003.
pavlovia wrote in community.livejournal.com/cadfliesfic,
Without Obvious Causal Connection
Authors: pavlovia and sweetapplesarah
Pairing: Catie/Daisy
Summary: In which there are bad shoes, clever milk, and an exceptional number of coincidences.
The first time they met, Daisy's shoes were rubbing, there was an empty room beyond the bar, and Catie's hair was the bright orange of a flame, twisting down her back.
The door whispered over thick carpet and the party noises receded into nothing; Val and Tania laughing, the FloorStamp executives clinking glasses over obligatory chit-chat, Pansy's "All right, just one glass," all silenced.
Catie said, "Take the bloody things off, then," settled into a low seat, and hummed the first bar of Ticket to Ride softly.
When Pansy found them later, Daisy was barefoot, making up a harmony under Catie's voice as they went along.
*
They were in a rehearsal room at the FloorStamp building when Valentine kissed her.
It was an idea that still managed to be incomprehensible even when it had actually occurred. He had kissed her on the lips. He had touched her neck with the backs of his fingers, and then he had opened his mouth as if to say something, decided against it, and leant in close and kissed her.
And then they had parted, and she had moved one way and he another way, or maybe it was the same way, but whatever had happened it had meant that his elbow jarred her in the ribs - ow - and she dropped the battered old harmonica upon which she had just played the melody he'd deemed the most beautiful thing I've ever heard; and the instrument promptly broke into three different pieces on the floor.
Daisy couldn't quite bear to try and fix that many things at once. She left him in the room and only faltered the tiniest bit as she swept down the corridor that led to the ladies'.
Catie stood in front of one cluttered sink, curved into the shape of a bass clef, holding her head upside-down over it. Her orange hair was sopping wet and she was humming something, by James Taylor this time.
"My water's off," she said flatly before she saw who Daisy was. "Oh. Hi. You don't have a spare minute to give me a hand, do you?"
As the fiery colour disappeared, they talked about fruit trees and the Rolling Stones and frogs' life cycles and Daisy laughed out loud a total of five times (she counted).
When Catie noticed the smudged lipstick Daisy mumbled, "Oh, I had a can of Pepsi earlier," rolled her lips together once and then asked, "Do you want help with rinsing the dye out?"
By the time she went back to Valentine, he had plugged his headphones into the keyboard and she could see from the way he moved his hands that he was playing a short phrase over and over again, concentrating hard. She hadn't planned on speaking to him, anyway: a new melody was just occurring to her, a companion to the tune she'd played him on the harmonica earlier. It was high, and strong, and somehow it sounded like waves of cherry-red hair wrapped in a dark towel, like the smell of bleach diffusing out of high windows - or maybe, if you listened hard enough, it sounded like a flame, like a brilliantly orange wave of a flame, going out.
Valentine loved that melody too, when he heard it, but he didn't call it beautiful or amazing or marvellous, and he didn't touch her on the neck with a wondrous expression, and he definitely did not kiss her.
*
Unexpected kisses - like fingerless gloves, chopsticks, and green eyes - came in pairs.
Her hair was black now. It shone even in the low mood-lighting of the restaurant, reflecting the red and orange decor in a way that gave Daisy's heart a small stutter every time she noticed it.
Catie said, "This is my favourite place to eat."
They spoke in conspiratorial voices and Daisy let Catie order for her and in the back of the cab home they kissed, slow and sweet, and when they reached Daisy's flat she almost asked, "Would you like to come inside?"
The words were there, and she was sure Catie could feel them in the air - could taste them, even - but they were never said.
A week later, she was making hot chocolate on Valentine's kitchen stove when he said casually, "You should've come, headache or none. Catie was there with her new boyfriend; she was asking after you."
Daisy closed her eyes, and breathed, just for a second. When she opened them again the milk was boiling over in a spectacular white fountain, hissing and spitting as if it objected to something Valentine had just said. Daisy did not think about it.
*
Catie burst into the make-up and wardrobe room with her hair still wet, newly dyed a deep apple-green.
It was precisely 8am on the day of the Found For Words promo shoot and Daisy hadn't seen her for a month. They'd danced together at the FloorStamp Christmas party, toasted themselves and their bands over free champagne, and discussed what colour Catie should dye her hair next. Neither of them had mentioned apple-green.
In the corner of the room Daisy was mid-sentence, telling the stylist, "Yes, I've picked this," holding out a sleeveless sundress. It was exactly the same colour.
In the photograph that ended up on all the posters, both bands are lined up together, the shot taken from an angle in order to fit everybody in. Catie and Daisy are beside each other in the foreground; only Valentine is closer to the camera. Catie's hair spills sideways onto the shoulder of Daisy's dress, green mingling with green, and both of them are smiling slightly. They are somewhere in the middle of a conversation that took place in whispers, between clicks of the camera.
Lots of things could've counted as the beginning, but that day had marked the point of no return. Daisy sometimes thought of it as the very edge of the cliff, the highest place you could reach; once you had climbed all the way up, there was no option but to jump.
"So, you like this colour, then?"
"I do. In fact, it's one of my favourite colours."
"I wouldn't count on it staying for too long. I have a habit of..."
"I know." A pause. "I don't mind, though. It'll be green for as long as it's green, then it won't be any more. I understand."
"I know you do. That's why I like you, Daisy."
Without Obvious Causal Connection
Authors: pavlovia and sweetapplesarah
Pairing: Catie/Daisy
Summary: In which there are bad shoes, clever milk, and an exceptional number of coincidences.
The first time they met, Daisy's shoes were rubbing, there was an empty room beyond the bar, and Catie's hair was the bright orange of a flame, twisting down her back.
The door whispered over thick carpet and the party noises receded into nothing; Val and Tania laughing, the FloorStamp executives clinking glasses over obligatory chit-chat, Pansy's "All right, just one glass," all silenced.
Catie said, "Take the bloody things off, then," settled into a low seat, and hummed the first bar of Ticket to Ride softly.
When Pansy found them later, Daisy was barefoot, making up a harmony under Catie's voice as they went along.
*
They were in a rehearsal room at the FloorStamp building when Valentine kissed her.
It was an idea that still managed to be incomprehensible even when it had actually occurred. He had kissed her on the lips. He had touched her neck with the backs of his fingers, and then he had opened his mouth as if to say something, decided against it, and leant in close and kissed her.
And then they had parted, and she had moved one way and he another way, or maybe it was the same way, but whatever had happened it had meant that his elbow jarred her in the ribs - ow - and she dropped the battered old harmonica upon which she had just played the melody he'd deemed the most beautiful thing I've ever heard; and the instrument promptly broke into three different pieces on the floor.
Daisy couldn't quite bear to try and fix that many things at once. She left him in the room and only faltered the tiniest bit as she swept down the corridor that led to the ladies'.
Catie stood in front of one cluttered sink, curved into the shape of a bass clef, holding her head upside-down over it. Her orange hair was sopping wet and she was humming something, by James Taylor this time.
"My water's off," she said flatly before she saw who Daisy was. "Oh. Hi. You don't have a spare minute to give me a hand, do you?"
As the fiery colour disappeared, they talked about fruit trees and the Rolling Stones and frogs' life cycles and Daisy laughed out loud a total of five times (she counted).
When Catie noticed the smudged lipstick Daisy mumbled, "Oh, I had a can of Pepsi earlier," rolled her lips together once and then asked, "Do you want help with rinsing the dye out?"
By the time she went back to Valentine, he had plugged his headphones into the keyboard and she could see from the way he moved his hands that he was playing a short phrase over and over again, concentrating hard. She hadn't planned on speaking to him, anyway: a new melody was just occurring to her, a companion to the tune she'd played him on the harmonica earlier. It was high, and strong, and somehow it sounded like waves of cherry-red hair wrapped in a dark towel, like the smell of bleach diffusing out of high windows - or maybe, if you listened hard enough, it sounded like a flame, like a brilliantly orange wave of a flame, going out.
Valentine loved that melody too, when he heard it, but he didn't call it beautiful or amazing or marvellous, and he didn't touch her on the neck with a wondrous expression, and he definitely did not kiss her.
*
Unexpected kisses - like fingerless gloves, chopsticks, and green eyes - came in pairs.
Her hair was black now. It shone even in the low mood-lighting of the restaurant, reflecting the red and orange decor in a way that gave Daisy's heart a small stutter every time she noticed it.
Catie said, "This is my favourite place to eat."
They spoke in conspiratorial voices and Daisy let Catie order for her and in the back of the cab home they kissed, slow and sweet, and when they reached Daisy's flat she almost asked, "Would you like to come inside?"
The words were there, and she was sure Catie could feel them in the air - could taste them, even - but they were never said.
A week later, she was making hot chocolate on Valentine's kitchen stove when he said casually, "You should've come, headache or none. Catie was there with her new boyfriend; she was asking after you."
Daisy closed her eyes, and breathed, just for a second. When she opened them again the milk was boiling over in a spectacular white fountain, hissing and spitting as if it objected to something Valentine had just said. Daisy did not think about it.
*
Catie burst into the make-up and wardrobe room with her hair still wet, newly dyed a deep apple-green.
It was precisely 8am on the day of the Found For Words promo shoot and Daisy hadn't seen her for a month. They'd danced together at the FloorStamp Christmas party, toasted themselves and their bands over free champagne, and discussed what colour Catie should dye her hair next. Neither of them had mentioned apple-green.
In the corner of the room Daisy was mid-sentence, telling the stylist, "Yes, I've picked this," holding out a sleeveless sundress. It was exactly the same colour.
In the photograph that ended up on all the posters, both bands are lined up together, the shot taken from an angle in order to fit everybody in. Catie and Daisy are beside each other in the foreground; only Valentine is closer to the camera. Catie's hair spills sideways onto the shoulder of Daisy's dress, green mingling with green, and both of them are smiling slightly. They are somewhere in the middle of a conversation that took place in whispers, between clicks of the camera.
Lots of things could've counted as the beginning, but that day had marked the point of no return. Daisy sometimes thought of it as the very edge of the cliff, the highest place you could reach; once you had climbed all the way up, there was no option but to jump.
"So, you like this colour, then?"
"I do. In fact, it's one of my favourite colours."
"I wouldn't count on it staying for too long. I have a habit of..."
"I know." A pause. "I don't mind, though. It'll be green for as long as it's green, then it won't be any more. I understand."
"I know you do. That's why I like you, Daisy."