Crossover drabbles #1
Notes: These are short and random, done for the drabble meme du jour, hence the preponderance of weird fandoms. More to follow!
He doesn't know what it is about her, in this place of hot sun and bright color, that makes him think silver, and moon on the waves. The water's warm here, the nights are short, and Lilia herself -- she's darker than his sister, and God, so young, but she has the same black hair and delicate bones and watchful eyes. She has the same fierce care for her family, whom he's never met, as Clar has for him -- the last of theirs. Maybe it's only that likeness that says moonlight to him.
But he doesn't really think so.
* * *
"Oh I see," Annuska says, in that tone of hers that suggests she's astounded by her own perception. "That is clever." She looks back at Mickey with as much admiration as if he'd invented the toaster himself, which he has to admit is not unpleasant.
"Yeah," he says, diplomatically, "it is pretty neat. Here, you give it a go--"
So Annuska makes toast, with the focused delight of a child one-quarter her age, and they eat it with strawberry jam beside the kitchen fireplace. She says the jam is made by Sir Percival, and he figures she's probably not kidding.
* * *
He's thought about it, of course. Who could do otherwise? --faced with eyes like hers, arms like hers, poise like hers. Wanda has a grace he hasn't seen in years -- Molly is a lovely woman, he adores Molly, but so English -- and a laugh he'd love to hear under the covers.
But there's that reserve, even when she's laughing, that sense of a boundary he shouldn't push. So Courfeyrac doesn't. He teases her as she teases him, cheerful and easy, and lets it go at that. It doesn't matter; he doesn't need a reason to be in love with her.
* * *
The first thing she learns is that Martel is not, like so many men, easily lulled. He knows her for a killer, to begin with; that puts her at a disadvantage-- though at the same time it's exhilarating, not to have to pretend to a spineless virtue. But even if he hadn't, Anna knows she would need to tread carefully with this man, whose dark eyes see more than she means to show.
Guile will not serve here. Neither, she suspects, will seduction, even if she were practiced in it. Instead, with conscious decision, she takes honesty for her weapon.
He doesn't know what it is about her, in this place of hot sun and bright color, that makes him think silver, and moon on the waves. The water's warm here, the nights are short, and Lilia herself -- she's darker than his sister, and God, so young, but she has the same black hair and delicate bones and watchful eyes. She has the same fierce care for her family, whom he's never met, as Clar has for him -- the last of theirs. Maybe it's only that likeness that says moonlight to him.
But he doesn't really think so.
* * *
"Oh I see," Annuska says, in that tone of hers that suggests she's astounded by her own perception. "That is clever." She looks back at Mickey with as much admiration as if he'd invented the toaster himself, which he has to admit is not unpleasant.
"Yeah," he says, diplomatically, "it is pretty neat. Here, you give it a go--"
So Annuska makes toast, with the focused delight of a child one-quarter her age, and they eat it with strawberry jam beside the kitchen fireplace. She says the jam is made by Sir Percival, and he figures she's probably not kidding.
* * *
He's thought about it, of course. Who could do otherwise? --faced with eyes like hers, arms like hers, poise like hers. Wanda has a grace he hasn't seen in years -- Molly is a lovely woman, he adores Molly, but so English -- and a laugh he'd love to hear under the covers.
But there's that reserve, even when she's laughing, that sense of a boundary he shouldn't push. So Courfeyrac doesn't. He teases her as she teases him, cheerful and easy, and lets it go at that. It doesn't matter; he doesn't need a reason to be in love with her.
* * *
The first thing she learns is that Martel is not, like so many men, easily lulled. He knows her for a killer, to begin with; that puts her at a disadvantage-- though at the same time it's exhilarating, not to have to pretend to a spineless virtue. But even if he hadn't, Anna knows she would need to tread carefully with this man, whose dark eyes see more than she means to show.
Guile will not serve here. Neither, she suspects, will seduction, even if she were practiced in it. Instead, with conscious decision, she takes honesty for her weapon.