7s_prompts; Vacation
[A/N: A welcome back story for the mun of oncehawkgirl, whose character is used with permission and love.]
Prompt: Vacation
Home is Just a Word
"It's not cold."
It's the first thing Shayera says to him when they step off the plane. The flight had been long, and she'd been uncomfortable but had complained little. He didn't understand why; if she could complain to anyone she could complain to him. Maybe she was saving it for their destination.
"Not very, no."
She looks at him. They have only two small bags, so nothing takes very long. His passport is still Australian, and untouched by the Americans' Registration Act, and hers is still UN Diplomatic. Customs is easy. "You said it's winter."
St. John grins. "You should see summer."
"It's hot?"
"Australia is a desert surrounded by ocean. It's hot."
"I want to see the Outback."
He shrugs. "Later."
The first thing he shows her is the Opera House, because it's a given and because she told him it's not particularly impressive from the air. He's not sure if she's particularly impressed from the ground, but he pulls her out of the tour group and into a back room, and kisses her up against a wall until she sighs and her wings unfurl around him.
"You've ruined my jacket," she says when they've finished.
"I'll buy you a new one."
"Was that your plan?"
"No."
She takes his hand. "Okay."
"That's all? Okay?"
Shayera looks at him. "Take me to our hotel. It's okay."
He grunts, but does as she asks. She keeps her wings tucked to her back, but otherwise says nothing about how they're now exposed. They walk down the street hand-in-hand, and get relatively few stares. St. John wonders why she doesn't care.
The hotel is posh, which he made sure of. There's a desk for him, a balcony for her, and a tub for them both. He showers while she flies, and when she gets back she climbs into bed with him.
St. John asks her what she thinks of Sydney.
"This place is your home."
It's not a question, but he answers it anyway. "No."
She looks at him. "But it was."
He thinks about it for a long minute. She gives him his time. "No."
"Then what is it?"
"A womb. A place I came from that I was never meant to be a part of for long. A place that shaped me, but one I had to leave. Not a home."
"Where the heart is." She presses her hand against his chest.
"Don't go looking any farther than your own backyard, Ginger Bird."
Shayera's brows knit. "For what?"
"Your heart's desire."
She leans in and kisses him. "We don't have a yard."
"We will."
--
He wakes in the morning and she's pressed against him, wings spread out across the bed. She's awake already. "G'mornin'," he mumbles.
"I was listening to your dream language." She kisses his chest.
"What'd I say?"
"You love me."
He grins. "Yeah, not a surprise."
"Did you choose Atlanta because of the As at the beginning and the end?"
St. John's grin grows wider. "I do love you."
Shayera smiles. "I know. Show me."
"Thought you'd never ask."
--
St. John shows her the flat he grew up in, the schools he attended, and the places he hung out in after dark, when he should have gone home to his middle-class parents. She asks him questions he never thought anyone would care to ask, and he answers each one carefully, as though the truth is something delicate that will break if he reaches for it too quickly.
They spend three days in Sydney like this, questions asked and answered, kisses stolen in alleyways and childhood memories, and then he takes her to the Outback.
"You didn't come here as a child."
He shrugs. "No, but I wanted to."
"So why didn't you?"
His grin lights up the night in their small tent. "I was a good little boy."
"Never," she whispers. "Always."
--
They spend another three days trudging through brush, and barely cover a quarter of the continent. Some times she flies ahead, and he knows she could make it to the edge of the country and back before he's gone two miles. When she comes back she always tells him what she sees, and always in Thanagarian.
Their last night he asks her why.
"I don't know the right English words yet. Beauty isn't enough."
He knows what she means, but he doesn't say it. Just nods.
The next morning is a rare one; he's awake before she is. She blinks open her eyes and smiles at him. "What?"
"There aren't," St. John tells her, and he makes a ring of flame between his fingers. "Words in English. For that kind of beauty. The language of your warrior people says it better than we've ever been able to."
Her dark eyes reflect the flame back at him. She says nothing, and he lets the fire die.
They miss their plane back, but she whispers his name softly as he moves inside of her, and when she climaxes, the Thanagarian word for home is on her lips. St. John says nothing, but holds her tighter than he's ever held anyone before.
She apologizes, afterward, sheets tangled around her, for delaying their trip home. He tells her not to worry, and pulls the sheet back off her body.
There are always other planes to catch.
Prompt: Vacation
Home is Just a Word
"It's not cold."
It's the first thing Shayera says to him when they step off the plane. The flight had been long, and she'd been uncomfortable but had complained little. He didn't understand why; if she could complain to anyone she could complain to him. Maybe she was saving it for their destination.
"Not very, no."
She looks at him. They have only two small bags, so nothing takes very long. His passport is still Australian, and untouched by the Americans' Registration Act, and hers is still UN Diplomatic. Customs is easy. "You said it's winter."
St. John grins. "You should see summer."
"It's hot?"
"Australia is a desert surrounded by ocean. It's hot."
"I want to see the Outback."
He shrugs. "Later."
The first thing he shows her is the Opera House, because it's a given and because she told him it's not particularly impressive from the air. He's not sure if she's particularly impressed from the ground, but he pulls her out of the tour group and into a back room, and kisses her up against a wall until she sighs and her wings unfurl around him.
"You've ruined my jacket," she says when they've finished.
"I'll buy you a new one."
"Was that your plan?"
"No."
She takes his hand. "Okay."
"That's all? Okay?"
Shayera looks at him. "Take me to our hotel. It's okay."
He grunts, but does as she asks. She keeps her wings tucked to her back, but otherwise says nothing about how they're now exposed. They walk down the street hand-in-hand, and get relatively few stares. St. John wonders why she doesn't care.
The hotel is posh, which he made sure of. There's a desk for him, a balcony for her, and a tub for them both. He showers while she flies, and when she gets back she climbs into bed with him.
St. John asks her what she thinks of Sydney.
"This place is your home."
It's not a question, but he answers it anyway. "No."
She looks at him. "But it was."
He thinks about it for a long minute. She gives him his time. "No."
"Then what is it?"
"A womb. A place I came from that I was never meant to be a part of for long. A place that shaped me, but one I had to leave. Not a home."
"Where the heart is." She presses her hand against his chest.
"Don't go looking any farther than your own backyard, Ginger Bird."
Shayera's brows knit. "For what?"
"Your heart's desire."
She leans in and kisses him. "We don't have a yard."
"We will."
--
He wakes in the morning and she's pressed against him, wings spread out across the bed. She's awake already. "G'mornin'," he mumbles.
"I was listening to your dream language." She kisses his chest.
"What'd I say?"
"You love me."
He grins. "Yeah, not a surprise."
"Did you choose Atlanta because of the As at the beginning and the end?"
St. John's grin grows wider. "I do love you."
Shayera smiles. "I know. Show me."
"Thought you'd never ask."
--
St. John shows her the flat he grew up in, the schools he attended, and the places he hung out in after dark, when he should have gone home to his middle-class parents. She asks him questions he never thought anyone would care to ask, and he answers each one carefully, as though the truth is something delicate that will break if he reaches for it too quickly.
They spend three days in Sydney like this, questions asked and answered, kisses stolen in alleyways and childhood memories, and then he takes her to the Outback.
"You didn't come here as a child."
He shrugs. "No, but I wanted to."
"So why didn't you?"
His grin lights up the night in their small tent. "I was a good little boy."
"Never," she whispers. "Always."
--
They spend another three days trudging through brush, and barely cover a quarter of the continent. Some times she flies ahead, and he knows she could make it to the edge of the country and back before he's gone two miles. When she comes back she always tells him what she sees, and always in Thanagarian.
Their last night he asks her why.
"I don't know the right English words yet. Beauty isn't enough."
He knows what she means, but he doesn't say it. Just nods.
The next morning is a rare one; he's awake before she is. She blinks open her eyes and smiles at him. "What?"
"There aren't," St. John tells her, and he makes a ring of flame between his fingers. "Words in English. For that kind of beauty. The language of your warrior people says it better than we've ever been able to."
Her dark eyes reflect the flame back at him. She says nothing, and he lets the fire die.
They miss their plane back, but she whispers his name softly as he moves inside of her, and when she climaxes, the Thanagarian word for home is on her lips. St. John says nothing, but holds her tighter than he's ever held anyone before.
She apologizes, afterward, sheets tangled around her, for delaying their trip home. He tells her not to worry, and pulls the sheet back off her body.
There are always other planes to catch.