i think there's a shortage of flying carpets around here, so i won't hold it against you. even if it would've been better than a pony. plus now i am apparently living out my little mermaid dreams in stuffed and pasted form.
Without prior announcement, it is a little before morning light that Peter situates himself against the wall opposite the door of the apartment where his niece sometimes gets his attention by bringing a broom to her ceiling. Spring still calls for a light jacket at this early hour and it is in one of the inner pockets that he keeps one more gift. It is not that quantity is a better thing over quality, and he hopes she has liked everything so far, even a little. (True enough, it can be hard to tell, through no real fault of her own.) But Claire is the person he feels closest to in some ways both here and back in their shared world. From the beginning of their paths crossing, she has been a shine of gold between the shadows, whether or not she will ever see it herself. (And it is one of his greatest worries that she doesn't, and never can.) He only wants her day to be a good one, to give things because things can be nice, and things are what one gives on a birthday. It's normal in the midst of everything that isn't, and some
( ... )
Claire appears in little time, though not very awake if her hair and the state of drowsiness hanging around her face is anything to go by. The limp knot of her hair hangs down to the back of her neck, long, long blonde pieces completing the other half. None of it makes up for the tangle across her scalp, which gives the appearance of someone having stood on their head to sleep rather than lie down like a normal person. Her face is blank when she opens the door, save for the mild irritation that's stamped across the furrows in her forehead, the deadpan angle of her head. She waves her cell phone in a mocking manner, then lets her equally mocking smile move into something a little more sincere.
"Now I'm awake. I should've brought one of those cakes out here and made you eat it."
"Maybe," he smiles, reaching out to brush a few strays back and tuck them behind her ear. It's a thoughtless action, natural and appropriately quiet for the hour. "Do you want to change or go as you are?" he asks because it's considerate and because the speed at which they'll be moving, she could still take ten minutes and they would be in time for sun-up.
She smiles at that automatic action, the same sort of thoughtless motion that her father - possibly either one of them - might have moved through, except Peter has the natural quality of bringing security along with sentiment. One of the very few people that have ever consistently made her feel safe, and though Claire doesn't feel like she's constantly in danger, on the edge of some fight, in this place, having Peter in the immediate vicinity makes things feel calm, even if she's back to pulling faces for whatever could have waited until at least noon. Girls should sleep in on their birthdays.
Looking down at herself, Claire holds up a finger and pops back into the apartment for a pair of flip-flops, dropping her phone off on the counter as she does. Her sweatpants drag across the hardwood floor, and her t-shirt is a little bit but this isn't a fashion contest, and she's more comfortable being comfortable anyway. "Okay. Where are we going? Are there waffles?"
As if reading her mind while he waits for the few moments it takes Claire to grab flip-flops and set her phone down, he calls in after her, leaning against the door frame more like a best friend of several years than an uncle of not nearly so many.
"You can go back to sleep after the waffles," he half points out and half makes it as if it is a deal, minus contract. There is a cove of sorts along the ever-continuing line of beach, a line Peter suspects changes when people aren't looking because it can be difficult to find places to return to across the expanse of sand and shell and stone. But he's marked this place out multiple times now, and after enough mornings there to substantiate his own opinion, he knows it's strangely beautiful for a few reasons. Not the least of which is that it could be a niche of beach on earth--their earth--as easily as it is actually some pocket of sand between this world and the next. It's the kind of place children would call theirs and grow up together in and the charm is everywhere in the frame of
( ... )
In retrospect, flip flops may have been a bad choice. By the time Claire has unclenched enough to make sure that neither one of the black sandals falls off of its respective foot, she has sand to deal with, crowding around her toes and generally getting everywhere. There always seems to be a rushing sound coming from the sea, but now Claire has no idea if that's a rushing sound from the water itself or from the echoing memory of high wind going past her ears. Her hair looks as unglamorous as is possible, combed forward over her face and laying in tangled swirls around her head, enough that when she tries to brush it down, her fingers get caught and just end up making things worse
( ... )
thank you peter
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Without prior announcement, it is a little before morning light that Peter situates himself against the wall opposite the door of the apartment where his niece sometimes gets his attention by bringing a broom to her ceiling. Spring still calls for a light jacket at this early hour and it is in one of the inner pockets that he keeps one more gift. It is not that quantity is a better thing over quality, and he hopes she has liked everything so far, even a little. (True enough, it can be hard to tell, through no real fault of her own.) But Claire is the person he feels closest to in some ways both here and back in their shared world. From the beginning of their paths crossing, she has been a shine of gold between the shadows, whether or not she will ever see it herself. (And it is one of his greatest worries that she doesn't, and never can.) He only wants her day to be a good one, to give things because things can be nice, and things are what one gives on a birthday. It's normal in the midst of everything that isn't, and some ( ... )
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"Now I'm awake. I should've brought one of those cakes out here and made you eat it."
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Looking down at herself, Claire holds up a finger and pops back into the apartment for a pair of flip-flops, dropping her phone off on the counter as she does. Her sweatpants drag across the hardwood floor, and her t-shirt is a little bit but this isn't a fashion contest, and she's more comfortable being comfortable anyway. "Okay. Where are we going? Are there waffles?"
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"You can go back to sleep after the waffles," he half points out and half makes it as if it is a deal, minus contract. There is a cove of sorts along the ever-continuing line of beach, a line Peter suspects changes when people aren't looking because it can be difficult to find places to return to across the expanse of sand and shell and stone. But he's marked this place out multiple times now, and after enough mornings there to substantiate his own opinion, he knows it's strangely beautiful for a few reasons. Not the least of which is that it could be a niche of beach on earth--their earth--as easily as it is actually some pocket of sand between this world and the next. It's the kind of place children would call theirs and grow up together in and the charm is everywhere in the frame of ( ... )
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