Cycles (1/1)
Title: Cycles
Part: 1 of 1
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Dollhouse
Word Count: 691
Rating: PG-13, and dark
Spoilers: Through 2x10 "The Attic"
Characters: Victor/Sierra, Priya/Tony, etc.
Excerpt: She looks into those warm-molasses eyes and can't figure out why she trusts him, and something is whispering inside of her that she needs to know.
Author's Note: This just came out, so. I think it's been hiding around here for awhile.
+
Every morning brings another scare for her. Helicopter after helicopter whips overhead, and she never gets used to it. Victor - Tony - doesn't either, but he pretends not to shudder when she's in the room and she pretends not to notice him, and anyway the helicopters never land where they are.
The beach makes her uncomfortable - something about the way chalk-bright rays of sun scatter the lines of her vision - but she feels like she should somehow, has so many vague memories of sand and sun and good that it never stops being a disappointment when she goes out for two-hour walks and comes back in fifteen minutes.
Sometimes Tony's eyes are red and teary from the headaches, from the struggle of trying to focus on the world in front of him, and she takes his hands without a word. Once, and then again and again and again, he leads her into the shower and they stand there together underneath the spray, washing everything off. His skin tastes soapy and she revels in that bitterness, and has decided not to care why.
She teaches him to skip stones; he makes her pancakes for breakfast; and they still smile at each other for no reason at all. It works, mostly. It's enough, and something tells her, too, that she's lucky to have that.
She hates him. She hates him for ignoring her and she loves him because she can see how hard it is for him, and then she hates herself for that.
She's sick of hating herself, but the pills don't help that and they don't help the headaches. All she knows is that when she stops taking them, it's even worse.
It goes in cycles. There's comfort in it, after awhile. She knows that sooner or later she will end up in the pool maintenance closet, in the pods, behind an electronics panel, holding him in her arms again. He breathes steady against her; he's warm, he who always looks cold when she catches his eye from across the room. It's worth the other end of the cycle, the low point of the sinusoid.
The drink he buys her is delicious, and that's how she knows this is different, because the drink he buys her is a coffee with milk from the single Dunkin Donuts that's still open, and the coffee is quite burned. She raises her eyebrow at him, laughs at his jokes just to see him smile, and sips the drink like it's creamy caramel cider. An art collector from Italy.
I never would have thought, she muses.
That's what makes life so simply gorgeous.
For the first time in a long time she thinks she knows where she is, because she's next to a him and she's not scared.
She presses her hand to his, palm to palm, to see whose is bigger. His fingers are chubbier and only the slightest bit longer. She looks into those warm-molasses eyes and can't figure out why she trusts him, and something is whispering inside of her that she needs to know.
"I want to touch you," he says, guileless.
She scoots closer, aligning their bodies like the grain of a hardwood floor. This feels strong; she recognizes that because it resembles nothing else she knows, right now.
She smiles. "So touch me," she whispers, and his hands are so slow across her body, they turn the arch of her back to syrup.
It's going to end. Someone will find them. Someone with a gun.
They both know it, but the light and the dark of the sky are theirs now, for who knows how long. They drag each other forward, step by maddening step, and so the fuck what if there's an avalanche waiting at the finish line. She's not trying to dream; her brain can't handle directional movement. She just closes her eyes into the sudsy sting on him, the water mingling with the sweat as her tongue washes it away. She remembers how to breathe, for the next time he forgets.
She stays awake as long as she can.
+
Poll Cycles
Part: 1 of 1
Author: ninamazing, or Nina
Fandom: Dollhouse
Word Count: 691
Rating: PG-13, and dark
Spoilers: Through 2x10 "The Attic"
Characters: Victor/Sierra, Priya/Tony, etc.
Excerpt: She looks into those warm-molasses eyes and can't figure out why she trusts him, and something is whispering inside of her that she needs to know.
Author's Note: This just came out, so. I think it's been hiding around here for awhile.
+
Every morning brings another scare for her. Helicopter after helicopter whips overhead, and she never gets used to it. Victor - Tony - doesn't either, but he pretends not to shudder when she's in the room and she pretends not to notice him, and anyway the helicopters never land where they are.
The beach makes her uncomfortable - something about the way chalk-bright rays of sun scatter the lines of her vision - but she feels like she should somehow, has so many vague memories of sand and sun and good that it never stops being a disappointment when she goes out for two-hour walks and comes back in fifteen minutes.
Sometimes Tony's eyes are red and teary from the headaches, from the struggle of trying to focus on the world in front of him, and she takes his hands without a word. Once, and then again and again and again, he leads her into the shower and they stand there together underneath the spray, washing everything off. His skin tastes soapy and she revels in that bitterness, and has decided not to care why.
She teaches him to skip stones; he makes her pancakes for breakfast; and they still smile at each other for no reason at all. It works, mostly. It's enough, and something tells her, too, that she's lucky to have that.
She hates him. She hates him for ignoring her and she loves him because she can see how hard it is for him, and then she hates herself for that.
She's sick of hating herself, but the pills don't help that and they don't help the headaches. All she knows is that when she stops taking them, it's even worse.
It goes in cycles. There's comfort in it, after awhile. She knows that sooner or later she will end up in the pool maintenance closet, in the pods, behind an electronics panel, holding him in her arms again. He breathes steady against her; he's warm, he who always looks cold when she catches his eye from across the room. It's worth the other end of the cycle, the low point of the sinusoid.
The drink he buys her is delicious, and that's how she knows this is different, because the drink he buys her is a coffee with milk from the single Dunkin Donuts that's still open, and the coffee is quite burned. She raises her eyebrow at him, laughs at his jokes just to see him smile, and sips the drink like it's creamy caramel cider. An art collector from Italy.
I never would have thought, she muses.
That's what makes life so simply gorgeous.
For the first time in a long time she thinks she knows where she is, because she's next to a him and she's not scared.
She presses her hand to his, palm to palm, to see whose is bigger. His fingers are chubbier and only the slightest bit longer. She looks into those warm-molasses eyes and can't figure out why she trusts him, and something is whispering inside of her that she needs to know.
"I want to touch you," he says, guileless.
She scoots closer, aligning their bodies like the grain of a hardwood floor. This feels strong; she recognizes that because it resembles nothing else she knows, right now.
She smiles. "So touch me," she whispers, and his hands are so slow across her body, they turn the arch of her back to syrup.
It's going to end. Someone will find them. Someone with a gun.
They both know it, but the light and the dark of the sky are theirs now, for who knows how long. They drag each other forward, step by maddening step, and so the fuck what if there's an avalanche waiting at the finish line. She's not trying to dream; her brain can't handle directional movement. She just closes her eyes into the sudsy sting on him, the water mingling with the sweat as her tongue washes it away. She remembers how to breathe, for the next time he forgets.
She stays awake as long as she can.
+
Poll Cycles