FIC: "This World Out Here" (K) Les Miserables & Finisterre
Title: This World Out Here
Author: Tiamat’s Child
Fandom/s: Les Miserables & Finisterre
Word Count: 1004
Rating: K
Characters/Pairing: Fantine, Jean Valjean, OCs
Summary: Fantine explains why she took the job, on the edge of winter, in a place she doesn't know.
Warnings: None.
Notes: This is a fusion crossover with C.J. Cherryh's Finsterre books: Rider at the Gate and Cloud's Rider. They're essentially survival adventure novels with pyschic wildlife and friendly, omnivorious, telepathic alien horses who seriously dig bacon. I have no real excuse.
This World Out Here
Jean Valjean could have used more < bacon and biscuits > himself. But if he started supper Nettle'd come back when he smelled it - on the wind or through Valjean's nose - and settle about within easy reach of sharing. That was fine in the ordinary run of things. Rain'd come too, if he were any judge, and that was fine, that was good, they'd all be wanting that soon.
But this bit was going to be easier if it were just the humans.
Jean Valjean added another bit of wood to the fire - just so. Bring it down to coals but not too far too fast. He could wish for potatoes. Nothing like a potato to make you feel home and safe. Nothing like a potato to hand, either.
He looked up, catty corner across the fire.
She was looking at him, of course. He'd known it. Her gaze was like a weight. She could do damage with it, but right now she wasn't looking to, he was sure.
She was all tucked in on herself, her knees to her chest, her arms about her shins, her back all curved so her legs and torso would fit together. Her eyes were like a cracked open emergency shutter after a storm, when the all clear'd been sounded but it was hard to believe just yet. Or maybe just before - when the alarm was coming and you knew but the bells weren't ringing. That moment, between safety and hiding: vanishing under threat.
It made him hurt like he was crying already.
He smiled.
“I had to leave,” she said. “They were acting wrong. I had to leave.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“I'm not stupid,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“I know even though Rain knows the mountains that doesn't mean I do, and she doesn't always
know what I can take. Shouldn't be out here alone.”
“You did good,” he said. “You did the best thing before you.”
She took a deep, deep breath, shaky at first but not so much later in. (Even if he didn't like the way it caught, like there was something closed in her lungs.) “Thanks,” she said, and that caught too, but he didn't think that was just her lungs.
He had to take a deep breath too, and he thought his shook more than hers.
“How long you an' Rain been together?” he asked.
“Four years,” she said. “Figure she's six now. Figure I'm twenty-three.”
“I'm fifty-one,” he told her. “Me'n Nettle've been together thirty-two years.”
“That's a long time,” she said.
He smiled.
“You don't look it,” she said.
He smiled again, but now he couldn't look at her. He looked into the fire instead. There wasn't any pattern to it. It was good like < clear water over round rocks >.
“I shouldn't have taken the job,” she said. “So damn stupid. Shouldn't have.”
It was like she couldn't say it if he was looking at her. Maybe she wasn't looking at him. He watched the fire.
Somewhere, Nettle had found < tasty bark >.
“Got a call,” she said. “My kid's in trouble. I have to have money. Got to get down there and take her - there's got to be someone else'll take a rider's kid. But I have to have money or she'll die before I get to her. So I took the job. Stupid.”
“I think you're brave,” Jean Valjean said, and looked away from the fire, because he couldn't say it if he weren't looking at her.
“I have money,” he said. And it was hard to say, suddenly, as if he'd been crying for hours, as if he'd never stop crying, even though he wasn't crying yet. “You can have whatever you need. Go wherever you need. Whatever you want.”
And now she wasn't looking at him like a shutter, but he couldn't say what it was her gaze was like anymore, except that it hurt and Nettle felt it too so he had to stop it, and he wanted the feeling to stop but he didn't want it to stop.
“Yeah?” she said, and it wasn't really like wary, but it wasn't really like confidence either. It was some kind of in-between Jean Valjean had never read a word for.
“Whatever you want,” he said again, but it didn't feel like he was saying it again. It held all the weight of the first time, like mountain sickness, like walking the last steps to the summit.
She stood up. “Since it's your supplies, figure you ought to get to pick: cook or wash?”
“Cook, please,” he answered, as Nettle thrust his head through the bramble. His concern washed over Jean Valjean, but < biscuits, bacon, hot berry sauce > Jean Valjean thought, and Nettle thought it too. Nettle knew him, and he knew if Valjean could think of food, he was not badly off. If Jean Valjean could think of eating, then everything else would come in train.
< Hot berry sauce >, Nettle thought cheerfully and loudly, and there was Rain, slipping through the bramble after him. She didn't recognize the thought and Nettle took it upon himself to explain - such a nice young mare, was the undercurrent of Nettle's reasoning, strong and brave and pretty. And unlucky, to not recognize hot berry sauce!
“Oh dear,” Jean Valjean said, as the ambient filled with a detailed imaging of all the salient characteristics of hot berry sauce from a nighthorse perspective.
She started to laugh. It was a soft, rolling, whole-hearted laugh that showed all her teeth. “Not going to regret you cooking, I bet. Not even if he's exaggerating.”
Valjean blushed. “I do my best,” he said. “But he isn't going to stop before he gets his berry sauce, I hope you realize. We're going to be very hungry soon.”
“Yeah, well,” Fantine said. “When food's coming, hunger's good. Only when it's not that it isn't. I'll get you water. Look,” she added, and crossed to him where he was opening his pack.
“Thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot.” She squeezed his shoulder, and he felt the press of her fingers even through his coat. “You're a good man,” she said, and left for the spring.
This entry was originally posted at http://tiamatschild.dreamwidth.org/79785.html. Please feel free to comment there using OpenID. Or here! It'll be read either way, is what I'm saying.
Author: Tiamat’s Child
Fandom/s: Les Miserables & Finisterre
Word Count: 1004
Rating: K
Characters/Pairing: Fantine, Jean Valjean, OCs
Summary: Fantine explains why she took the job, on the edge of winter, in a place she doesn't know.
Warnings: None.
Notes: This is a fusion crossover with C.J. Cherryh's Finsterre books: Rider at the Gate and Cloud's Rider. They're essentially survival adventure novels with pyschic wildlife and friendly, omnivorious, telepathic alien horses who seriously dig bacon. I have no real excuse.
This World Out Here
Jean Valjean could have used more < bacon and biscuits > himself. But if he started supper Nettle'd come back when he smelled it - on the wind or through Valjean's nose - and settle about within easy reach of sharing. That was fine in the ordinary run of things. Rain'd come too, if he were any judge, and that was fine, that was good, they'd all be wanting that soon.
But this bit was going to be easier if it were just the humans.
Jean Valjean added another bit of wood to the fire - just so. Bring it down to coals but not too far too fast. He could wish for potatoes. Nothing like a potato to make you feel home and safe. Nothing like a potato to hand, either.
He looked up, catty corner across the fire.
She was looking at him, of course. He'd known it. Her gaze was like a weight. She could do damage with it, but right now she wasn't looking to, he was sure.
She was all tucked in on herself, her knees to her chest, her arms about her shins, her back all curved so her legs and torso would fit together. Her eyes were like a cracked open emergency shutter after a storm, when the all clear'd been sounded but it was hard to believe just yet. Or maybe just before - when the alarm was coming and you knew but the bells weren't ringing. That moment, between safety and hiding: vanishing under threat.
It made him hurt like he was crying already.
He smiled.
“I had to leave,” she said. “They were acting wrong. I had to leave.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“I'm not stupid,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“I know even though Rain knows the mountains that doesn't mean I do, and she doesn't always
know what I can take. Shouldn't be out here alone.”
“You did good,” he said. “You did the best thing before you.”
She took a deep, deep breath, shaky at first but not so much later in. (Even if he didn't like the way it caught, like there was something closed in her lungs.) “Thanks,” she said, and that caught too, but he didn't think that was just her lungs.
He had to take a deep breath too, and he thought his shook more than hers.
“How long you an' Rain been together?” he asked.
“Four years,” she said. “Figure she's six now. Figure I'm twenty-three.”
“I'm fifty-one,” he told her. “Me'n Nettle've been together thirty-two years.”
“That's a long time,” she said.
He smiled.
“You don't look it,” she said.
He smiled again, but now he couldn't look at her. He looked into the fire instead. There wasn't any pattern to it. It was good like < clear water over round rocks >.
“I shouldn't have taken the job,” she said. “So damn stupid. Shouldn't have.”
It was like she couldn't say it if he was looking at her. Maybe she wasn't looking at him. He watched the fire.
Somewhere, Nettle had found < tasty bark >.
“Got a call,” she said. “My kid's in trouble. I have to have money. Got to get down there and take her - there's got to be someone else'll take a rider's kid. But I have to have money or she'll die before I get to her. So I took the job. Stupid.”
“I think you're brave,” Jean Valjean said, and looked away from the fire, because he couldn't say it if he weren't looking at her.
“I have money,” he said. And it was hard to say, suddenly, as if he'd been crying for hours, as if he'd never stop crying, even though he wasn't crying yet. “You can have whatever you need. Go wherever you need. Whatever you want.”
And now she wasn't looking at him like a shutter, but he couldn't say what it was her gaze was like anymore, except that it hurt and Nettle felt it too so he had to stop it, and he wanted the feeling to stop but he didn't want it to stop.
“Yeah?” she said, and it wasn't really like wary, but it wasn't really like confidence either. It was some kind of in-between Jean Valjean had never read a word for.
“Whatever you want,” he said again, but it didn't feel like he was saying it again. It held all the weight of the first time, like mountain sickness, like walking the last steps to the summit.
She stood up. “Since it's your supplies, figure you ought to get to pick: cook or wash?”
“Cook, please,” he answered, as Nettle thrust his head through the bramble. His concern washed over Jean Valjean, but < biscuits, bacon, hot berry sauce > Jean Valjean thought, and Nettle thought it too. Nettle knew him, and he knew if Valjean could think of food, he was not badly off. If Jean Valjean could think of eating, then everything else would come in train.
< Hot berry sauce >, Nettle thought cheerfully and loudly, and there was Rain, slipping through the bramble after him. She didn't recognize the thought and Nettle took it upon himself to explain - such a nice young mare, was the undercurrent of Nettle's reasoning, strong and brave and pretty. And unlucky, to not recognize hot berry sauce!
“Oh dear,” Jean Valjean said, as the ambient filled with a detailed imaging of all the salient characteristics of hot berry sauce from a nighthorse perspective.
She started to laugh. It was a soft, rolling, whole-hearted laugh that showed all her teeth. “Not going to regret you cooking, I bet. Not even if he's exaggerating.”
Valjean blushed. “I do my best,” he said. “But he isn't going to stop before he gets his berry sauce, I hope you realize. We're going to be very hungry soon.”
“Yeah, well,” Fantine said. “When food's coming, hunger's good. Only when it's not that it isn't. I'll get you water. Look,” she added, and crossed to him where he was opening his pack.
“Thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot.” She squeezed his shoulder, and he felt the press of her fingers even through his coat. “You're a good man,” she said, and left for the spring.
This entry was originally posted at http://tiamatschild.dreamwidth.org/79785.html. Please feel free to comment there using OpenID. Or here! It'll be read either way, is what I'm saying.