Miracles Fic: The Fruits of Labor
Posted to miracles_fanfic
Title: The Fruits of Labor
Pairing/Characters: Paul, Alva
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Series
Summary: Paul admits to having recurring dreams which only Alva understands
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
"Keel. We need to talk."
Paul entered Alva's office and closed the door behind him, the click of the latch resounding in the sudden silence of the room once Alva's pen abruptly stopped scratching its way across the paper.
"This is serious, isn't it?" Alva put aside what he'd been working on and gestured to the chair across from him. Paul sat, letting out a long breath, exhaustion clear in his body language.
"Am I that transparent?" he asked with a good-natured huff.
"It's rare for you to use that tone of voice, so I'd say you are indeed rather obvious in your turmoil. The exterior is well informed by the inner self when it comes to your demeanor, Paul."
"That's a lot of words to say yes," Paul chortled.
"Well, one must utilize one's education where one can," Alva said with an indulgent smile. "Now, what seems to be troubling you?"
Paul straightened in his chair, his discomfort clear. "I know we haven't always been completely honest and up front with each other..."
"I admit to that, yes. But I do hope we're moving past that into an arrangement based on mutual trust and respect."
Paul nodded. "So I trust you won't tell me I'm nuts when I tell you about my recurring dreams."
"Ahh..." Alva leaned back in his chair. "Dreams - the stuff of madness. Not to worry. I would only fear for your sanity should you experience recurring visions of pink elephants and tutu wearing poodles in the waking world."
Paul laughed, releasing some of the tension he'd built up.
"Nothing quite so outlandish, in fact the dreams are rather prosaic."
"Do tell." Alva motioned for him to explain.
"I'm sitting at a kitchen table in a house - a very nice house, one I've never seen before. There's a woman there, kind of matronly in a high society way, but she looks kind... Approachable. Each dream I spend more time in the kitchen with her and each dream ends with her saying the same thing to me."
"Which is?" Alva prompted.
"Tell him."
"Tell who?"
"She never says," Paul said with a shrug. "She seems to assume I know who she's talking about. Honestly, the dreams aren't frightening or anything, it's only their frequency that's disturbing. They've gone from once a month to once a week to nightly and last night I had the same dream twice."
"So what happens in these dreams?" Alva asked.
"She's putting fruit in a bowl. In the last dream, she finally finishes arranging the fruit and brings the bowl to the table, placing it in front of me. It's actually a formal centerpiece - like you'd see in magazines or catalogs."
Alva steepled his fingers in front of him, stiffening slightly.
"Do you recognize any of the fruit?"
Paul screwed up his face in confusion. "Why would that matter?"
"Humor me," Alva replied, his expression completely humorless.
"Well, there's a pineapple in the middle and some bananas, but past that I don't know what they are. I never had much tropical fruit growing up in the orphanage so I'm not sure I'd recognize them if I saw them."
"I see." Alva stared at the blotter on the desk in front of him. "And this woman, what does she look like?"
"Her hair is dark, like yours, but graying," Paul described. "She's wearing a dark blue dress and a pearl necklace with a cameo pendant. I remember the necklace because it's pretty distinctive."
Alva pushed back from his chair abruptly, startling Paul. He headed for the window and stared out of it, his back to Paul.
"What else do you remember?" he said, his voice tense, controlled.
"She was friendly," Paul offered. "Called me by name when I got there. Seemed happy to see me. She made me feel at home even though I had no clue where I was."
"Yes, she was like that," Alva mused.
"She?"
"You've done your duty, Paul. You've told me." Alva crossed to his desk and pulled his work back out, picking up his pen. "I would assume the dreams will stop now so you should have nothing to worry about." He went back to writing and Paul stood, bewildered.
"Wait, why do you think the dreams will stop? How do you know you're the one I was supposed to tell?"
"I just know. Thank you for bringing this to my attention." His words were clipped, his tone formal and he didn't look at Paul at all. He kept writing until Paul's hand clapped down over his, forcing him to stop.
"Tell me," he said, his tone firm and his grip on Alva's hand unrelenting.
"'Tell him'," Alva said under his breath before looking up. Paul was taken aback at the emotion on Alva's face, a vulnerability he'd never seen there before, as if the walls Alva had carefully constructed to keep himself apart from his Sodalitas Quaerito compatriots had simply disappeared.
"Who is the woman, Alva?" Paul asked gently.
"The fruits were papayas and mangos," Alva explained, watching as recognition dawned in Paul's eyes. "And that woman - with a message for me - was my mother..."
^^
Title: The Fruits of Labor
Pairing/Characters: Paul, Alva
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Series
Summary: Paul admits to having recurring dreams which only Alva understands
Notes/Warnings: Read the disclaimer on my LJ
"Keel. We need to talk."
Paul entered Alva's office and closed the door behind him, the click of the latch resounding in the sudden silence of the room once Alva's pen abruptly stopped scratching its way across the paper.
"This is serious, isn't it?" Alva put aside what he'd been working on and gestured to the chair across from him. Paul sat, letting out a long breath, exhaustion clear in his body language.
"Am I that transparent?" he asked with a good-natured huff.
"It's rare for you to use that tone of voice, so I'd say you are indeed rather obvious in your turmoil. The exterior is well informed by the inner self when it comes to your demeanor, Paul."
"That's a lot of words to say yes," Paul chortled.
"Well, one must utilize one's education where one can," Alva said with an indulgent smile. "Now, what seems to be troubling you?"
Paul straightened in his chair, his discomfort clear. "I know we haven't always been completely honest and up front with each other..."
"I admit to that, yes. But I do hope we're moving past that into an arrangement based on mutual trust and respect."
Paul nodded. "So I trust you won't tell me I'm nuts when I tell you about my recurring dreams."
"Ahh..." Alva leaned back in his chair. "Dreams - the stuff of madness. Not to worry. I would only fear for your sanity should you experience recurring visions of pink elephants and tutu wearing poodles in the waking world."
Paul laughed, releasing some of the tension he'd built up.
"Nothing quite so outlandish, in fact the dreams are rather prosaic."
"Do tell." Alva motioned for him to explain.
"I'm sitting at a kitchen table in a house - a very nice house, one I've never seen before. There's a woman there, kind of matronly in a high society way, but she looks kind... Approachable. Each dream I spend more time in the kitchen with her and each dream ends with her saying the same thing to me."
"Which is?" Alva prompted.
"Tell him."
"Tell who?"
"She never says," Paul said with a shrug. "She seems to assume I know who she's talking about. Honestly, the dreams aren't frightening or anything, it's only their frequency that's disturbing. They've gone from once a month to once a week to nightly and last night I had the same dream twice."
"So what happens in these dreams?" Alva asked.
"She's putting fruit in a bowl. In the last dream, she finally finishes arranging the fruit and brings the bowl to the table, placing it in front of me. It's actually a formal centerpiece - like you'd see in magazines or catalogs."
Alva steepled his fingers in front of him, stiffening slightly.
"Do you recognize any of the fruit?"
Paul screwed up his face in confusion. "Why would that matter?"
"Humor me," Alva replied, his expression completely humorless.
"Well, there's a pineapple in the middle and some bananas, but past that I don't know what they are. I never had much tropical fruit growing up in the orphanage so I'm not sure I'd recognize them if I saw them."
"I see." Alva stared at the blotter on the desk in front of him. "And this woman, what does she look like?"
"Her hair is dark, like yours, but graying," Paul described. "She's wearing a dark blue dress and a pearl necklace with a cameo pendant. I remember the necklace because it's pretty distinctive."
Alva pushed back from his chair abruptly, startling Paul. He headed for the window and stared out of it, his back to Paul.
"What else do you remember?" he said, his voice tense, controlled.
"She was friendly," Paul offered. "Called me by name when I got there. Seemed happy to see me. She made me feel at home even though I had no clue where I was."
"Yes, she was like that," Alva mused.
"She?"
"You've done your duty, Paul. You've told me." Alva crossed to his desk and pulled his work back out, picking up his pen. "I would assume the dreams will stop now so you should have nothing to worry about." He went back to writing and Paul stood, bewildered.
"Wait, why do you think the dreams will stop? How do you know you're the one I was supposed to tell?"
"I just know. Thank you for bringing this to my attention." His words were clipped, his tone formal and he didn't look at Paul at all. He kept writing until Paul's hand clapped down over his, forcing him to stop.
"Tell me," he said, his tone firm and his grip on Alva's hand unrelenting.
"'Tell him'," Alva said under his breath before looking up. Paul was taken aback at the emotion on Alva's face, a vulnerability he'd never seen there before, as if the walls Alva had carefully constructed to keep himself apart from his Sodalitas Quaerito compatriots had simply disappeared.
"Who is the woman, Alva?" Paul asked gently.
"The fruits were papayas and mangos," Alva explained, watching as recognition dawned in Paul's eyes. "And that woman - with a message for me - was my mother..."
^^