Fluff, Relationships, and Traditions
This entry is part 52 of 52 in the series 365 Challenge
So characters have habits, ways they interact with certain people and situations, things they do and like to do, stories and histories together. I've known a lot of my characters' for a long time but getting them all into fic is interesting, particularly for the ones I don't know that for.
I've ( Read more... )
“Rachelle,” Heather admonished breathlessly, but didn’t stop running helter skelter after the rather agile grey and charcoal tabby she was chasing. “She’s mine, and I’ll keep her indoors any time you’re coming over.”
A material point. Pets had the unfortunate side effect of dragging in a world of genetic contamination, something Rachelle could tolerate only in moderation. But she settled in at her side of the folding table and watched the kitten leap up into a patch of sunlight on the table in front of her. The kitten turned around once, eyeing her tail suspiciously, and caught sight of her shadow.
“Mew!” Up she went onto Rachelle’s shoulders and turned around to stare at where her shadow had been a moment before.
Rachelle started laughing.
“She can be our mascot,” Heather said, sitting down with a whoosh of a sigh to crack open her portable computer. “For the company.”
The kitten sniffed at Rachelle’s hair, then gingerly stepped to the other shoulder. Upon seeing Rachelle did not react beyond raising her eyebrows and mouth in a smile of amusement, the cat laid out across her, clearly content.
“She’s worse than Sophocles,” Rachelle pointed out. She reached up and carefully tugged the kitten into her hand, over meowing protests, and let the kitten curl up against her arm in her lap, tail twitching contentedly.
“She’s afraid of her own shadow,” Heather commented morosely. “That’s her name. Shadow.”
Rachelle rubbed the purring cat with her thumb and opened her own portable with her other hand. “Fitting.”
So much for no.
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Such a funny and cute little kitten.
And Rachelle is kind of a sucker for cats, even if she'd never admit it.
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I can tell I'm going to like little Shadow.
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Shadow is a very likeable kitten. :)
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Hm...
Must see if I CAN find a cute Justus moment.
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I think his reaction to being called "cute" would be a bit priceless.
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Justus had been innocently sipping a carbonated soda when she made that comment, and he almost lost it quite uncomfortably when she did. He swallowed down the burn and the last of the liquid then answered, “I am not like a cat.”
“What are you two talking about?” Rachelle asked as she breezed in from his living room and into his kitchen. Perfect timing, though judging from the look on her face, it had been entirely intentional.
“He is like a cat,” Heather insisted, plunking her elbow on his upper counter and ticking off on her fingers: “He’s independent, doesn’t like to up a chair he’s already in, won’t change his mind unless you throw him off the top of something, and you like him.”
Justus was glad he hadn’t drunk any more soda.
Rachelle looked amused and added, “I suppose he’s furry too?”
“Of course, not.” Heather laughed. “But admit it, you like cats.”
“Sophocles and Shadow,” Rachelle corrected. “I put up with Sophocles because he’s warm and cuddly when I want to hold onto something and I like Shadow because she’s so skittish, she’s cute.”
Justus rolled his eyes. “I’m not skittish either.” Then to Heather, “Or cute.”
“Cute?” Rachelle tipped her head and appraised him. “Cute. Hm.” She padded into the kitchen and snagged a mug out of his cupboard to fill it with coffee, clearly still undecided. He almost protested the indecision when she beat him to speech with, “Actually, Heather, he was the one who tossed me out of a building.”
Heather’s mouth dropped open.
Rachelle sipped her coffee and grinned. “Now you are cute.”
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I was right: his reaction to being called cute was priceless. :)
And of course Rachelle gets the better of both of them in this conversation. Hehe.
I forgot: I think this is missing the word give: doesn’t like to up a chair he’s already in,
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Rachelle is a lot harder to throw off than even Justus, which makes it a lot easier for her to do that.
It's a dialect thing. You'll hear it in our house: up the chair, up the phone, up the popcorn. Means give up or hand over, etc.
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Someone should throw her off (not in a bad way, not necessarily, but then I can't think of her taking being thrown off in a good way, either.)
Oh. I've never heard it that way. It seemed like it was missing a word. Then again, I can't hardly use the dialect of my house. No one would understand, and the explanation would be humiliating for certain parties.
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I don't know why I just thought maybe pregnancy would, but then she's not the type to let that sneak up on her.
And I'm not sure that would shock her, either.
Hmm...
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She didn’t intend on waking him up, but she wasn’t really trying for subtlety when it hit her like a slam in the gut, that sudden taste of genetic material that wasn’t his and wasn’t hers and wasn’t hitting her skin from anything outside.
Whyever on earth hadn’t she gotten sterilized when she first realized her ability was terminal?
Justus woke from his half-doze because the instant it hit her, she was sitting upright and hissing pain between her teeth, even though it wasn’t her body that was hurting. She scrambled out of the bed before he could roll over and reach her and snatched up his shirt to throw it on.
“Database? What’s wrong?” He was awake now, quiet operative voice, but she wasn’t heeding him because she was still dealing with this, pacing like a tiger in a cage, arms crossed over her stomach as she racked her brains over what to do, how was this possible, she’d been on birth control shots since they first started her valentining...
Idiot. She jammed her palms flat on the window and held herself there as she came to grips with the fact that attempt one to get her body on control had ‘healed’ away her temporary infertility.
Justus had gotten out of the bed by now. She heard his light footsteps behind her, felt his hand when it touched her waist, and she closed her eyes and leaned against the window.
“Battery Acid.” Name trailing softly, that tender, sharp handle that allowed her to be harsh and him to love her anyway.
She opened her eyes and looked out at the night. His house was ground-level and she missed the skyscraper view of her own apartment.
It might not go well; it might not last. It was a sad fact of life that most pregnancies died before they got off the ground. But she would know. Her ability to process genetic data took away the option of ignorance.
“I’m pregnant.”
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Poor baby. :(
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Now, must find fluffy off-guard to cheer you up.
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:(
Of course, I did kind of ask for it/suggest it.
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