Random Fic! (Aren't You Lucky?)
How this came about:
HYEL: Truetruetrue. A cigarette, coffee and thou, whistling in the darkness. *is random this morning*
LATIN_DOLL: You should write that fic. *procrastinates*
HYEL: Hasn't it already been?
LATIN_DOLL: A Mal, a cigarette, a coffee, and a whistling Polly in a darkened room? It hasn't, but it should have been.
HYEL: I would be physically unable to write that without making some sort of Principia Discordia references.
AMAZON_SYREN: …I could.
So now you know. :-)
A Mal, a cigarette, a coffee, and a whistling Polly in a darkened room. For Hyel and Latin_Doll because I love them so (and because I wanted to write something *short*).
:-D
This song is the cross that I bear,
Bear it with me, bear with me, bear with me.
Be with me tonight.
"What a Good Boy", Barenakedladies.
Bear With Me
There’s a table in this room. A window, too. That’s nice.
A hand, pale skin silvered by moonlight, carefully flicks the ashes from a glowing cigarette into a chipped saucer on the table, brings the cigarette back to a pair of dark lips.
The lips aren’t cracked, although this may come as a surprise.
It certainly comes as a surprise to the smoker, who has dark circles under her eyes and is looking rather worse than dishabille at the moment.
Damn nightmares.
She rakes a hand through dark hair that is growing back from an inexpert shave, and shivers.
There is a mug on the table - not a regimental mug, nothing issued by an army’s quartermaster, only a mug, glazed in white, stained brown with tannin on the inside.
It is steaming.
The smoker wraps her fingers around it, letting the warmth seep through the clay and into her hand. There are scars - paler still than her skin - tracing their way around her wrist, reminders of burns that healed some time ago.
She brings the mug to her lips, takes a sip, closes her eyes, holds the taste in her mouth a moment before swallowing. A watcher might mistake it for a prayer.
Maybe that’s what it is.
She sighs.
“I know you’re there, Polly.”
She doesn’t turn her head.
In the shadows beyond the doorway, something moves, someone steps into the patch of moonlight, reaches out a hand to stroke the uneven hair.
“You didn’t come back, Mal,” the newcomer, Polly, begins.
Mal gestures with her coffee cup.
“Rough night?” Polly surmises. Her own blond curls are in a similar state of straggly growth. She, too, bears scars, although none are nearly so visible.
“You could say that.”
Polly steps closer, a hand on Mal’s shoulder, bends, drops a kiss, gently, on the top of her head. Mal leans into the touch, the kiss, with a soft sigh.
“You mind if I sit with you?” Polly murmurs.
Mal drops her eyes, gazing into her coffee cup.
“I’d like that,” she answers, quietly.
Polly pulls up a chair, its legs scraping over the floorboards.
She sits down next to Mal, their knees touching under the table, reaches out again to rub Mal’s back.
They can touch each other now. It hasn’t always been so easy between them.
“Tell me?” Polly suggests.
She knows what brings Mal down to the kitchens, most nights. The same nightmares wake her more often than not lately. Sometimes she wonders if either of them will ever sleep through the night again.
Mal tells her, murmuring the dream in her low voice, pausing now and then to take a drag or a sip of coffee.
The moon sinks lower.
Polly whistles under her breath.
“I remember that,” she murmurs, shivering.
Mal nods. Unasked, she passes Polly the cigarette. Polly takes a drag, passing it back.
“That was bad.” Polly says, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.
Another nod.
After that, they say nothing for a long time, merely sitting together, passing a cigarette back and forth, until it burns down far enough to singe their fingers.
Polly drops the dog-end into the saucer, watching it go out.
“You think you can come back to bed, now?”
Mal drains the last of her coffee, nodding.
They leave the saucer, the empty mug, on the table. Shufti will likely find them in the morning, but she won’t say anything. She never does, though this happens often enough.
Mal slips her arm around Polly. Polly leans into the embrace, draping her own arm around Mal’s shoulders. Creeping up the back stairs once more, this is how they help each other carry on.
***
Comments?
Timeline: Latin_Verse (duh), between ‘Butterflies are Free’ and, uh, whatever the heck the birthday one was called. :-)
<*sits down and waits for Hyel to write her own Mal-Cigarette-Coffee-Whistling!Polly-Dark!Room Fic*> :-D
HYEL: Truetruetrue. A cigarette, coffee and thou, whistling in the darkness. *is random this morning*
LATIN_DOLL: You should write that fic. *procrastinates*
HYEL: Hasn't it already been?
LATIN_DOLL: A Mal, a cigarette, a coffee, and a whistling Polly in a darkened room? It hasn't, but it should have been.
HYEL: I would be physically unable to write that without making some sort of Principia Discordia references.
AMAZON_SYREN: …I could.
So now you know. :-)
A Mal, a cigarette, a coffee, and a whistling Polly in a darkened room. For Hyel and Latin_Doll because I love them so (and because I wanted to write something *short*).
:-D
This song is the cross that I bear,
Bear it with me, bear with me, bear with me.
Be with me tonight.
"What a Good Boy", Barenakedladies.
Bear With Me
There’s a table in this room. A window, too. That’s nice.
A hand, pale skin silvered by moonlight, carefully flicks the ashes from a glowing cigarette into a chipped saucer on the table, brings the cigarette back to a pair of dark lips.
The lips aren’t cracked, although this may come as a surprise.
It certainly comes as a surprise to the smoker, who has dark circles under her eyes and is looking rather worse than dishabille at the moment.
Damn nightmares.
She rakes a hand through dark hair that is growing back from an inexpert shave, and shivers.
There is a mug on the table - not a regimental mug, nothing issued by an army’s quartermaster, only a mug, glazed in white, stained brown with tannin on the inside.
It is steaming.
The smoker wraps her fingers around it, letting the warmth seep through the clay and into her hand. There are scars - paler still than her skin - tracing their way around her wrist, reminders of burns that healed some time ago.
She brings the mug to her lips, takes a sip, closes her eyes, holds the taste in her mouth a moment before swallowing. A watcher might mistake it for a prayer.
Maybe that’s what it is.
She sighs.
“I know you’re there, Polly.”
She doesn’t turn her head.
In the shadows beyond the doorway, something moves, someone steps into the patch of moonlight, reaches out a hand to stroke the uneven hair.
“You didn’t come back, Mal,” the newcomer, Polly, begins.
Mal gestures with her coffee cup.
“Rough night?” Polly surmises. Her own blond curls are in a similar state of straggly growth. She, too, bears scars, although none are nearly so visible.
“You could say that.”
Polly steps closer, a hand on Mal’s shoulder, bends, drops a kiss, gently, on the top of her head. Mal leans into the touch, the kiss, with a soft sigh.
“You mind if I sit with you?” Polly murmurs.
Mal drops her eyes, gazing into her coffee cup.
“I’d like that,” she answers, quietly.
Polly pulls up a chair, its legs scraping over the floorboards.
She sits down next to Mal, their knees touching under the table, reaches out again to rub Mal’s back.
They can touch each other now. It hasn’t always been so easy between them.
“Tell me?” Polly suggests.
She knows what brings Mal down to the kitchens, most nights. The same nightmares wake her more often than not lately. Sometimes she wonders if either of them will ever sleep through the night again.
Mal tells her, murmuring the dream in her low voice, pausing now and then to take a drag or a sip of coffee.
The moon sinks lower.
Polly whistles under her breath.
“I remember that,” she murmurs, shivering.
Mal nods. Unasked, she passes Polly the cigarette. Polly takes a drag, passing it back.
“That was bad.” Polly says, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.
Another nod.
After that, they say nothing for a long time, merely sitting together, passing a cigarette back and forth, until it burns down far enough to singe their fingers.
Polly drops the dog-end into the saucer, watching it go out.
“You think you can come back to bed, now?”
Mal drains the last of her coffee, nodding.
They leave the saucer, the empty mug, on the table. Shufti will likely find them in the morning, but she won’t say anything. She never does, though this happens often enough.
Mal slips her arm around Polly. Polly leans into the embrace, draping her own arm around Mal’s shoulders. Creeping up the back stairs once more, this is how they help each other carry on.
***
Comments?
Timeline: Latin_Verse (duh), between ‘Butterflies are Free’ and, uh, whatever the heck the birthday one was called. :-)
<*sits down and waits for Hyel to write her own Mal-Cigarette-Coffee-Whistling!Polly-Dark!Room Fic*> :-D