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rainbowfic2019-06-12 08:02 am
ilthit) wrote in rainbowfic2019-06-12 08:02 am
Entry tags:
Canary Yellow #2: Open Arms (The Quality of Mercy)
Name: Open Arms
Story: The Quality of Mercy (Peccadillo Parlour)
Colors: Canary Yellow #2
Supplies and Styles: n/a
Word Count: 678
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of violence.
Summary: Pru’s aunt Amelia always hosts Sunday dinner.
2001
Sunday dinner with Aunt Amelia had been different since Pru had moved out. She had not quite graduated to the status of guest and probably never would, but she sat at the table like a thief, not having done any of the cooking, while her cousins needled her about not wanting to get rice flour on her clothes—black, always black.
The Hus had a maid who came in to do the bulk of the cleaning, but in Amelia’s house everything was always cooked by the family, from pancakes to wedding cakes. “Who else will do the spiced dumplings right?” Amelia would say as she kneaded the dough, making it chewy and rich.
The washing up was Pru’s. She could have that much.
“How did it go in court today?” Auntie asked as Pru scrubbed a cooking pot. She sat on a bar-stool by the marble counter, sipping the remnants of a glass of red wine. Aunt Amelia always dressed to the nines for dinner, even if it was just family. Today it was a red clinging number, pleated just right to flatter her aging—and spreading—body.
“Slow going,” Pru replied. Law was something the two of them shared, something her cousins would never understand. “The people are bringing in a lot of minor circumstantial evidence to build up the case.”
“How does the jury look?”
Pru shook her head, her mouth tight. Aunt Amelia understood. Mostly affluent white men, there to judge a poor, black homeless man who stabbed a teenager for kicking hs ass for fun. Most of Pru’s clients were like that. Not perfect, only perfectly impossible to get acquitted.
They’d gone through this conversation often enough. Pru wanted to make it in criminal law, do it square, and maybe claw her way up to district attorney one day. And Amelia wanted her to be happy.
Aunt Amelia changed the subject. “So when are you bringing that girlfriend ‘round to dinner?”
Pru froze. “I--” She set the pot down, her hands shaking. She couldn’t meet her aunt’s gaze. There was a clack as Amelia’s heels hit the tiles, and a quick staccato as she crossed over. Pru felt a hand on her arm and resisted the urge to yank it away. She’d given away her secret by now. She might as well have confessed.
“Gordon clued me in. A bookshop keeper, isn’t she? Prudence. It’s all right. We all have these fancies when we’re young. I don’t want there to be secrets between us.”
Fancies. Pru had known she loved girls since she was a little girl. She’d wanted to kiss all the other little girls in her kindergarten class. ‘Fancy’ may be wishful thinking. “Did Gordon tell you she’s black?”
Amelia shifted, and Pru knew he hadn’t. Her aunt was an impartial judge, Pru truly believed that, but she was not without her prejudices. “What does that matter? I want to meet her.”
Pru found herself shook over by emotion, then; not for Eve but for Amelia. For trying. Just for that. For making this easy for her. A shuddering breath escaped her and she threw herself in her aunt’s arms, as if she was a child again, hungry and tired and starved for love, and Amelia had swooped in to save her.
“There now,” said Auntie, patting her on the back. She could feel the smugness reverberate out of that iron mind.
Amelia was saving her again. Saving her from having to lie. At least about this.
-
“First of all, I’m so sorry.”
Eve looked up from the book, across the rainbow-coloured dye sheets that passed for duvet covers in her little apartment. “Hm? What did you do?”
Pru scooted closer and pressed an apologetic kiss on Eve’s forehead. “I’m throwing you in the dragon’s den next Sunday.”
Eve laughed and rolled on to her back. “I’ll have to polish up my shining armor, then, I guess.”
“My hero.” The kisses dropped down to Eve’s cheeks, her chin, her mouth. No more lies. No more secrets. No more shame.
Story: The Quality of Mercy (Peccadillo Parlour)
Colors: Canary Yellow #2
Supplies and Styles: n/a
Word Count: 678
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of violence.
Summary: Pru’s aunt Amelia always hosts Sunday dinner.
2001
Sunday dinner with Aunt Amelia had been different since Pru had moved out. She had not quite graduated to the status of guest and probably never would, but she sat at the table like a thief, not having done any of the cooking, while her cousins needled her about not wanting to get rice flour on her clothes—black, always black.
The Hus had a maid who came in to do the bulk of the cleaning, but in Amelia’s house everything was always cooked by the family, from pancakes to wedding cakes. “Who else will do the spiced dumplings right?” Amelia would say as she kneaded the dough, making it chewy and rich.
The washing up was Pru’s. She could have that much.
“How did it go in court today?” Auntie asked as Pru scrubbed a cooking pot. She sat on a bar-stool by the marble counter, sipping the remnants of a glass of red wine. Aunt Amelia always dressed to the nines for dinner, even if it was just family. Today it was a red clinging number, pleated just right to flatter her aging—and spreading—body.
“Slow going,” Pru replied. Law was something the two of them shared, something her cousins would never understand. “The people are bringing in a lot of minor circumstantial evidence to build up the case.”
“How does the jury look?”
Pru shook her head, her mouth tight. Aunt Amelia understood. Mostly affluent white men, there to judge a poor, black homeless man who stabbed a teenager for kicking hs ass for fun. Most of Pru’s clients were like that. Not perfect, only perfectly impossible to get acquitted.
They’d gone through this conversation often enough. Pru wanted to make it in criminal law, do it square, and maybe claw her way up to district attorney one day. And Amelia wanted her to be happy.
Aunt Amelia changed the subject. “So when are you bringing that girlfriend ‘round to dinner?”
Pru froze. “I--” She set the pot down, her hands shaking. She couldn’t meet her aunt’s gaze. There was a clack as Amelia’s heels hit the tiles, and a quick staccato as she crossed over. Pru felt a hand on her arm and resisted the urge to yank it away. She’d given away her secret by now. She might as well have confessed.
“Gordon clued me in. A bookshop keeper, isn’t she? Prudence. It’s all right. We all have these fancies when we’re young. I don’t want there to be secrets between us.”
Fancies. Pru had known she loved girls since she was a little girl. She’d wanted to kiss all the other little girls in her kindergarten class. ‘Fancy’ may be wishful thinking. “Did Gordon tell you she’s black?”
Amelia shifted, and Pru knew he hadn’t. Her aunt was an impartial judge, Pru truly believed that, but she was not without her prejudices. “What does that matter? I want to meet her.”
Pru found herself shook over by emotion, then; not for Eve but for Amelia. For trying. Just for that. For making this easy for her. A shuddering breath escaped her and she threw herself in her aunt’s arms, as if she was a child again, hungry and tired and starved for love, and Amelia had swooped in to save her.
“There now,” said Auntie, patting her on the back. She could feel the smugness reverberate out of that iron mind.
Amelia was saving her again. Saving her from having to lie. At least about this.
-
“First of all, I’m so sorry.”
Eve looked up from the book, across the rainbow-coloured dye sheets that passed for duvet covers in her little apartment. “Hm? What did you do?”
Pru scooted closer and pressed an apologetic kiss on Eve’s forehead. “I’m throwing you in the dragon’s den next Sunday.”
Eve laughed and rolled on to her back. “I’ll have to polish up my shining armor, then, I guess.”
“My hero.” The kisses dropped down to Eve’s cheeks, her chin, her mouth. No more lies. No more secrets. No more shame.
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