(no subject)
How do you respond to pressure?
Neither of them were in a good mood today. She had all her work spread out in front of her, up on the tapestry loom, piles of bright colors by the wheel, the globe sat by the brick of clay, everything was set up and she sat curled up on her stool and glared balefully at all of it. As though it would spontaneously combust out of her irritation or work itself into something beautiful.
Behind her, he paced. Not bothering to open his mouth because she snapped at him the last time he suggested either resting or working. Pick a damn color at random, do something. But just do it.
A thump rattled the windows and knocked her off her stool in startlement. "What the hell was that?"
Most people would have gone to the windows to check. The Sorcerer gave her a pained look, eyes blank for a moment and then focused again. "You know what."
"Son of a bitch." She stood up and kicked the stool over out of pique, knocking over several cones of yarn and a disgruntled looking mouse. "Remind me again why I don't hibernate all winter?"
"Do you want that alphabetically or categorically by order of magnitude or whatever first comes to mind? You've had your last snit over that for the year the last time you got roundly ignored, grow up. You know how this works, and you know it's not fair."
She turned on her heel and glared at him. "You're in a pissy mood today."
"Today?"
The resultant fight destroyed whatever was left of order in the workshop. Yelling, throwing things, more yelling. It ended with her curled on the floor in a pile of yarn cones and skeins and wool puffs, little bottles of paint and statuettes crushed under her feet. He pulled an arm with a sword out of the arch of her foot, crossed her arms in front of her so she was bundled up the way she was trying not to be, and then pulled her into his arms and held her close.
"I thought you were supposed to grow out of the he doesn't love me anymore woe once you got past adolesence."
"Shut up," she muttered, smiling into his shoulder. "It's been a long week."
"You're telling me? You know we're impossible at taking care of ourselves. Please?"
The thumps had died down sometime during the fight; now there was just silence. He looked down at her, tiny in his arms, tiny shoulders to bear him and tiny hands to take care of him. No, it wasn't fair, but that was the way it was. Grace under pressure, while he usually just exploded.
She sighed. Didn't look up at him, or at him, or any such thing, but she got up and grabbed two, three, four cones of yarn without looking. They were the right colors, they had to be.
"What are you doing?"
She snorted. "Weaving a cloak. Someone's got to keep you dry when you don't have enough sense to come home and in out of the rain."
A few minutes later she looked up and saw him sketching at her painting table. It made her smile a little, until (or even more so) when she saw he was drawing a picture of himself being smooshed by a 50 ton cartoon anvil she was beating him with. She did, at least, wait until he was mostly done to throw the stuffed turtle at his head.
"Brat."
"Bitch."
Neither of them were in a good mood today. She had all her work spread out in front of her, up on the tapestry loom, piles of bright colors by the wheel, the globe sat by the brick of clay, everything was set up and she sat curled up on her stool and glared balefully at all of it. As though it would spontaneously combust out of her irritation or work itself into something beautiful.
Behind her, he paced. Not bothering to open his mouth because she snapped at him the last time he suggested either resting or working. Pick a damn color at random, do something. But just do it.
A thump rattled the windows and knocked her off her stool in startlement. "What the hell was that?"
Most people would have gone to the windows to check. The Sorcerer gave her a pained look, eyes blank for a moment and then focused again. "You know what."
"Son of a bitch." She stood up and kicked the stool over out of pique, knocking over several cones of yarn and a disgruntled looking mouse. "Remind me again why I don't hibernate all winter?"
"Do you want that alphabetically or categorically by order of magnitude or whatever first comes to mind? You've had your last snit over that for the year the last time you got roundly ignored, grow up. You know how this works, and you know it's not fair."
She turned on her heel and glared at him. "You're in a pissy mood today."
"Today?"
The resultant fight destroyed whatever was left of order in the workshop. Yelling, throwing things, more yelling. It ended with her curled on the floor in a pile of yarn cones and skeins and wool puffs, little bottles of paint and statuettes crushed under her feet. He pulled an arm with a sword out of the arch of her foot, crossed her arms in front of her so she was bundled up the way she was trying not to be, and then pulled her into his arms and held her close.
"I thought you were supposed to grow out of the he doesn't love me anymore woe once you got past adolesence."
"Shut up," she muttered, smiling into his shoulder. "It's been a long week."
"You're telling me? You know we're impossible at taking care of ourselves. Please?"
The thumps had died down sometime during the fight; now there was just silence. He looked down at her, tiny in his arms, tiny shoulders to bear him and tiny hands to take care of him. No, it wasn't fair, but that was the way it was. Grace under pressure, while he usually just exploded.
She sighed. Didn't look up at him, or at him, or any such thing, but she got up and grabbed two, three, four cones of yarn without looking. They were the right colors, they had to be.
"What are you doing?"
She snorted. "Weaving a cloak. Someone's got to keep you dry when you don't have enough sense to come home and in out of the rain."
A few minutes later she looked up and saw him sketching at her painting table. It made her smile a little, until (or even more so) when she saw he was drawing a picture of himself being smooshed by a 50 ton cartoon anvil she was beating him with. She did, at least, wait until he was mostly done to throw the stuffed turtle at his head.
"Brat."
"Bitch."