Questions and Answers. EMELAN.
Evvy is fifteen and pushes, pushing, pushes. Rosethorn can't help but push back. (Bi-Fandom SFF Emelan F/F.)
PG-13
Evvy is fifteen and pushes, pushing, pushes. She wants answers and she wants questions and sometimes Rosethorn can’t give her either of those things. Lark is better at that, but Evvy won’t have Lark.
Rosethorn doesn’t especially like children. She certainly dislikes teenagers and Evvy is no longer a child. She tells Rosethorn so every time one of her questions meets with an unsatisfactory answer. Her eyes snap and it’s only through, Rosethorn suspects, great power of will that her foot stays firmly and quietly on the ground when she says “I’m not a child.”
It’s hard, then, not to respond with an equally juvenile answer. Sometimes Rosethorn can’t quite stop herself and Evvy gets angry. She wishes the girl had attached onto Lark instead. Lark would know what to do and no one would get burned quite so badly.
When they come back to Discipline she tries to pass Evvy off on Lark. “You have more in common with her,” she says.
Lark blinks slowly. “You mean we’re both reformed street rats?” She gives Rosethorn a sweetly wry look. “A small similarity in our backgrounds won’t make up for some greater disparities in our character.”
“You’re better at children than I am,” Rosethorn says desperately.
“All it is, love, is practice.” Lark smiles. “And look how well you did with Briar.”
Rosethorn scowls. “He’s a boy. It’s different.”
“She doesn’t want me,” Lark says simply. “She wants you. There it is.”
Yes, there it is. Evvy won’t let Rosethorn out of this. Another reason to miss Briar.
*
Evvy pushes. Rosethorn pushes back, pushes away. Neither of them is perfect and maybe that’s why it doesn’t work. Evvy is fifteen and nothing if not committed.
*
“Why not?” Evvy says. She has a cat folded in her arms. Both stare at Rosethorn with enormous eyes.
“We can’t take cats on a boat.”
“Cats love boats,” Evvy says.
“No one loves boats,” snaps Rosethorn.
Evvy’s chin sticks out. “Cats do.”
Rosethorn breathes out. Slowly. “It’s too expensive.”
Evvy’s bright eyes dim. Even the cat looks upset, and Rosethorn just saved him from a prolonged sea voyage. “Oh,” Evvy says softly, and leaves.
Money is the only thing that can discourage Evvy. All the spirit goes out of her when Rosethorn uses it as an excuse. Never mind that it’s true, of course. Rosethorn glances at Lark, whose face is carefully free of reproach.
“She’ll miss the cats,” Lark says.
“I’ll miss you, but I’m not taking you along with us,” Rosethorn says tartly.
“That you’re not,” murmurs Lark.
*
The first thing Evvy sees when they climb aboard the ship is the cat. She shoots Rosethorn a reproachful glance. Rosethorn can’t even manage to explain that ships’ cats are different from house cats, however well traveled Evvy’s might be.
“You said - ” Evvy begins.
“No,” says Rosethorn.
“But - ”
“It’s too late to get the cats now, Evvy,” Rosethorn says wearily.
“We could - ”
“No.”
No.
No.
*
Evvy throws up three times in her first twenty-four hours aboard. The sailors are kind enough to ignore her, or at least to keep the worst of their remarks out of Evvy’s earshot. Not that either of them would really notice if they were being made a mockery of. They have other things to worry about.
Rosethorn strokes Evvy’s hair away from her forehead.
“Maybe it’s good we didn’t bring the cats,” Evvy says weakly.
“I brought ginger,” Rosethorn tells her. “You need to lie down now.”
“All right,” Evvy says. But she doesn’t move. Her fingers clench around the ship’s rail and her knuckles have long since turned white. “I think I have a splinter in my left hand.”
“Evvy,” Rosethorn says gently. “I’ll knock you out if I really have to.”
“Just - ” Evvy tries. “I want to lie down.”
Rosethorn is not a terribly large woman. But, luckily, neither is Evvy. She folds the girl against her, like one of the cats. Evvy’s hands and face are cold and her eyes are dulled, but the rest of her is warm, held so close against Rosethorn.
“Do you want the ginger on its own?” asks Rosethorn.
Evvy runs her tongue over her lips. “Please.”
Given her elastic personality, Evvy’s quick recovery from the seasickness shouldn’t surprise Rosethorn at all. She stays in the cabin though, sleeping. Rosethorn can’t stand to stay there very long, but Rosethorn has never been seasick in her life. Evvy isn’t alone, though - the ship’s cat seems to like their room. Another reason for her to stay there.
If the sailors and captain don’t exactly welcome Rosethorn on deck, they don’t growl at her too much either. Their sense of self-preservation is too good for that, no doubt. She knows enough about space and ships to keep out of their way whenever possible. The rhythms of life on the sea are steady enough that Rosethorn can meditate. And she sorely needs to meditate.
Yanjing hit Briar hardest and she still doesn’t know quite why, but neither Rosethorn nor Evvy escaped unscathed.
*
Rosethorn is too old for nightmares and she has seen worse than Yanjing had to offer her. But Evvy is not too old, and a childhood on the streets did her only the smallest bit more of good than it did Briar. What they saw in Yanjing hurt something in Evvy as well. And Evvy is not too old for nightmares.
When Rosethorn wakes in the night, it is because she hears Evvy tossing in the other bunk. She can’t tell immediately if it is the nightmares or the seasickness, it is too dark for that.
Evvy’s bunk is under the porthole. The moon shines on her face, turning it dull silver and shining with sweat. Rosethorn steps from her bed, moving quickly despite the movement of the ship. She can see that Evvy’s hair is plastered to her forehead in dark, damp tendrils. She is dreaming, then, Rosethorn knows. Not seasickness after all.
She reaches out a hand, gentler than might be expected, to bring Evvy out of her nightmares. It surprises her, how quickly it happens. Evvy springs upwards, her scream or shout dying before it passes her lips. She clings to Rosethorn, burying her damp face in her shoulder and her hands clasp around Rosethorn’s neck.
“Sh…” says Rosethorn. She thinks that she has never been lauded for her ability to comfort those in need of it, wishes again in the back of her mind that Lark were here instead.
And then, of course, Evvy kisses her.
Her lips are arid, though the sweat on her face has not dried, and her mouth is hot. Rosethorn jerks away, feels the press of Evvy’s lips against her skin, branded and burned. They would be quite visible in a mirror, she thinks, white-hot and painful. But the pain will fade in a few days -
Evvy draws a breath, shaking still. She has buried her face once more between Rosethorn’s neck and shoulder. Her eyes are open, though; Rosethorn can feel the flutter of her lashes through her nightgown. “A bad dream, then,” Rosethorn murmurs.
The only response she gets at first is a raw, fragile gasp. Then Evvy presses tight against Rosethorn, so that if Rosethorn wanted to (and she doesn’t) she would be able to feel the butterfly flutterings of Evvy’s heart blood.
“Please,” Evvy says. Rosethorn would have an easier time saying no to man in the desert, asking for water.
“No,” she says. “Evvy, this isn’t the answer.” They don’t let go of each other, though. They still cling there, almost alone on the sea. Rosethorn can allow that much cruel kindness.
But it is not the answer.
Questions and Answers @ The Dancing Dove.