fic: remember me as a time of day. (multi-fandom)
remember me as a time of day
house. west wing. harry potter. twilight. the black donelleys. house/cuddy. josh/donna. harry/hermione. jacob/bella. tommy/jenny. pg. 708 words. unbeta'd. (or five girls who thought that time moved on without them.) each of these ficlets is about a girl and is dedicated to the following people (respectively)- fiddlings, martyr4mylove4u, anythingbutgrey, firstillusion and ava_leigh_fitz.
one.
lisa cuddy.
They keep vigil together, her and Wilson.
He leans back in his chair; she leans forward in hers with her fingers twisted tightly into the cradle of her lap. Elbows bent at her knees and she watches the monitor, the beeps. Lights flicker there, cast shadows across the line of his jaw.
Her chest is tight, heart still and legs pull her up, forward and into the hallway. Outside, night is crawling. Creeping, claiming the skies. The windows smoke over, darkening and the clouds float further.
She is thinking of the shape of his mouth as it stretched over her own, another hallway.
Another time.
two.
donna moss.
Her bags are packed, standing still by the door. Morning light and the hallway feels quiet, empty. There is no deadline, no where to go. Her phone sits silent, a plane ticket tucked under it.
She stops at the mirror on her way out, tugs at the hem of her sweater just once, hands pressed down on her dining table as they pressed down the letter to his desk.
I can’t work for you anymore. Soft. Quick.
She watches his face fall, mouth turns and he knows, now. Now, he knows and she hopes he doesn't think less of her for it.
He's always known.
The key turns, car jumps and her hands are slack around the wheel. So, he knows and that is that and Donna doesn’t stop for red lights, remember?
She simply doesn’t have the time.
three.
hermione granger.
At school, she wrote to her parent’s every week like a girl in an Enid Blyton book and she talks about lunch hours and lessons and friends.
She talks about the boy who lived, she says that he is brave and he is strong, more so than he knows. The letters grow less frequent as the years go by, but when they come, they sing of pain, covered quietly with smiles.
Hermione doesn’t talk about school when she is at home. Wears her old dresses, short at the knees and goes to France for the summers, riding in planes and she pretends Hogwarts doesn’t exist, that she never met boys with red hair or scars. Pretends she is younger, much younger, pretends time is still and pretends she hasn’t a care in the world.
After the war, she comes home. Pulls apart a box of old letters and each word stings tears.
Even in paper and ink, she never dared to say she loved him.
four.
bella cullen.
When she leaves him, they’ve been married ten years and this is a long time.
She puts her things away without any fuss at all. Just an old pair of jeans and Alice’s couture still hangs in the closet.
There are no goodbyes. Bella has taught herself to not be masochist. No tears, no accusations and still she feels she is more like her mother than she ever knew she would be.
She still has her truck and she doesn’t look back, not once as she drives out. Morning at the start of her journey and she drives around in circles of indecision, almost killing herself twice before she ends up at her destination, just before the sun goes down.
Ten years she was married, but she has been alive for more years than she was dead and that is what she tells herself when she parks the truck at his curb and waits for him to come out to fix it.
Fix her
When all is said and done, her timing is worse than her mothers.
five.
jenny reilly.
She carries flowers down the aisle.
Each step and her heart takes cartwheels, she carries roses down the aisle. Fingers wrapped tight around the stems and the thorns prick at her flesh through the thin paper.
There’s a black suit on him, draped loose over his frame like the cloth doesn’t know the curves of his body and she thinks of black, of veils that worn by women at weddings and at funerals and how people carry flowers at wedding and at funerals and how churches, too, are made for both.
Inside her chest, wrapped tight in blood and veins, a clock ticks.
Counts down the minutes till she reaches the end of her path. And then, she thinks.
Her heart will stop.
house. west wing. harry potter. twilight. the black donelleys. house/cuddy. josh/donna. harry/hermione. jacob/bella. tommy/jenny. pg. 708 words. unbeta'd. (or five girls who thought that time moved on without them.) each of these ficlets is about a girl and is dedicated to the following people (respectively)- fiddlings, martyr4mylove4u, anythingbutgrey, firstillusion and ava_leigh_fitz.
one.
lisa cuddy.
They keep vigil together, her and Wilson.
He leans back in his chair; she leans forward in hers with her fingers twisted tightly into the cradle of her lap. Elbows bent at her knees and she watches the monitor, the beeps. Lights flicker there, cast shadows across the line of his jaw.
Her chest is tight, heart still and legs pull her up, forward and into the hallway. Outside, night is crawling. Creeping, claiming the skies. The windows smoke over, darkening and the clouds float further.
She is thinking of the shape of his mouth as it stretched over her own, another hallway.
Another time.
two.
donna moss.
Her bags are packed, standing still by the door. Morning light and the hallway feels quiet, empty. There is no deadline, no where to go. Her phone sits silent, a plane ticket tucked under it.
She stops at the mirror on her way out, tugs at the hem of her sweater just once, hands pressed down on her dining table as they pressed down the letter to his desk.
I can’t work for you anymore. Soft. Quick.
She watches his face fall, mouth turns and he knows, now. Now, he knows and she hopes he doesn't think less of her for it.
He's always known.
The key turns, car jumps and her hands are slack around the wheel. So, he knows and that is that and Donna doesn’t stop for red lights, remember?
She simply doesn’t have the time.
three.
hermione granger.
At school, she wrote to her parent’s every week like a girl in an Enid Blyton book and she talks about lunch hours and lessons and friends.
She talks about the boy who lived, she says that he is brave and he is strong, more so than he knows. The letters grow less frequent as the years go by, but when they come, they sing of pain, covered quietly with smiles.
Hermione doesn’t talk about school when she is at home. Wears her old dresses, short at the knees and goes to France for the summers, riding in planes and she pretends Hogwarts doesn’t exist, that she never met boys with red hair or scars. Pretends she is younger, much younger, pretends time is still and pretends she hasn’t a care in the world.
After the war, she comes home. Pulls apart a box of old letters and each word stings tears.
Even in paper and ink, she never dared to say she loved him.
four.
bella cullen.
When she leaves him, they’ve been married ten years and this is a long time.
She puts her things away without any fuss at all. Just an old pair of jeans and Alice’s couture still hangs in the closet.
There are no goodbyes. Bella has taught herself to not be masochist. No tears, no accusations and still she feels she is more like her mother than she ever knew she would be.
She still has her truck and she doesn’t look back, not once as she drives out. Morning at the start of her journey and she drives around in circles of indecision, almost killing herself twice before she ends up at her destination, just before the sun goes down.
Ten years she was married, but she has been alive for more years than she was dead and that is what she tells herself when she parks the truck at his curb and waits for him to come out to fix it.
Fix her
When all is said and done, her timing is worse than her mothers.
five.
jenny reilly.
She carries flowers down the aisle.
Each step and her heart takes cartwheels, she carries roses down the aisle. Fingers wrapped tight around the stems and the thorns prick at her flesh through the thin paper.
There’s a black suit on him, draped loose over his frame like the cloth doesn’t know the curves of his body and she thinks of black, of veils that worn by women at weddings and at funerals and how people carry flowers at wedding and at funerals and how churches, too, are made for both.
Inside her chest, wrapped tight in blood and veins, a clock ticks.
Counts down the minutes till she reaches the end of her path. And then, she thinks.
Her heart will stop.