dedicate Rosethorn
Round/Fight: 1/B
Summary: A picnic in the sunshine is just what she needs.
It does people as much good to be out in the sun as it does plants with large, waxy leaves.
Lark brings a soft square of cotton that she keeps folded, for now, because they are all willing to sit cross-legged or curled up, or what have you, on the sweet-scented grass.
("Maybe weeds have some sort of function, after all," Briar remarked with a grin, and Lark shooed him away, hiding her smile. Rosethorn shook her head, but she was smiling too.)
She's the first there, but doesn't worry about it. There's no emergency blazing through the temple that she's aware of -- though it could change, as quickly as a loose thread carelessly pulled might unravel an untidy weave, Lark thinks, with a touch of sadness, a stronger taste of anger -- and no, she's not going to think about that today. She smoothes the cotton along its folds, takes a deep breath, and smiles with determination at the sky.
Lark wonders if Rosethorn decided not to come, at the last moment. Lark wouldn't hold it against her; the sound of temple bells is louder here than almost anywhere else. It's why, despite the soft grass, the sunny day, and the primroses blooming in the cool, damp dirt in the corners of this small enclosure, people don't like coming here.
("At least no one will see me--" Rosethorn said. The sentence dropped off unfinished, and Lark and Rosethorn stared at each other. Rosethorn started again. "I'm coming. We're having it there.")
No. Rosethorn is coming, she knows it.
There's food, though not much, in the small basket she brought. Lark had been busy in the morning, settling in kids who did not dare settle in, and the food had brought smiles to their faces like no placating words or clean, airy rooms had so far. She had wanted to wait until the dishes looked less lonely to set them out, but she has nothing better to do but chatter in her own head, so Lark begins to distribute them on the grass.
Rosethorn does come. She arrives not long after Lark has finished, and shifted to stretch -- as warm and relaxed as a cat bathing under the sunlight.
"Now there's a sight for sore eyes," Rosethorn remarks, her grin decidedly private and her eyes full of promise.
They are alone, so Lark laughs. It's usually her who makes open overtures. She takes in Rosethorn's wind-rumpled hair, the fat back on her cheeks, and she says, "It really is."
There's something tense around Rosethorn's shoulders, but that can be dealt with soon enough.
Rosethorn's basket is larger. It's food, too, and candy as light as air. Lark approves.
It's not so long after that before Crane makes an appearance.
Lark is caught half-laugh again, which is always a good feeling, but she freezes when she sees him. There is dirt under his fingernails, dirt on the hem of his (expensive, surely he knows that's badly suited for gardening!) habit, and strangest of all, dirt streaked across his hair.
"You looked like you angered a particularly irritable cat," Rosethorn says, a wobble in her voice.
Crane scowls at her. "You are uncannily correct. Several cats. At least your previous students were--" He pauses, searching for the right word, but comes up empty.
It is the most beautiful sound in the world: Rosethorn laughing. Lark had missed it even more than she'd known these past three years, and she had hungered for it plenty.
"At least you didn't have to travel with her. What's the occasion again?" her lover pauses for breath to ask.
Lark shrugs. "It's summer, that's all, Rosie."
Rosethorn looks like she's about to protest, but Crane begins to relate his woes again -- exchanging a knowing glance with Lark, while Rosethorn isn't looking.
They wait for the temple bells to ring, but Lark watches Rosethorn, and notices Rosethorn isn't watching the Hub.
It's a work in progress, for all of them.