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rainbowfic2014-01-09 02:41 am
thelinesoflearning) wrote in rainbowfic2014-01-09 02:41 am
True Blue, Halloween Orange
Name: Morgan
Story: And the Devil Makes Three
Colors: True Blue 2, "Blood siblings"; Halloween Orange 5, "An island's not a prison -- that's what men make bridges for."
Supplies and Styles: Novelty beads (follow a new trail)
Word Count: 1110
Rating: PG
Warnings: A couple of mentions of past child abuse. Also, it's not talked about indepth, but the main character has just been through a traumatic accident and been severely injured and that's a major part of the story.
Notes: Right, so Mal's basically taken over writing this verse and I'm happy to throw my hands up and let them, but this was in my head and I couldn't get it out, so... here? Also I think I have a thing about people accidentally falling into the dream jobs they may or may not have actually dreamed at. *looks at No Child Is Spared and then back at this* Yep, kind of a thing.
It's hard to be around Dorothy. John's let a lot of their childhood blur since he joined the service, and he's finally managed to let go of the rules they've lived under. It took him almost fifteen years after leaving home to learn how to use his voice, and seeing his sister's face makes him want to whisper again. But he wakes up one morning to her hand in his, her curled into a ball in the chair by his bedside, watching the television with captions on, and it's the first time in a long time that he hasn't wanted to make an excuse for her to leave. He doesn't know how he slept through her coming in, but they've always been good at being quiet, anyway.
"Morning, Dottie," he manages to creak, his throat dry, and she jumps, her head whipping to face him. She smiles, but he can see the hesitance in her expression, in the set of her shoulders.
"How do you feel?"
Like he's nearly died. Like he shouldn't still be in one piece. Like crying, at the thought of being home again, of losing a place he's managed to belong. But he can't say that to his little sister, so he forces a smile. "Better than last night. When did you get here?"
"A little while ago. What do they say?"
He shrugs. "A lot of things. I don't understand half of it. I should more-or-less heal, but I won't be able to go back." He stopped listening when he gathered that much.
He pretends he doesn't see her relief when he says it, and she wipes it off her face.
"You didn't have to come. I don't know how long I'll be here. They might want more tests. You can go to work, I'll-"
"John," she interrupts, her hand tightening hard enough on his to make him wince. "You almost died. I'm not going anywhere. Work will understand, and if not, fuck them. I can live off sales for long enough to get another job."
"Are you making that much?"
"Don't change the subject." She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile at the corner of her mouth, and he laughs.
"All right, fine. But if they take me away in ten minutes, don't say I didn't warn you."
They don't take him away in ten minutes.
They do take him away in two hours, and he waves, entirely expecting Dot to be distracted and gone by the time he gets back. She isn't; she's still sitting in the chair, a cup of vending machine coffee and the volume on the television the only real change. He isn't expecting to be happy to see her, but he finds that he is.
*
They haven't been very physical people with each other since they were young, but the day John is released, Dot doesn't leave his side. He knows he won't fall, but she keeps an arm around him like she's waiting for it. Like he doesn't have a cane to hold him up, and she has to do the job.
They settle onto the couch for dinner, and he throws his arms around her on an impulse. She makes a startled sound, but she wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him tightly, and she doesn't make him let go. Doesn't mention the take-out getting cold or the awkward angle of her shoulder. She just hugs him, like they're children again, trying to ignore the yelling coming from downstairs.
He'd thought that would be the worst thing that ever happened to him. He's not sure if it still is.
"Thank you," he says softly, and she shakes her head a little, her hair brushing his neck.
"I'm glad you came home."
"I don't know what to do now," he admits. "I don't want to sit around and do nothing, I can't do that. But I don't know what else to do with my life."
"Well, I need a new editor," she says, suddenly bright and loud in his ear, and he chokes on a laugh as he finally pulls away.
"Dot, do you really want me hacking at your writing? Me? I've never managed to string so much as a nice sentence together."
"Better you than me," she says with a small smile, and he snorts as he reaches for his takeout.
"Yes, well, I'll keep it in mind if I get desperate."
*
He gets desperate.
He doesn't like sitting around doing nothing. He goes stir-crazy, and it still hurts to walk too much to make going out an option as much as he wants. He ends up playing his guitar for hours on end, until his hands hurt and he winces when he picks anything up. Dot threatens to hide it, or maybe burn it, if he doesn't find something else to do.
"I don't have anything," he says, and she rolls her eyes at him -- seems like half their conversations are her rolling her eyes at him lately -- and plops her laptop down on the table in front of him. He raises his eyebrows. "You want me to play on the computer instead?"
"This looks desperate to me. I'll give you the latest manuscript. You can read it over for me. Even if you don't contribute anything, you can tell me if it's awful and it should take a few days for you to get through."
He considers it, and finally sighs, shrugging. "All right, fine," he agrees, leaning back into the couch. She leans over the arm, and he watches her click through folders.
*
It turns out you don't have to be able to write to be able to comment on writing. He knows Dot's style. He's been reading things since she started writing two-page stories in her notebooks at night. He hasn't read it so much lately, because he has very little interest in erotica when it's written by his sister or children's books at all, but the style is more or less the same. He pulls up a document and starts taking notes, and when he finishes reading and goes back, he's surprised how much he has to say.
Dot gets him to promise to read the next one, too. Maybe the next. He agrees to keep reading until she finds herself another editor.
Somewhere along the way, she never finds another editor. Instead, she starts sending him the kids books too.
Then comes the day she fires her agent, and then begs him for help, just until she's done with this book and has time to look for another. He considers telling her this isn't how the job's supposed to work. That he doesn't want to do this forever. That he'll help her find someone else.
He does some research, instead.
It's not like he has anything else to do.
Story: And the Devil Makes Three
Colors: True Blue 2, "Blood siblings"; Halloween Orange 5, "An island's not a prison -- that's what men make bridges for."
Supplies and Styles: Novelty beads (follow a new trail)
Word Count: 1110
Rating: PG
Warnings: A couple of mentions of past child abuse. Also, it's not talked about indepth, but the main character has just been through a traumatic accident and been severely injured and that's a major part of the story.
Notes: Right, so Mal's basically taken over writing this verse and I'm happy to throw my hands up and let them, but this was in my head and I couldn't get it out, so... here? Also I think I have a thing about people accidentally falling into the dream jobs they may or may not have actually dreamed at. *looks at No Child Is Spared and then back at this* Yep, kind of a thing.
It's hard to be around Dorothy. John's let a lot of their childhood blur since he joined the service, and he's finally managed to let go of the rules they've lived under. It took him almost fifteen years after leaving home to learn how to use his voice, and seeing his sister's face makes him want to whisper again. But he wakes up one morning to her hand in his, her curled into a ball in the chair by his bedside, watching the television with captions on, and it's the first time in a long time that he hasn't wanted to make an excuse for her to leave. He doesn't know how he slept through her coming in, but they've always been good at being quiet, anyway.
"Morning, Dottie," he manages to creak, his throat dry, and she jumps, her head whipping to face him. She smiles, but he can see the hesitance in her expression, in the set of her shoulders.
"How do you feel?"
Like he's nearly died. Like he shouldn't still be in one piece. Like crying, at the thought of being home again, of losing a place he's managed to belong. But he can't say that to his little sister, so he forces a smile. "Better than last night. When did you get here?"
"A little while ago. What do they say?"
He shrugs. "A lot of things. I don't understand half of it. I should more-or-less heal, but I won't be able to go back." He stopped listening when he gathered that much.
He pretends he doesn't see her relief when he says it, and she wipes it off her face.
"You didn't have to come. I don't know how long I'll be here. They might want more tests. You can go to work, I'll-"
"John," she interrupts, her hand tightening hard enough on his to make him wince. "You almost died. I'm not going anywhere. Work will understand, and if not, fuck them. I can live off sales for long enough to get another job."
"Are you making that much?"
"Don't change the subject." She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile at the corner of her mouth, and he laughs.
"All right, fine. But if they take me away in ten minutes, don't say I didn't warn you."
They don't take him away in ten minutes.
They do take him away in two hours, and he waves, entirely expecting Dot to be distracted and gone by the time he gets back. She isn't; she's still sitting in the chair, a cup of vending machine coffee and the volume on the television the only real change. He isn't expecting to be happy to see her, but he finds that he is.
*
They haven't been very physical people with each other since they were young, but the day John is released, Dot doesn't leave his side. He knows he won't fall, but she keeps an arm around him like she's waiting for it. Like he doesn't have a cane to hold him up, and she has to do the job.
They settle onto the couch for dinner, and he throws his arms around her on an impulse. She makes a startled sound, but she wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him tightly, and she doesn't make him let go. Doesn't mention the take-out getting cold or the awkward angle of her shoulder. She just hugs him, like they're children again, trying to ignore the yelling coming from downstairs.
He'd thought that would be the worst thing that ever happened to him. He's not sure if it still is.
"Thank you," he says softly, and she shakes her head a little, her hair brushing his neck.
"I'm glad you came home."
"I don't know what to do now," he admits. "I don't want to sit around and do nothing, I can't do that. But I don't know what else to do with my life."
"Well, I need a new editor," she says, suddenly bright and loud in his ear, and he chokes on a laugh as he finally pulls away.
"Dot, do you really want me hacking at your writing? Me? I've never managed to string so much as a nice sentence together."
"Better you than me," she says with a small smile, and he snorts as he reaches for his takeout.
"Yes, well, I'll keep it in mind if I get desperate."
*
He gets desperate.
He doesn't like sitting around doing nothing. He goes stir-crazy, and it still hurts to walk too much to make going out an option as much as he wants. He ends up playing his guitar for hours on end, until his hands hurt and he winces when he picks anything up. Dot threatens to hide it, or maybe burn it, if he doesn't find something else to do.
"I don't have anything," he says, and she rolls her eyes at him -- seems like half their conversations are her rolling her eyes at him lately -- and plops her laptop down on the table in front of him. He raises his eyebrows. "You want me to play on the computer instead?"
"This looks desperate to me. I'll give you the latest manuscript. You can read it over for me. Even if you don't contribute anything, you can tell me if it's awful and it should take a few days for you to get through."
He considers it, and finally sighs, shrugging. "All right, fine," he agrees, leaning back into the couch. She leans over the arm, and he watches her click through folders.
*
It turns out you don't have to be able to write to be able to comment on writing. He knows Dot's style. He's been reading things since she started writing two-page stories in her notebooks at night. He hasn't read it so much lately, because he has very little interest in erotica when it's written by his sister or children's books at all, but the style is more or less the same. He pulls up a document and starts taking notes, and when he finishes reading and goes back, he's surprised how much he has to say.
Dot gets him to promise to read the next one, too. Maybe the next. He agrees to keep reading until she finds herself another editor.
Somewhere along the way, she never finds another editor. Instead, she starts sending him the kids books too.
Then comes the day she fires her agent, and then begs him for help, just until she's done with this book and has time to look for another. He considers telling her this isn't how the job's supposed to work. That he doesn't want to do this forever. That he'll help her find someone else.
He does some research, instead.
It's not like he has anything else to do.
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Hi, I got to wake up and see that this was here and it was *awesome*.
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I really like the sibling interaction her--just that quiet support for each other, from two people who have learned to get each other past the bad times.
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