you have no idea how relieved I am right now
WORDS HAVE HAPPENED.
Words specifically for schiarire, and as such probably of limited interest to people who are Not Ji, but they exist and I wrote them and that is all I care about.
Three drabbles, different POVs. Fandoms (uh, such as they are) indicated by tags.
1)
Not entirely by accident, he asks Melody to marry him three days before she's due to leave for Australia. A week at a conference and a week for herself, flying out of her life and then flying back in, just like he always does. He's not surprised when she says that she'll take some time to think about it before giving him an answer. It's warm where they are, summer settling in, and part of him wonders if the sudden plunge into winter will remind her of Moscow. (He checks the average June temperature for Sydney on his phone: somewhere around fifty degrees. So, probably not.)
She kisses him before she leaves and she tastes of cigarettes, which these days she only smokes when there's a big decision on the cards. Thomas touches her face where the freckles are densest. He wants this. He's sure.
He lets himself into Thom's house that evening, finding the door open and not bothering to knock. There are voices coming from the kitchen, and Thomas starts to feel itchy and annoyed even before he steps through the door, so he's not at all surprised to discover who Thom's guest is.
Thom's wrapping up a long sentence that ends in your grandkids, and it doesn't sound like a joke, but Thom's sense of humour is odd at best.
Sam doesn't say anything in return. He gives Thom a look that's cool and maybe disinterested and yet -- Thomas Beech runs a very large company and knows a lot of the things that go on between the lines of speech, and there's a conversation in every silence that exists between Thom and whoever the fuck this person is, this person whom Thom calls Sam in a way that never fails to sound like sarcasm. And leans into, a little, not unconsciously -- still too Thom for that -- but comfortably. Like they could never, ever surprise each other.
The word that Thomas has been hesitant to touch is family. Because damn him if that isn't what it feels like, on one of the wavelengths, but it isn't as if he has the slightest clue what family really means to Thom Trebond, even now. There's nothing to compare it to. Just the feeling.
"Thomas Beech," Sam says, not looking at him.
"Sam," Thomas says, swallowing the sigh. "Looking well, I see."
It's as close as he ever comes to pointing out that he's not a complete idiot, not any kind of idiot at all, in fact, and there's aging gracefully and then there's whatever the hell Sam is doing. Or not doing. Or -- being. It's another question on the other side of the line he's drawn from himself: on that side are games, and maybe answers, but on this side is all hope of a semi-normal life.
Thomas makes the decision right then, letting Sam's faint smile slide right off him, that he isn't going to tell Thom about the proposal; or the wedding, if there is one. There can be games on this side of the line as well.
2)
"Make a decision," Lucifer says.
"I'm not doing it on purpose," Thom protests. He's only lying a bit. "Maybe if --"
"Really, Thom?" Lucifer's eyes glow, purple as spite. "I don't think so. Not today."
"Someone pissed in your brimstone and cornflakes this morning." He settles himself into a comfortable age. The memory of mortality stings, not entirely in a bad way, every time his foot makes contact with the ground. It's different to existing in a place where the soul is all you need: gravity, oxygen, something here is trying to remind him that he's dead. A little of his own old power wouldn't go amiss, but Lucifer takes ownership seriously. Plus, this is a new enough string in their old, old bow that the fight, such as it is, is still fun for both for them.
Early days. He'll get it back eventually. But for now it's a lending system with interestingly uncertain rules.
"Can I drink?" he wonders aloud.
"Let's find out." Lucifer points and they walk towards towards something that, while not all that different to the hopeless-looking buildings on either side of it, nevertheless manages to scream bar.
The interior is clean, though, and surprisingly bright. The noise of moving boxes and muffled curses comes from some room behind the bar proper. A table close to the door is occupied largely by splayed masses of newspapers, but also by a standing couple. The man is tall, with rolled-up sleeves revealing a white dressing taped to one forearm; the woman is wearing the first pair of stiletto heels that Thom has seen in Chicago. Both of them are frowning down at the papers and drinking tea. Or rather: the woman is drinking something that looks nothing like tea out of a chipped World's Greatest Boss mug, and the man is pouring liquid from a thermos into the lid. The resultant smell is of brine and warm jasmine.
Thom's eye for power dynamics is generally impeccable, and this one's as unambiguous as they come, even though the man's free hand is tapping gently against the wooden table in a way that Thom, unsurprisingly, associates with control.
"Visitors, Bean," the woman says, jerking her chin in their direction. The man looks up from the headlines, and although his body language is about as dangerous as limp lettuce, his hand stops tapping and starts to drift towards a bag on a nearby chair.
"What?" the man says. It doesn't sound like she's asking her to repeat herself.
The woman looks them over, lingering longest and hardest on Lucifer. She inhales. "Not vampires."
"Zombie," Thom volunteers, and steps sideways before Lucifer can kick him.
3)
The woman inflicting the stitches upon the man's bleeding forehead is dirty but for her hair, a short sweep of blonde, and her busy gleaming hands. She's frowning as she draws a knot tight and saws at the end with scissors that look hopelessly dull.
Another woman steps into view, younger, dark-braided and indignant and carrying a metal tub of water on which a thin layer of suds are already dissolving.
"No more hot," she says. American. "Plenty of soap left, though, for all the good that does." She sets the tub down at the medic's elbow.
"I can switch to the disinfectant I'm using on the needles, but my hands are going to be raw tomorrow." She makes a disgusted face. Lucifer barely notices it. Her accent is wrong not just geographically but in a much larger sense as well: it's extinct. She could be affecting; doubtful; not here and not under such conditons. What possible reason could she have?
"What?" says Thom. Lucifer gives him a look that's the same question, and Thom flicks his fingers. "You've gone sharp."
Before he can reply, the American is in front of them, indignation dialled down to impatience. "Helping, or hurt?"
Interesting question.
"Is this a free clinic?" Lucifer asks.
She looks him up and down in a way that suggests the answer might be flexible. His bare feet give her pause, but she sweeps an expert eye over his shirt and decides, "No. Pay what you can."
He gives an understanding nod and breaks two bones in Thom's ankle. Quietly.
Thom ducks his head, goes paler, shoots him a complicated look, and finally presents the girl with a portrait of pained bravery. "Stepped in a ditch, didn't I?" he says, pitch-perfect. "Feels broken."
"Alright, sit down over there." She points out a row of crates and leaves again, picking up another empty tub as she goes. Lucifer sits down on the cleanest-looking one.
"Don’t mind me," Thom drawls, hopping.
"It's an improvement," Lucifer tells him. What he means is: ever since his second death Thom walks as though his feet aren't touching the ground, even though they are. It's only noticeable in the more concrete realities. Filtered through the sensory apparatus that's the most telling, though, Thom is the same as he's always been. Time and space. Power and essence. Lucifer hasn't much patience for metaphysics, all told.
"I could have broken my own foot," Thom says, landing on the adjacent crate so hard that it creaks. "Probably. I haven't tried that yet."
Where's the fun in that? asks Lucifer's glance.
~
(THERE YOU ARE DARLING, sorry they're sort of rough and shite, this was me removing rust. Amount of universe-consistency contained herein = ZERO. Do we care? Of course not. Re: #2, I thought about writing Les and then Claire happened instead, but...CLAIRE. There is no bad here.
Re: #3, I guess I should renew my assualt on that AU, huh?)
Words specifically for schiarire, and as such probably of limited interest to people who are Not Ji, but they exist and I wrote them and that is all I care about.
Three drabbles, different POVs. Fandoms (uh, such as they are) indicated by tags.
1)
Not entirely by accident, he asks Melody to marry him three days before she's due to leave for Australia. A week at a conference and a week for herself, flying out of her life and then flying back in, just like he always does. He's not surprised when she says that she'll take some time to think about it before giving him an answer. It's warm where they are, summer settling in, and part of him wonders if the sudden plunge into winter will remind her of Moscow. (He checks the average June temperature for Sydney on his phone: somewhere around fifty degrees. So, probably not.)
She kisses him before she leaves and she tastes of cigarettes, which these days she only smokes when there's a big decision on the cards. Thomas touches her face where the freckles are densest. He wants this. He's sure.
He lets himself into Thom's house that evening, finding the door open and not bothering to knock. There are voices coming from the kitchen, and Thomas starts to feel itchy and annoyed even before he steps through the door, so he's not at all surprised to discover who Thom's guest is.
Thom's wrapping up a long sentence that ends in your grandkids, and it doesn't sound like a joke, but Thom's sense of humour is odd at best.
Sam doesn't say anything in return. He gives Thom a look that's cool and maybe disinterested and yet -- Thomas Beech runs a very large company and knows a lot of the things that go on between the lines of speech, and there's a conversation in every silence that exists between Thom and whoever the fuck this person is, this person whom Thom calls Sam in a way that never fails to sound like sarcasm. And leans into, a little, not unconsciously -- still too Thom for that -- but comfortably. Like they could never, ever surprise each other.
The word that Thomas has been hesitant to touch is family. Because damn him if that isn't what it feels like, on one of the wavelengths, but it isn't as if he has the slightest clue what family really means to Thom Trebond, even now. There's nothing to compare it to. Just the feeling.
"Thomas Beech," Sam says, not looking at him.
"Sam," Thomas says, swallowing the sigh. "Looking well, I see."
It's as close as he ever comes to pointing out that he's not a complete idiot, not any kind of idiot at all, in fact, and there's aging gracefully and then there's whatever the hell Sam is doing. Or not doing. Or -- being. It's another question on the other side of the line he's drawn from himself: on that side are games, and maybe answers, but on this side is all hope of a semi-normal life.
Thomas makes the decision right then, letting Sam's faint smile slide right off him, that he isn't going to tell Thom about the proposal; or the wedding, if there is one. There can be games on this side of the line as well.
2)
"Make a decision," Lucifer says.
"I'm not doing it on purpose," Thom protests. He's only lying a bit. "Maybe if --"
"Really, Thom?" Lucifer's eyes glow, purple as spite. "I don't think so. Not today."
"Someone pissed in your brimstone and cornflakes this morning." He settles himself into a comfortable age. The memory of mortality stings, not entirely in a bad way, every time his foot makes contact with the ground. It's different to existing in a place where the soul is all you need: gravity, oxygen, something here is trying to remind him that he's dead. A little of his own old power wouldn't go amiss, but Lucifer takes ownership seriously. Plus, this is a new enough string in their old, old bow that the fight, such as it is, is still fun for both for them.
Early days. He'll get it back eventually. But for now it's a lending system with interestingly uncertain rules.
"Can I drink?" he wonders aloud.
"Let's find out." Lucifer points and they walk towards towards something that, while not all that different to the hopeless-looking buildings on either side of it, nevertheless manages to scream bar.
The interior is clean, though, and surprisingly bright. The noise of moving boxes and muffled curses comes from some room behind the bar proper. A table close to the door is occupied largely by splayed masses of newspapers, but also by a standing couple. The man is tall, with rolled-up sleeves revealing a white dressing taped to one forearm; the woman is wearing the first pair of stiletto heels that Thom has seen in Chicago. Both of them are frowning down at the papers and drinking tea. Or rather: the woman is drinking something that looks nothing like tea out of a chipped World's Greatest Boss mug, and the man is pouring liquid from a thermos into the lid. The resultant smell is of brine and warm jasmine.
Thom's eye for power dynamics is generally impeccable, and this one's as unambiguous as they come, even though the man's free hand is tapping gently against the wooden table in a way that Thom, unsurprisingly, associates with control.
"Visitors, Bean," the woman says, jerking her chin in their direction. The man looks up from the headlines, and although his body language is about as dangerous as limp lettuce, his hand stops tapping and starts to drift towards a bag on a nearby chair.
"What?" the man says. It doesn't sound like she's asking her to repeat herself.
The woman looks them over, lingering longest and hardest on Lucifer. She inhales. "Not vampires."
"Zombie," Thom volunteers, and steps sideways before Lucifer can kick him.
3)
The woman inflicting the stitches upon the man's bleeding forehead is dirty but for her hair, a short sweep of blonde, and her busy gleaming hands. She's frowning as she draws a knot tight and saws at the end with scissors that look hopelessly dull.
Another woman steps into view, younger, dark-braided and indignant and carrying a metal tub of water on which a thin layer of suds are already dissolving.
"No more hot," she says. American. "Plenty of soap left, though, for all the good that does." She sets the tub down at the medic's elbow.
"I can switch to the disinfectant I'm using on the needles, but my hands are going to be raw tomorrow." She makes a disgusted face. Lucifer barely notices it. Her accent is wrong not just geographically but in a much larger sense as well: it's extinct. She could be affecting; doubtful; not here and not under such conditons. What possible reason could she have?
"What?" says Thom. Lucifer gives him a look that's the same question, and Thom flicks his fingers. "You've gone sharp."
Before he can reply, the American is in front of them, indignation dialled down to impatience. "Helping, or hurt?"
Interesting question.
"Is this a free clinic?" Lucifer asks.
She looks him up and down in a way that suggests the answer might be flexible. His bare feet give her pause, but she sweeps an expert eye over his shirt and decides, "No. Pay what you can."
He gives an understanding nod and breaks two bones in Thom's ankle. Quietly.
Thom ducks his head, goes paler, shoots him a complicated look, and finally presents the girl with a portrait of pained bravery. "Stepped in a ditch, didn't I?" he says, pitch-perfect. "Feels broken."
"Alright, sit down over there." She points out a row of crates and leaves again, picking up another empty tub as she goes. Lucifer sits down on the cleanest-looking one.
"Don’t mind me," Thom drawls, hopping.
"It's an improvement," Lucifer tells him. What he means is: ever since his second death Thom walks as though his feet aren't touching the ground, even though they are. It's only noticeable in the more concrete realities. Filtered through the sensory apparatus that's the most telling, though, Thom is the same as he's always been. Time and space. Power and essence. Lucifer hasn't much patience for metaphysics, all told.
"I could have broken my own foot," Thom says, landing on the adjacent crate so hard that it creaks. "Probably. I haven't tried that yet."
Where's the fun in that? asks Lucifer's glance.
~
(THERE YOU ARE DARLING, sorry they're sort of rough and shite, this was me removing rust. Amount of universe-consistency contained herein = ZERO. Do we care? Of course not. Re: #2, I thought about writing Les and then Claire happened instead, but...CLAIRE. There is no bad here.
Re: #3, I guess I should renew my assualt on that AU, huh?)