ficpost: "Go-Round" (Ann M. Martin/Elaine Fairchild)
Title: "Go-Round"
Fandoms: BSC real-person femslash (BSCRPFS, for future reference) x Mister Rogers' Neighborhood
Pairing: Ann M. Martin/Elaine Fairchild
Rating: PG
Notes: Remember, you promised!
Spoilers/Timeline: The late eighties. No spoilers for anything that I can recall.
Disclaimer: This is completely totally made up and fictional as far as Ann M. Martin goes. It's also completely made-up and fictional as far as the parts I stole from Fred Rogers
Summary: On the tip of the Cape, nothing's quite as safe as it seems.
Words: 1104
Go-Round
When the trolley stops, Ann almost doesn't get up; she's been walking for most of the morning and cherishes the chance to sit down and watch the city roll by through the open sides of the trolley car. But the carousel catches her eye, spinning slowly for a delighted audience of schoolchildren and their tired parents. Ann is often regretful that she'll never have children of her own, but she doesn't regret spending time alone with herself when she's on vacation, watching the carousel go at its own speed and hanging back from the children who point and grin and giggle at the horses and elephants and ornate gold carriages that carry their comrades round and round...
"And you should see the inside." The voice behind her is rough, and she can feel someone's breath tickle the back of her neck. She turns and frowns, but the woman smiles. "You want to see?"
"See what?" Ann asks, tentative.
"My museum. I keep - things. Curios."
Though the tip of the Cape feels safer than safe to Ann, she's worldly enough to be worried, and she says nothing. After all, they're just miles from Provincetown and - and, Ann? There are thoughts Ann simply doesn't let herself have, and most of them point to Provincetown.
"Sorry; that was forward. But I'm really - see?" She points at a sign Ann didn't see before - Museum-Go-Round: Carousel $2. Museum Admission: $3. "But I'll let you in for free." The woman's voice is raspy, but not grating. She sounds like she quit smoking years ago, but the rasp lingers like still-stained teeth, like a broken leg that aches years after when it's going to rain.
"What kind of museum?"
"Whatever kind you want it to be. Here. I'll explain once we're there. It's easier if you can see things."
Later she'll want to remember every second of this, but now it's moving too fast to focus on details - the woman's curled hand beckoning, the tinkle of merry-go-round music, the green door that seemed invisible till they were slipping through it, the way everything is illuminated when the woman pulls a long chain and the chandeliers begin to glow.
The ceiling is bathed in lights, covered in them, old-fashioned chandeliers with real candles and an elaborate system for lighting them, sleek glossy modern lights, IKEA-purchased blue-and-yellow glass. Ann can only gasp.
"For example," says the woman, as if that explained everything. Then she shakes her head and clucks disapprovingly. "I never introduced myself."
"No," says Ann faintly.
"Elaine Fairchild. Curator." She sticks out her hand, which is softer than Ann had expected. Elaine shakes hands with confidence, and grips Ann's hand for too long.
"Ann M. Martin. Writer."
"Ann..." Elaine puzzles over it, and the name clicks. Ann hates this part and cringes while Elaine grins. "That Ann M. Martin?" There's no right answer to that, so Ann says nothing, and Elaine lets her. "Let me show you the rest of the museum."
There's a gallery of manuscripts, and one of paintings; there aren't any corners anywhere (it's a merry-go-round; of course there aren't) and Ann's sense of geography has never been very good, but they seem to spiral closer to some central chamber. Every time she thinks they're there, though, there's just another room - an antique rocking horse, a life-size whale. There are small rooms full to bursting with easy chairs and books, rooms so large you could drown in them.
Elaine talks to her, the long-practiced pitch of the tour guide. "Coming up on your left..." "If you'll stop and examine the stitching..." but will every so often lapse into silence that lets Ann really look at her. She seems to realize it and relish being observed, but she likes to be listened to just as much, and will start up again, "I've had this in my collection for fifteen years...," "That was my mother's thimble."
And then they stop, quite suddenly, to stare at another carousel, an exact replica of the one above - and how far above Ann really couldn't say. Elaine is absolutely silent, as if she expects Ann to know instinctively what to do. Ann reaches into her pocket and hands Elaine two dollars, and when their hands touch, there's a spark of surprise in Elaine's eyes, but nothing like the spark in Ann's chest.
Ann's horse is white and has bright pink tassels on its reins; its mane is made of yarn so soft Ann can hardly feel it. Elaine sits on a mare just a hair in front of Ann's, dappled brown and with - Ann notices - tired eyes. When the music starts and Ann's horse follows Elaine's, up-and-down round-and-round, she finally has time to think, but she doesn't want to, just stare freely at the back of Elaine's head, the snarl of graying hair that needs to be cut, that wouldn't be Elaine's if it weren't shaggy and too-long.
Elaine calls over her shoulder, "I don't let many people down this far. It's been years. I'm surprised the carousel still works."
Ann says nothing.
When it's all over, surface-side, surrounded by the kids once more, Elaine shakes her hand, and though Ann is the kind of person who falls into hugs and calls all her closest friends "my darling" (the better to pretend that none of them is really darling, my dear), she can't hug Elaine yet, not for many years more.
"You ever get up to P-town?" Elaine asks her, too casual.
"No." There are so many rationalizations she could provide.
"Will I see you next summer, then?"
Back in New York, there are miles of forest all around her homestead, longing to be trampled over by two close friends holding hands. There's a cat, somewhere, who would rub against Elaine and whine till she was petted. There's a fireplace that would melt all Elaine's memories of breezy freezing Cape Cod winters. And there's a hopeful queen-sized bed. "Or sooner," she says, and gives Elaine her address. "Write to me."
"Words get me tangled," says Elaine, who can talk non-stop about her collection for three hours. "I never say what I want. Things are easier when you can see them face-to-face."
"Face-to-face," Ann echoes.
The trolley's circled back around and its dinging tinny music beckons Ann away again, to play, to work, to writing and its solitude. There's no way to say goodbye, so she doesn't try, just steps backwards into the trolley car and waves till Elaine's just a child-sized speck in the distance.
Fandoms: BSC real-person femslash (BSCRPFS, for future reference) x Mister Rogers' Neighborhood
Pairing: Ann M. Martin/Elaine Fairchild
Rating: PG
Notes: Remember, you promised!
Spoilers/Timeline: The late eighties. No spoilers for anything that I can recall.
Disclaimer: This is completely totally made up and fictional as far as Ann M. Martin goes. It's also completely made-up and fictional as far as the parts I stole from Fred Rogers
Summary: On the tip of the Cape, nothing's quite as safe as it seems.
Words: 1104
Go-Round
When the trolley stops, Ann almost doesn't get up; she's been walking for most of the morning and cherishes the chance to sit down and watch the city roll by through the open sides of the trolley car. But the carousel catches her eye, spinning slowly for a delighted audience of schoolchildren and their tired parents. Ann is often regretful that she'll never have children of her own, but she doesn't regret spending time alone with herself when she's on vacation, watching the carousel go at its own speed and hanging back from the children who point and grin and giggle at the horses and elephants and ornate gold carriages that carry their comrades round and round...
"And you should see the inside." The voice behind her is rough, and she can feel someone's breath tickle the back of her neck. She turns and frowns, but the woman smiles. "You want to see?"
"See what?" Ann asks, tentative.
"My museum. I keep - things. Curios."
Though the tip of the Cape feels safer than safe to Ann, she's worldly enough to be worried, and she says nothing. After all, they're just miles from Provincetown and - and, Ann? There are thoughts Ann simply doesn't let herself have, and most of them point to Provincetown.
"Sorry; that was forward. But I'm really - see?" She points at a sign Ann didn't see before - Museum-Go-Round: Carousel $2. Museum Admission: $3. "But I'll let you in for free." The woman's voice is raspy, but not grating. She sounds like she quit smoking years ago, but the rasp lingers like still-stained teeth, like a broken leg that aches years after when it's going to rain.
"What kind of museum?"
"Whatever kind you want it to be. Here. I'll explain once we're there. It's easier if you can see things."
Later she'll want to remember every second of this, but now it's moving too fast to focus on details - the woman's curled hand beckoning, the tinkle of merry-go-round music, the green door that seemed invisible till they were slipping through it, the way everything is illuminated when the woman pulls a long chain and the chandeliers begin to glow.
The ceiling is bathed in lights, covered in them, old-fashioned chandeliers with real candles and an elaborate system for lighting them, sleek glossy modern lights, IKEA-purchased blue-and-yellow glass. Ann can only gasp.
"For example," says the woman, as if that explained everything. Then she shakes her head and clucks disapprovingly. "I never introduced myself."
"No," says Ann faintly.
"Elaine Fairchild. Curator." She sticks out her hand, which is softer than Ann had expected. Elaine shakes hands with confidence, and grips Ann's hand for too long.
"Ann M. Martin. Writer."
"Ann..." Elaine puzzles over it, and the name clicks. Ann hates this part and cringes while Elaine grins. "That Ann M. Martin?" There's no right answer to that, so Ann says nothing, and Elaine lets her. "Let me show you the rest of the museum."
There's a gallery of manuscripts, and one of paintings; there aren't any corners anywhere (it's a merry-go-round; of course there aren't) and Ann's sense of geography has never been very good, but they seem to spiral closer to some central chamber. Every time she thinks they're there, though, there's just another room - an antique rocking horse, a life-size whale. There are small rooms full to bursting with easy chairs and books, rooms so large you could drown in them.
Elaine talks to her, the long-practiced pitch of the tour guide. "Coming up on your left..." "If you'll stop and examine the stitching..." but will every so often lapse into silence that lets Ann really look at her. She seems to realize it and relish being observed, but she likes to be listened to just as much, and will start up again, "I've had this in my collection for fifteen years...," "That was my mother's thimble."
And then they stop, quite suddenly, to stare at another carousel, an exact replica of the one above - and how far above Ann really couldn't say. Elaine is absolutely silent, as if she expects Ann to know instinctively what to do. Ann reaches into her pocket and hands Elaine two dollars, and when their hands touch, there's a spark of surprise in Elaine's eyes, but nothing like the spark in Ann's chest.
Ann's horse is white and has bright pink tassels on its reins; its mane is made of yarn so soft Ann can hardly feel it. Elaine sits on a mare just a hair in front of Ann's, dappled brown and with - Ann notices - tired eyes. When the music starts and Ann's horse follows Elaine's, up-and-down round-and-round, she finally has time to think, but she doesn't want to, just stare freely at the back of Elaine's head, the snarl of graying hair that needs to be cut, that wouldn't be Elaine's if it weren't shaggy and too-long.
Elaine calls over her shoulder, "I don't let many people down this far. It's been years. I'm surprised the carousel still works."
Ann says nothing.
When it's all over, surface-side, surrounded by the kids once more, Elaine shakes her hand, and though Ann is the kind of person who falls into hugs and calls all her closest friends "my darling" (the better to pretend that none of them is really darling, my dear), she can't hug Elaine yet, not for many years more.
"You ever get up to P-town?" Elaine asks her, too casual.
"No." There are so many rationalizations she could provide.
"Will I see you next summer, then?"
Back in New York, there are miles of forest all around her homestead, longing to be trampled over by two close friends holding hands. There's a cat, somewhere, who would rub against Elaine and whine till she was petted. There's a fireplace that would melt all Elaine's memories of breezy freezing Cape Cod winters. And there's a hopeful queen-sized bed. "Or sooner," she says, and gives Elaine her address. "Write to me."
"Words get me tangled," says Elaine, who can talk non-stop about her collection for three hours. "I never say what I want. Things are easier when you can see them face-to-face."
"Face-to-face," Ann echoes.
The trolley's circled back around and its dinging tinny music beckons Ann away again, to play, to work, to writing and its solitude. There's no way to say goodbye, so she doesn't try, just steps backwards into the trolley car and waves till Elaine's just a child-sized speck in the distance.