Revs the engine, she thinks to herself, laughing a little, smudging the polish on the end of her thumb. Christ, Tyler, you're shallow. She wipes the edge with a tissue dipped in acetone. Her own fingers are a little too short, she notices now. Just a bit too short and the knuckles are a little too wide. Not especially graceful hands. But then, they don't have to be. She's not the one turning coins into birds and birds into silk scarves and scarves into real snow that's cold to the touch. She just holds the box open or the ropes up or slips between the mirrors. She's another prop for him to touch, to twirl, to caress- magic, those beautiful fingers say to the crowd, against her skin, after the swords and throwing knives and glass. Nothing touches her but him. Magic.
"You're on in five," Eileen says, through the door. Rose blows on her nails and smiles to herself, humming under her breath. And then there's a tiny knock, a little tap, and Rose is already saying come in, because honestly, Eileen is like a mouse sometimes, and she can hear her perfectly well through the-
"Guess who," he says, hands over her eyes. She covers them with her own.
"Genghis Khan," she says. "David Beckham. Anatole France." He laughs and slips out of her grasp and sits down heavily in the chair next to her dressing table, legs sprawled out. He's already in the tux, but his tie's not done. He always wants her to do it, for reasons passing understanding. "I suppose I'm just terrible with names."
"Hush," he says, "you're splendid with them. Mine's not especially impressive." He takes her hand in his and rubs the edge of her thumb with his own. He glances at the bottle of polish. "Very Cherry?"
"Scarlet Siren."
"Touché," he smiles, absently. He doesn't let go. "You know," he says, "you've got the loveliest hands." Rose laughs out loud. "No, it's true. I watch you holding the doves, and I think- lucky birds. They're so soft."
"The doves?"
"The fingertips," he says, and puts one against his lips for a second. It's barely a kiss, and then he's wound his hands over and between hers again. "See, I knew it. They're perfect." And she looks down at them, her hand in his, red-tipped nails against his bitten-off ones, slim fingers and skinny knuckles, woven together, crossing over, secure. They look good together, tight and definite and fitting in all the right places. There are freckles on the back of her palm, and a scattering on his. There's a mole below his index finger. She presses it. This is what the scarves must feel like, she thinks, just before they become a hundred roses.
"I get it now," she says. And she does. Transformation, perception, timing. It's all in the wrist. Seeing the right thing at the right time and letting your brain miss the rest.
Magic.
"Get what?" he asks, too slow; and Rose kisses the question right out of his mouth.
Re: Doves.mylittlepwnyAugust 30 2011, 05:06:40 UTC
GIRL
Girl. I've been hoarding this all night, I'll have you know; I had to make myself wait an hour before reading it in all my excitement, which was a little over slightly ridiculous since immediately AFTER reading it I got like 34 times MORE EXCITED than I was BEFOREHAND, which sent me spiraling right back up into where all the trouble started in the first place.
SO YOU SEE. I have been hoarding this comment. And now I'm going to tell you that even though there were no vampire shenanigans or onstage tomfoolery, I sent in an official request to love this more, and was denied. Because I couldn't. Physically, I mean, I'm completely used up.
I can't be positive, I am not a doctor, but I think it's because of this
She's another prop for him to touch, to twirl, to caress- magic, those beautiful fingers say to the crowd, against her skin, after the swords and throwing knives and glass. Nothing touches her but him. Magic.
and little things like this
"Guess who," he says, hands over her eyes. She covers them with her own.
"Genghis Khan," she says. "David Beckham. Anatole France." He laughs and slips out of her grasp and sits down heavily in the chair next to her dressing table, legs sprawled out. He's already in the tux, but his tie's not done. He always wants her to do it, for reasons passing understanding. "I suppose I'm just terrible with names."
and this
He takes her hand in his and rubs the edge of her thumb with his own. He glances at the bottle of polish. "Very Cherry?"
"Scarlet Siren."
"Touché," he smiles, absently. He doesn't let go.
and bigger things like this
"You know," he says, "you've got the loveliest hands." Rose laughs out loud. "No, it's true. I watch you holding the doves, and I think- lucky birds. They're so soft."
"The doves?"
"The fingertips," he says, and puts one against his lips for a second. It's barely a kiss, and then he's wound his hands over and between hers again. "See, I knew it. They're perfect." And she looks down at them, her hand in his, red-tipped nails against his bitten-off ones, slim fingers and skinny knuckles, woven together, crossing over, secure. They look good together, tight and definite and fitting in all the right places. There are freckles on the back of her palm, and a scattering on his. There's a mole below his index finger. She presses it. This is what the scarves must feel like, she thinks, just before they become a hundred roses.
and perfect endings like this
"Get what?" he asks, too slow; and Rose kisses the question right out of his mouth.
I literally trembled with happiness while I was reading this, you ought to know. You lovely girl.
I sent in an official request to love this more, and was denied.
Something similar happened with me, except it was you, and I can't tell if I was denied or not. Let me tell you that I am definitely not clapping my hands and blowing kisses at the monitor.
This was fantastic. So few words, and you use them so beautifully, creating this entire world in just a few paragraphs. And a world I want to live in, too!
Transformation, perception, timing. It's all in the wrist. Seeing the right thing at the right time and letting your brain miss the rest.
Magic.
This is so amazing. I mean, the whole thing is stunning, but I loved this. And now I want more adventures of The Doctor as an illusionist and Rose being super lovely but also challenging, like, Why do you call yourself the Doctor when you're really a magician, and making friends with the doves, and having a subtle seduction go on and him not really noticing until the end after he's hooked because that's the magic of it, and all of the other wonderful scenarios that could take place.
Revs the engine, she thinks to herself, laughing a little, smudging the polish on the end of her thumb. Christ, Tyler, you're shallow. She wipes the edge with a tissue dipped in acetone. Her own fingers are a little too short, she notices now. Just a bit too short and the knuckles are a little too wide. Not especially graceful hands. But then, they don't have to be. She's not the one turning coins into birds and birds into silk scarves and scarves into real snow that's cold to the touch. She just holds the box open or the ropes up or slips between the mirrors. She's another prop for him to touch, to twirl, to caress- magic, those beautiful fingers say to the crowd, against her skin, after the swords and throwing knives and glass. Nothing touches her but him. Magic.
"You're on in five," Eileen says, through the door. Rose blows on her nails and smiles to herself, humming under her breath. And then there's a tiny knock, a little tap, and Rose is already saying come in, because honestly, Eileen is like a mouse sometimes, and she can hear her perfectly well through the-
"Guess who," he says, hands over her eyes. She covers them with her own.
"Genghis Khan," she says. "David Beckham. Anatole France." He laughs and slips out of her grasp and sits down heavily in the chair next to her dressing table, legs sprawled out. He's already in the tux, but his tie's not done. He always wants her to do it, for reasons passing understanding. "I suppose I'm just terrible with names."
"Hush," he says, "you're splendid with them. Mine's not especially impressive." He takes her hand in his and rubs the edge of her thumb with his own. He glances at the bottle of polish. "Very Cherry?"
"Scarlet Siren."
"Touché," he smiles, absently. He doesn't let go. "You know," he says, "you've got the loveliest hands." Rose laughs out loud. "No, it's true. I watch you holding the doves, and I think- lucky birds. They're so soft."
"The doves?"
"The fingertips," he says, and puts one against his lips for a second. It's barely a kiss, and then he's wound his hands over and between hers again. "See, I knew it. They're perfect." And she looks down at them, her hand in his, red-tipped nails against his bitten-off ones, slim fingers and skinny knuckles, woven together, crossing over, secure. They look good together, tight and definite and fitting in all the right places. There are freckles on the back of her palm, and a scattering on his. There's a mole below his index finger. She presses it. This is what the scarves must feel like, she thinks, just before they become a hundred roses.
"I get it now," she says. And she does. Transformation, perception, timing. It's all in the wrist. Seeing the right thing at the right time and letting your brain miss the rest.
Magic.
"Get what?" he asks, too slow; and Rose kisses the question right out of his mouth.
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(The comment has been removed)
Thank you!
Reply
Like magician's flash paper, this ficlet is a little burst of *ooh!*
What a bit of terrific! :D
Reply
*pulls a coin from behind your ear* lololol
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Reply
Girl. I've been hoarding this all night, I'll have you know; I had to make myself wait an hour before reading it in all my excitement, which was a little over slightly ridiculous since immediately AFTER reading it I got like 34 times MORE EXCITED than I was BEFOREHAND, which sent me spiraling right back up into where all the trouble started in the first place.
SO YOU SEE. I have been hoarding this comment. And now I'm going to tell you that even though there were no vampire shenanigans or onstage tomfoolery, I sent in an official request to love this more, and was denied. Because I couldn't. Physically, I mean, I'm completely used up.
I can't be positive, I am not a doctor, but I think it's because of this
She's another prop for him to touch, to twirl, to caress- magic, those beautiful fingers say to the crowd, against her skin, after the swords and throwing knives and glass. Nothing touches her but him. Magic.
and little things like this
"Guess who," he says, hands over her eyes. She covers them with her own.
"Genghis Khan," she says. "David Beckham. Anatole France." He laughs and slips out of her grasp and sits down heavily in the chair next to her dressing table, legs sprawled out. He's already in the tux, but his tie's not done. He always wants her to do it, for reasons passing understanding.
"I suppose I'm just terrible with names."
and this
He takes her hand in his and rubs the edge of her thumb with his own. He glances at the bottle of polish. "Very Cherry?"
"Scarlet Siren."
"Touché," he smiles, absently. He doesn't let go.
and bigger things like this
"You know," he says, "you've got the loveliest hands." Rose laughs out loud. "No, it's true. I watch you holding the doves, and I think- lucky birds. They're so soft."
"The doves?"
"The fingertips," he says, and puts one against his lips for a second. It's barely a kiss, and then he's wound his hands over and between hers again. "See, I knew it. They're perfect." And she looks down at them, her hand in his, red-tipped nails against his bitten-off ones, slim fingers and skinny knuckles, woven together, crossing over, secure. They look good together, tight and definite and fitting in all the right places. There are freckles on the back of her palm, and a scattering on his. There's a mole below his index finger. She presses it. This is what the scarves must feel like, she thinks, just before they become a hundred roses.
and perfect endings like this
"Get what?" he asks, too slow; and Rose kisses the question right out of his mouth.
Reply
I sent in an official request to love this more, and was denied.
Something similar happened with me, except it was you, and I can't tell if I was denied or not. Let me tell you that I am definitely not clapping my hands and blowing kisses at the monitor.
♥
Reply
Reply
Thank you!
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Reply
...at least it would explain the hat.
XD Thank you.
Reply
Magic.
This is so amazing. I mean, the whole thing is stunning, but I loved this. And now I want more adventures of The Doctor as an illusionist and Rose being super lovely but also challenging, like, Why do you call yourself the Doctor when you're really a magician, and making friends with the doves, and having a subtle seduction go on and him not really noticing until the end after he's hooked because that's the magic of it, and all of the other wonderful scenarios that could take place.
Reply
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