Drawn to the Center
Spoilers: None.
Pairings: Parker/Hardison
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: 1122ish
Summary: Parker draws.
Author's Notes: Okay, so renisanz has a tumblr, right, and she posts this. @Menacherie tweets it and I see it at like 7am this morning. It immediately seized my brain and I have almost literally spent every second of my free time today working on this fic. renisanz is SUCH a bad influence on me...
Her apartment straddles the border between the good and bad sides of town. If she thought of such things, she might call it a metaphor, but it really came down to the fact that the rent is cheap and she hates spending her own money. It's furnished simply, all cheap plywood and IKEA screws. Nothing she can't leave behind in a moment. There's a bookcase tucked away in the corner, filled with beat up paperbacks and stained hardcovers. She likes to have books around, even if she doesn't settle down to read them often. She'd much rather go to the western rooftop three buildings away that overlooks the river to watch the sunset.
Haphazardly lying across the books on the top shelf is a sketchbook. It gleams in comparison to the rest of the apartment. She bought it new at a craft store with a coupon. The cover is a bright sunny yellow and the bottom left corner has the slightest crease. Fingerprint smudges decorate the back. She swipes an eraser through them now and again, but leaves them unmolested for the most part. A purple translucent pencil case that holds an assortment of cheap pencils (and the odd good one she swipes from Hardison), some erasers, and a manual sharpener is tucked under the bed.
If she sits on the floor, back against her bed, feet firmly planted on the hardwood and her knees bent, the late afternoon sunlight will fall on the pad. The white of the paper glows then and she draws, using her pencil to chase away the brightness. This is her version of a photo album, perhaps with a bit of diary thrown in.
It's not that she needs help remembering; she cannot forget. Sometimes she wishes she could. There are some memories that are nearly too heavy to carry.
Bits of the day spill across the page: Nate frowning into a coffee cup, his forehead creased, his fingers tight around the mug. A profile of Sophie as she sits on Nate's couch, leaning forward to grab the clicker. Eliot's hands, knuckles scraped and bruised, as he tends to a basil plant on Nate's windowsill.
There are other moments here and there (a museum alarm box, the pigeon that watched her cross the street, a carton of Chinese food), but, in the center of the page, Hardison is laughing at something off screen, one hand flung in the air, the other resting on his knee. She always has to sharpen her pencil at least twice before she's finished with him.
Depending on her mood when she's completed the day's page, she may flip back to the past. Two days before, there is Sophie's foot, clad in some uncomfortable looking shoe, the lines of her calf disappearing into the white. Nate is at a table in the bar, reaching out to their newest client. Eliot, his hair tied back, fists raised in a training stance, staring into the abyss. Hardison is focused on his computer screen, the sketch taking up nearly a fourth of the page. He always sits tensely in his chair, his body reflecting the alertness of his mind, poised to circumvent any obstacle.
He's in the center. He always is. Although, he didn't used to be. If she had the older books and was inclined to such inner examinations, she could track his slow orbit to the center of her days. She's not, though, and the books are long lost.
Sometimes they get left behind when she has to leave town quickly. Two were tucked away in her office when Sterling caused Hardison to blow it up. Other times, she'll burn them, watching the white dissolve into the orange blue flames, crumpling into black ash. The scent wafts up and tickles her nose; she smiles. She likes fire, likes the way it cauterizes wounds and gives life a chance to start again.
The books serve a greater purpose than bearing silent witness. She draws because it centers her, allows her mind to sort through the day and to file everything away in the proper spots. She'd go crazy, otherwise, her mind drowning in a sea of information. She doesn't consider herself an artist because drawing is simply something she does, venting the chaos in her mind, highlighting the important things. No buxom elves or killer orcs for her, merely reality.
She draws only the images she sees, the events that swirl around her in dizzying succession. From the very first sketchbook, she is absent from the pages. Her world is built on the grittiness of concrete dust on fingertips and the bite of the wind as she plunges towards an unyielding ground. Ephemeral sensations to capture in any medium and so she remains undrawn.
Nearing the end of this sketchbook now, and it should be burned. There are too many memories inside that could be used against them. She's not willing to put them all at risk for lines of graphite. Yet, on the last page, when the skritching of the pencil has faded, as the dust mites dance in the sunbeam, she hesitates. The matches lie next to her toes, the metal trash can within easy reach, and yet she holds back.
Hardison is wearing his nice suit, smiling down at the woman in his arms. The woman's face is turned, facing an invisible mirror, her head tucking neatly under Hardison's chin. She is wearing a flirty dress with painful heels. Her feet twitch in remembrance. Sophie had forced them on her, insisting that proper shoes were necessary for the con. She feels again that moment of shock, looking at herself in Hardison's arms.
She has drawn herself for the first time, as part of the center with Hardison. A part of the world around her.
When the sunlight fades, she will be at the store, buying a new sketchpad. She doesn't have a coupon this time, but she will steal two good pencils from Hardison later to make herself feel better about the money. She walks home to her apartment, humming a waltz under her breath. The matches are away in a drawer and the trash can is shoved underneath the window. The pencil case is hidden under the bed and the top shelf of the bookcase is empty, waiting for the new sketchbook.
In another part of town, not known to anyone but herself, there are her emergency supplies. These are the things she will need when the fire comes through and it's time to start over again. Tucked into her backpack is a sketchbook with a creased left corner and fingerprint smudges on the back.
It's not that she needs help remembering; she cannot forget. She's learned, though, some memories are worth the extra weight.
Pairings: Parker/Hardison
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: 1122ish
Summary: Parker draws.
Author's Notes: Okay, so renisanz has a tumblr, right, and she posts this. @Menacherie tweets it and I see it at like 7am this morning. It immediately seized my brain and I have almost literally spent every second of my free time today working on this fic. renisanz is SUCH a bad influence on me...
Her apartment straddles the border between the good and bad sides of town. If she thought of such things, she might call it a metaphor, but it really came down to the fact that the rent is cheap and she hates spending her own money. It's furnished simply, all cheap plywood and IKEA screws. Nothing she can't leave behind in a moment. There's a bookcase tucked away in the corner, filled with beat up paperbacks and stained hardcovers. She likes to have books around, even if she doesn't settle down to read them often. She'd much rather go to the western rooftop three buildings away that overlooks the river to watch the sunset.
Haphazardly lying across the books on the top shelf is a sketchbook. It gleams in comparison to the rest of the apartment. She bought it new at a craft store with a coupon. The cover is a bright sunny yellow and the bottom left corner has the slightest crease. Fingerprint smudges decorate the back. She swipes an eraser through them now and again, but leaves them unmolested for the most part. A purple translucent pencil case that holds an assortment of cheap pencils (and the odd good one she swipes from Hardison), some erasers, and a manual sharpener is tucked under the bed.
If she sits on the floor, back against her bed, feet firmly planted on the hardwood and her knees bent, the late afternoon sunlight will fall on the pad. The white of the paper glows then and she draws, using her pencil to chase away the brightness. This is her version of a photo album, perhaps with a bit of diary thrown in.
It's not that she needs help remembering; she cannot forget. Sometimes she wishes she could. There are some memories that are nearly too heavy to carry.
Bits of the day spill across the page: Nate frowning into a coffee cup, his forehead creased, his fingers tight around the mug. A profile of Sophie as she sits on Nate's couch, leaning forward to grab the clicker. Eliot's hands, knuckles scraped and bruised, as he tends to a basil plant on Nate's windowsill.
There are other moments here and there (a museum alarm box, the pigeon that watched her cross the street, a carton of Chinese food), but, in the center of the page, Hardison is laughing at something off screen, one hand flung in the air, the other resting on his knee. She always has to sharpen her pencil at least twice before she's finished with him.
Depending on her mood when she's completed the day's page, she may flip back to the past. Two days before, there is Sophie's foot, clad in some uncomfortable looking shoe, the lines of her calf disappearing into the white. Nate is at a table in the bar, reaching out to their newest client. Eliot, his hair tied back, fists raised in a training stance, staring into the abyss. Hardison is focused on his computer screen, the sketch taking up nearly a fourth of the page. He always sits tensely in his chair, his body reflecting the alertness of his mind, poised to circumvent any obstacle.
He's in the center. He always is. Although, he didn't used to be. If she had the older books and was inclined to such inner examinations, she could track his slow orbit to the center of her days. She's not, though, and the books are long lost.
Sometimes they get left behind when she has to leave town quickly. Two were tucked away in her office when Sterling caused Hardison to blow it up. Other times, she'll burn them, watching the white dissolve into the orange blue flames, crumpling into black ash. The scent wafts up and tickles her nose; she smiles. She likes fire, likes the way it cauterizes wounds and gives life a chance to start again.
The books serve a greater purpose than bearing silent witness. She draws because it centers her, allows her mind to sort through the day and to file everything away in the proper spots. She'd go crazy, otherwise, her mind drowning in a sea of information. She doesn't consider herself an artist because drawing is simply something she does, venting the chaos in her mind, highlighting the important things. No buxom elves or killer orcs for her, merely reality.
She draws only the images she sees, the events that swirl around her in dizzying succession. From the very first sketchbook, she is absent from the pages. Her world is built on the grittiness of concrete dust on fingertips and the bite of the wind as she plunges towards an unyielding ground. Ephemeral sensations to capture in any medium and so she remains undrawn.
Nearing the end of this sketchbook now, and it should be burned. There are too many memories inside that could be used against them. She's not willing to put them all at risk for lines of graphite. Yet, on the last page, when the skritching of the pencil has faded, as the dust mites dance in the sunbeam, she hesitates. The matches lie next to her toes, the metal trash can within easy reach, and yet she holds back.
Hardison is wearing his nice suit, smiling down at the woman in his arms. The woman's face is turned, facing an invisible mirror, her head tucking neatly under Hardison's chin. She is wearing a flirty dress with painful heels. Her feet twitch in remembrance. Sophie had forced them on her, insisting that proper shoes were necessary for the con. She feels again that moment of shock, looking at herself in Hardison's arms.
She has drawn herself for the first time, as part of the center with Hardison. A part of the world around her.
When the sunlight fades, she will be at the store, buying a new sketchpad. She doesn't have a coupon this time, but she will steal two good pencils from Hardison later to make herself feel better about the money. She walks home to her apartment, humming a waltz under her breath. The matches are away in a drawer and the trash can is shoved underneath the window. The pencil case is hidden under the bed and the top shelf of the bookcase is empty, waiting for the new sketchbook.
In another part of town, not known to anyone but herself, there are her emergency supplies. These are the things she will need when the fire comes through and it's time to start over again. Tucked into her backpack is a sketchbook with a creased left corner and fingerprint smudges on the back.
It's not that she needs help remembering; she cannot forget. She's learned, though, some memories are worth the extra weight.