In which Clare has a self-inflicted headache
I have a hangover and it's all Bexy's fault.
I just found this tucked away on my computer at work, so ... here, have a teeny untitled ficlet that I don't remember writing.
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She couldn’t move without tripping over memories anymore.
This was her home, but it had also been his home, and now it wasn’t, and she couldn’t grieve for him because she had too much to do, and no one was going to cut her slack when everyone had lost someone. What made her special? Nothing, that’s what. She of all people had no right to break down. She’d lost before, and she knew how it went.
He hadn’t even been hers. Just a subordinate. Just an aide. Not family, not a son.
Except that he was.
And Tory’s things on his desk made her want to scream. And the way his chair was adjusted higher and straighter now that he was no longer sitting in it with his long legs and slight slouch. The kettle in the corner that reminded her of the endless cups of coffee he’d made for her on long, stressful days. The number on the whiteboard, the four and the nine still in his handwriting because she’d yelped when Tory had almost rubbed them clean. The debate team ring she’d found in a corner of the alcove he called a bedroom, wearing a hole in the lining of her best jacket pocket.
Everything around her went on as normal, except that they weren’t normal, but who cared about that? Who really missed him, except for her? And she’d tucked it all away as much as she could, willing herself not to care, not to cry, not to talk.
And then she remembered stubbornness in the face of logic. A willingness to risk everything for a lost cause. Deep pain in blue, blue eyes. For just a subordinate. Just a pilot. Not family, not a daughter. Except that she was.
And, slowly, Laura picked up the phone.
I just found this tucked away on my computer at work, so ... here, have a teeny untitled ficlet that I don't remember writing.
----------
She couldn’t move without tripping over memories anymore.
This was her home, but it had also been his home, and now it wasn’t, and she couldn’t grieve for him because she had too much to do, and no one was going to cut her slack when everyone had lost someone. What made her special? Nothing, that’s what. She of all people had no right to break down. She’d lost before, and she knew how it went.
He hadn’t even been hers. Just a subordinate. Just an aide. Not family, not a son.
Except that he was.
And Tory’s things on his desk made her want to scream. And the way his chair was adjusted higher and straighter now that he was no longer sitting in it with his long legs and slight slouch. The kettle in the corner that reminded her of the endless cups of coffee he’d made for her on long, stressful days. The number on the whiteboard, the four and the nine still in his handwriting because she’d yelped when Tory had almost rubbed them clean. The debate team ring she’d found in a corner of the alcove he called a bedroom, wearing a hole in the lining of her best jacket pocket.
Everything around her went on as normal, except that they weren’t normal, but who cared about that? Who really missed him, except for her? And she’d tucked it all away as much as she could, willing herself not to care, not to cry, not to talk.
And then she remembered stubbornness in the face of logic. A willingness to risk everything for a lost cause. Deep pain in blue, blue eyes. For just a subordinate. Just a pilot. Not family, not a daughter. Except that she was.
And, slowly, Laura picked up the phone.