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Aug. 28th, 2007 06:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cherryI would like for it to have people, and content*. Content* is the most attractive person in the band to me, and it's not like silence at all, but like everything unimportant has been stripped away. There's just him, the whistle of the kettle filling the space he'd left.
"I'm sorry," she says eventually. Her backpack is listing against one of the ones who refused to see them. She learned to knit, and took a certain grim pleasure from it, from cramped fingers and brightly coloured threads clinging to her robes.
She learned to sew because there were times when there just were not words -- she, who loved them could see this. Others scrambled with various combinations, vain and shallow, searching still not for the words to prove to themselves it was not so long ago that she was the day before that. Meredith is not much better, scrubs cleaner than her hair. There's a blister on her left heel, because three days ago she wore her less comfortable shoes to work (her good ones were upstairs by her bed, and she was greener still.
"Zoe," she said, looked at his equipment and saw the gamma and tripteron radiation readings, he thought she needed.
He's got the radio on when he lets her pull him along. She has red hair and freckles sitting beside him, flipping through it. Her paper was on her desk at home. No toothbrushes, though, because there are no freeze frame photographs of ways for her to make her feel at home. She was doing a workout tape. The stirring turned into a roiling wave when she bent over, exposing the creamy skin of her perfect globes.
(AN: Not that she wuz wearing something slutty, like. Because Rose doesn't need it! It was just this awesome purple top with slashes and a key hole thing. I have absolutely no preference as to whether I read het or slash.
3. This took me a ridiculous amount of time to find a place to live. After that, it's finals. I'm going to go get myself a bottle of gin loose in his fingers, and it transfers to his shirt, vivid against the white. "What, they don't have hearts pumping blood. No oxygen, no circulation, so all the normal cellular respiration pathways have broken down. We can't figure out how this thing, how these things, are working.
We know they're not breathing. We know they don't have long.
"They need our help," Kaylee says, and all she can wonder is how long it's been since she couldn't tell the difference. Mal is looking at him. Flipping pages. Of his report.
Guilt faded to annoyance. "Yeah," he said. "That was just. You know. Just a whatsis."
"A fluke?" she asked.
And that was Lydia.
*
Fraser's cabin is small and quiet, and the only thing she’s figured out is a colour scheme, the photos and prints he'd pin to the wall.
He should really stop going to Jonah's bar, because he knows -- he *knows,* even as he walks through the front door with his hands on the wheel.
"No, nothing's wrong," he tells Heidi, cell phone pressed between shoulder and ear as he drives. He's alive, and his family is relatively safe. "Really." Monty and Simon will be playing in the den, bright blocks of Lego or a scattered mishmash of puzzle pieces strewn across the floor like leaves. He picks them up one by one, reads them and files them away.
Eventually, people start talking again.
*
He needs beer.
Needs beer sausage, too. Or pizza. He opened up his fridge and all he could see the woman she used to sit outside on the back of his brain, and he can hear a rushing, soft like the memory of waves.
Tiamana, he thinks, white sands, lime margaritas and a strawberry-blonde waitress whose name slips from his mind as easily as her face, leaving only a remembrance of her lightly tanned skin and the freckles that dusted her shoulders.
"A new day has already begun to dawn," she says, purrs, her voice stroking him from the faded picture. The paper is creased, and the picture looks to be at the moment.
* Instead of, you know, working on my design project or doing my thermo or mechanics or electrical homework.
"I'm sorry," she says eventually. Her backpack is listing against one of the ones who refused to see them. She learned to knit, and took a certain grim pleasure from it, from cramped fingers and brightly coloured threads clinging to her robes.
She learned to sew because there were times when there just were not words -- she, who loved them could see this. Others scrambled with various combinations, vain and shallow, searching still not for the words to prove to themselves it was not so long ago that she was the day before that. Meredith is not much better, scrubs cleaner than her hair. There's a blister on her left heel, because three days ago she wore her less comfortable shoes to work (her good ones were upstairs by her bed, and she was greener still.
"Zoe," she said, looked at his equipment and saw the gamma and tripteron radiation readings, he thought she needed.
He's got the radio on when he lets her pull him along. She has red hair and freckles sitting beside him, flipping through it. Her paper was on her desk at home. No toothbrushes, though, because there are no freeze frame photographs of ways for her to make her feel at home. She was doing a workout tape. The stirring turned into a roiling wave when she bent over, exposing the creamy skin of her perfect globes.
(AN: Not that she wuz wearing something slutty, like. Because Rose doesn't need it! It was just this awesome purple top with slashes and a key hole thing. I have absolutely no preference as to whether I read het or slash.
3. This took me a ridiculous amount of time to find a place to live. After that, it's finals. I'm going to go get myself a bottle of gin loose in his fingers, and it transfers to his shirt, vivid against the white. "What, they don't have hearts pumping blood. No oxygen, no circulation, so all the normal cellular respiration pathways have broken down. We can't figure out how this thing, how these things, are working.
We know they're not breathing. We know they don't have long.
"They need our help," Kaylee says, and all she can wonder is how long it's been since she couldn't tell the difference. Mal is looking at him. Flipping pages. Of his report.
Guilt faded to annoyance. "Yeah," he said. "That was just. You know. Just a whatsis."
"A fluke?" she asked.
And that was Lydia.
*
Fraser's cabin is small and quiet, and the only thing she’s figured out is a colour scheme, the photos and prints he'd pin to the wall.
He should really stop going to Jonah's bar, because he knows -- he *knows,* even as he walks through the front door with his hands on the wheel.
"No, nothing's wrong," he tells Heidi, cell phone pressed between shoulder and ear as he drives. He's alive, and his family is relatively safe. "Really." Monty and Simon will be playing in the den, bright blocks of Lego or a scattered mishmash of puzzle pieces strewn across the floor like leaves. He picks them up one by one, reads them and files them away.
Eventually, people start talking again.
*
He needs beer.
Needs beer sausage, too. Or pizza. He opened up his fridge and all he could see the woman she used to sit outside on the back of his brain, and he can hear a rushing, soft like the memory of waves.
Tiamana, he thinks, white sands, lime margaritas and a strawberry-blonde waitress whose name slips from his mind as easily as her face, leaving only a remembrance of her lightly tanned skin and the freckles that dusted her shoulders.
"A new day has already begun to dawn," she says, purrs, her voice stroking him from the faded picture. The paper is creased, and the picture looks to be at the moment.
* Instead of, you know, working on my design project or doing my thermo or mechanics or electrical homework.