[Witches' Horses] Swallow's Tail
Title: oh, he dances.
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Petrovich, Helena
Prompt: 32B "odd"
Word Count: 223
Notes: "And . . that doesn't strike you as the tiniest bit odd?"
He's pacing, back and forth in small angry circles like he used to do when he couldn't think of why something wasn't working. She's watching him doing it, flopped on a seat and just her head moving to track him.
"--And he hasn't stopped smiling for the last day--are you listening to me?" he demands, stopping short.
"Mmhmm," she tells him, and she is. She's quite pleased, too. Means the kid remembers her, as more'n just something to--heh--strive for. She can still feel his hands on her, though he never pressed hard enough to mark, not even over the scars she's picked up in the course of a life spent half in the black.
"And . ." he trails off, just a little, uncertain, "that doesn't strike you as the tiniest bit odd? Not much to do out here, brings a smile like that to a man's face."
"You'd be surprised, sir," she tells him, and doesn't smile. She wears calmness like a coat, most days; in the war he'd used to read orders that way. She went too calm, too still, or she started fraying at the edges, he knew something was wrong, needed fixin', fast.
Now it just covers the way she feels like a big cat just got petted, all her fur smoothed and her skin humming with it.
Boy can dance.
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Petrovich, Helena
Prompt: 32B "odd"
Word Count: 223
Notes: "And . . that doesn't strike you as the tiniest bit odd?"
He's pacing, back and forth in small angry circles like he used to do when he couldn't think of why something wasn't working. She's watching him doing it, flopped on a seat and just her head moving to track him.
"--And he hasn't stopped smiling for the last day--are you listening to me?" he demands, stopping short.
"Mmhmm," she tells him, and she is. She's quite pleased, too. Means the kid remembers her, as more'n just something to--heh--strive for. She can still feel his hands on her, though he never pressed hard enough to mark, not even over the scars she's picked up in the course of a life spent half in the black.
"And . ." he trails off, just a little, uncertain, "that doesn't strike you as the tiniest bit odd? Not much to do out here, brings a smile like that to a man's face."
"You'd be surprised, sir," she tells him, and doesn't smile. She wears calmness like a coat, most days; in the war he'd used to read orders that way. She went too calm, too still, or she started fraying at the edges, he knew something was wrong, needed fixin', fast.
Now it just covers the way she feels like a big cat just got petted, all her fur smoothed and her skin humming with it.
Boy can dance.