Drabble: lost her name but found a new one (The Inside, Pony Man/Becky/Rebecca, R)
Title: lost her name but found a new one
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: The Inside, Pony Man/Becky/Rebecca, R
More info: Written for lodessa's declared OT3 Day (5-19-08)
Clearer than usual you can see the not you and the him, the dust settling around the memory and you take a hesitant step hardly shaking. Your eyes are clear and your breath even and you peer into her eyes, expecting fear or some sort of weakness, but she smiles, a lopsided movement of lips, something you remember from photographs.
"Hey," the not you says casually, flopping back on the bed. "What are you doing here?" She knows you. Of course she does. You don't know what else you should have expected. He looks up at the noise, presses his old, stained fingers to the table. His eyes change. He knows you too. Of course he does.
You're in a nice work suit, but you remember the rules so you start to undo the top button, glancing around, trusting your vision, trusting your senses, because they're all you have in this place. The man pushes his chair back and the sound that it makes is loud in the dusty silence, the not you making that twisty smile again, bouncing a little on the bed, scooting back against the moldy pillows. You can smell it from here, the decay. He's not as tall as you remember, perhaps, but still, taller than last time, and the scars, you don't know the scars on his face. You squint your eyes, blinking fast, unsure of him for a moment.
"Becky," he says, and the not you hops up from the bed, slinking to his side, her movements silent. Your blouse is off now, but he shakes his head. "Becky, you know that's not necessary." His voice is full of un-smoothed rocks, like a tumbler, shaking the rough edges free. Are his teeth sharp like the gravel that bites your knees? You know they are. You remember. He touches his stained fingers to your cheek and you shiver and you remember shivering the same way, in memories before, in lives before.
You are held together by a string and this child, this girl you hardly know, this girl with your face and your hair and your body, this girl with your name, she watches him with empty eyes and sits under his shaking hand and spreads her legs and turns to you and twists her lips. You brush the dust farther from the memory and claw your way closer, smelling it on them, smelling it on yourself. You know he won't touch you, not like this. But you want him to - because sometimes you forget, sometimes you can't smell him anymore. You want him to look your way so your hand can pass over the girl who isn't you in blessing.
The cobwebs press back in when he touches your hair - her hair - and your heels click on the cement floor. It's all that's left of this place, that, and the files in Web's office. Boxes of evidence, among them, the charred remains of a matchbox. It's a nice evening. You're thinking about getting an ice cream, watching the wildfires.
Author: aphrodite_mine
Info: The Inside, Pony Man/Becky/Rebecca, R
More info: Written for lodessa's declared OT3 Day (5-19-08)
Clearer than usual you can see the not you and the him, the dust settling around the memory and you take a hesitant step hardly shaking. Your eyes are clear and your breath even and you peer into her eyes, expecting fear or some sort of weakness, but she smiles, a lopsided movement of lips, something you remember from photographs.
"Hey," the not you says casually, flopping back on the bed. "What are you doing here?" She knows you. Of course she does. You don't know what else you should have expected. He looks up at the noise, presses his old, stained fingers to the table. His eyes change. He knows you too. Of course he does.
You're in a nice work suit, but you remember the rules so you start to undo the top button, glancing around, trusting your vision, trusting your senses, because they're all you have in this place. The man pushes his chair back and the sound that it makes is loud in the dusty silence, the not you making that twisty smile again, bouncing a little on the bed, scooting back against the moldy pillows. You can smell it from here, the decay. He's not as tall as you remember, perhaps, but still, taller than last time, and the scars, you don't know the scars on his face. You squint your eyes, blinking fast, unsure of him for a moment.
"Becky," he says, and the not you hops up from the bed, slinking to his side, her movements silent. Your blouse is off now, but he shakes his head. "Becky, you know that's not necessary." His voice is full of un-smoothed rocks, like a tumbler, shaking the rough edges free. Are his teeth sharp like the gravel that bites your knees? You know they are. You remember. He touches his stained fingers to your cheek and you shiver and you remember shivering the same way, in memories before, in lives before.
You are held together by a string and this child, this girl you hardly know, this girl with your face and your hair and your body, this girl with your name, she watches him with empty eyes and sits under his shaking hand and spreads her legs and turns to you and twists her lips. You brush the dust farther from the memory and claw your way closer, smelling it on them, smelling it on yourself. You know he won't touch you, not like this. But you want him to - because sometimes you forget, sometimes you can't smell him anymore. You want him to look your way so your hand can pass over the girl who isn't you in blessing.
The cobwebs press back in when he touches your hair - her hair - and your heels click on the cement floor. It's all that's left of this place, that, and the files in Web's office. Boxes of evidence, among them, the charred remains of a matchbox. It's a nice evening. You're thinking about getting an ice cream, watching the wildfires.