Fic: Do I Dare Disturb the Universe 2/?, FFXIII, SnowxLightning
Title: Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?
Author: frkmgnt1
Rating: PG-13 or T (Pick your poison.)
Pairing: Snow/Lightning, Snow/Serah
Chapter 2: I Have Measured out My Life with Coffee Spoons
Word count: for this chapter ~5,600,. Total ~ 11,500
Description: Snow has something he needs to say. Lightning cannot hear it.
Genre: Angst angst and more angst. Romance (Oh my god! I wrote Romance. WTF?)
Notes: This started life as a one shot, and perhaps should have stayed that way. But the characters nagged me to continue the story and SOMEONE challenged me to write a story without a doomed Snow/Lightning pairing. That's not easy to do and I'm not sure I'll pull it off. But I'm sure as hell going to try it!
I had a few people comment that they didn't understand why Lightning might be living in squalor in Chapter 1. I hope this chapter clears things up for you a bit.
I will say that this is not the same universe as my story Evolution, but the relationship between Snow and Lightning in Evolution did inspire this little ditty. So, I guess it's an AU of my AU. (And I usually hate those a lot, but bear with me.)
Chapter 1 here
"The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready."
-Henry David Thoreau
-I Have Measured out my Life with Coffee Spoons-
Sleep eludes Lightning in the aftermath of Snow's visit.
Oh she tries to sleep. She does the best damn imitation of sleep any human has ever done! Still, she cannot shake the feelings churning inside her long enough for sleep to seep into her exhausted body or quell her spinning mind. Her stomach roils around, combining anger, hurt, liquor and painkillers together like some sort of sick witch's brew.
She might throw up. An acidic grumble of her stomach makes her wonder if that wouldn't be the best thing. She contemplates forcing the issue before deciding that it would just take too much effort. Not to mention the act would force her from beneath her warm covers and out of her imitation sleep. She settles, counts out heartbeats in her head.
Feels the warmth of his hand like a brand along her hipbone.
She rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling.
The room is dark, but it's not a perfect darkness. She can see the crack that runs across her ceiling like some sort of tectonic fault line. She focuses on it, hopes that concentrating on nothing will let her anxiety drain away like pus from a boil and allow her a measure of peace. She feels her heartbeat steady out, feels her eyelids get heavy and droop.
Sees blue eyes and white teeth surrounded by smiling, chapped lips. Feels the moisture of his breath slide over her jaw and earlobe as he whispers unspeakable things to her. Feels the shiver that started at the base of her spine rattle through her all over again.
She hurls herself back onto her side and punches her pillow once to try and get it right. She decides that it must be the problem, because she is never going to admit that SNOW of all people can steal sleep and solace from her. He doesn't have that kind of power. She won't let him have that kind of power over her. The decision makes her feel better. She closes her eyes, takes steadying breaths to calm herself; feels herself drift for a sweet moment, body sinking deeper into her warm, inviting bed.
Just once.
She opens her eyes, kicks her legs once in frustration; settles again and closes her eyes. She swallows, moistens her lips and tastes him all over again.
"Damn it!" She wishes he were here right now. She'd break his goddamn neck!
She takes a steadying breath, closes her eyes and tries again to find slumber. She drifts, makes it to that wonderful in-between space where sleep is just an inch away...
I'm in love with you.
Tell me you don't love me.
That's it! She opens her eyes and kicks her blankets off with more violence than necessary. Her legs tangle in them and she thrashes like an infant having a tantrum.
"Asshole!" She yells to her empty room. "Just...goddamn...stupid...jerk!" She blows out a hard breath.
Very articulate.
Not only did he steal her sleep, he stole her coherence as well! This just keeps getting better and better. She pulls the tangled blankets from around her legs and hurls them onto the floor. They whip through the air, lash her cheek, whisper against her eye and brush her lashes. She flinches, rage growing by leaps and bounds with every stupid second. Her eye waters and she dashes away the tears, scrapes her eyelid with the bandaging she'd forgotten about and lets out a frustrated shout. She clenches a fist in a rage, feels the pain from her fractured hand fire up her arm. She forces herself to unclench her muscles, to take a breath before she hurts herself in some stupid childish temper tantrum. The energy bubbling up inside her refuses to dissipate without an outlet. She gets out of bed and paces her room to blow off this inflated anger born of sleeplessness and fear.
How could he do this? What could have been going through his tiny, pea brain to make him think that this was acceptable or appropriate?
If she could go back in time, she'd have never opened the goddamn door! Hell, as long as she is dreaming up pointless what ifs, she'd have never moved into this house. She didn't want to! She wanted to stay near Sazh and Dajh from the start. They settled near Cocoon-near Fang and Vanille; near Hope and his father. She wanted to stay near her new friends to build a new life-for herself and for the survivors from Cocoon.
Sazh thought that the refugees would need help building a settlement: supplies, food, fresh water, agriculture, not to mention protection from the dangers of Gran Pulse. He managed to somehow get hold of an aircraft before everything went to hell, said it would be great for shuttling heavy loads as well as passengers. So, he stayed where he could do some good. Bartholomew Estheim made a similar choice, most likely at the behest of his son. Hope didn't want their group to separate; he thought that perhaps their being together might rouse Fang and Vanille from their stasis.
She doubted that was possible, but leaving Fang and Vanille behind felt wrong enough that she entertained Hope's idea.
But Snow and Serah wanted a seaside town. They wanted something that resembled the home they'd lost in Bodhum back on Cocoon. Serah grew up by the sea, had her happiest moments and fondest memories under the sun, soft sand squishing between her toes. Snow wanted only Serah's happiness; so Snow and his band of merry idiots, aka N.O.R.A., decided to start building on and near the ruins of Oerba, clear across the Archylte Steppe from their friends. And Serah begged Lightning to stay with them.
Lightning hesitated in agreeing to the request. It was a first in both their lives. Part of her knew even then that living here would be difficult. The seaside settlement didn't suit her. Oerba carried memories she would just as soon forget: memories of Cieth, of Fang's devastation at finding her home destroyed, of Vanille's squeals of delight when they reassembled her pet...whatever the hell it was; memories of Barthandelus taunting and mocking them in Serah's form.
She shivers.
She would have been happier never seeing Oerba again, truth be told.
Bodhum was her home by circumstance, not choice. She had no real attachment to the beach or ocean. Her only attachments to Bodhum were in the memories it carried, and the family that remained.
But she soon found her apathy to beachfront property in general, and her aversion to Oerba specifically were was just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg. A few weeks after settling, Lightning realized that Snow made her uncomfortable. It wasn't the intense dislike that she felt when she first met him. That would have been easy to quash or deal with. She could have pointed to it and said, 'there's the problem, now get the hell over it.'
No, it was nothing that obvious. The discomfort was amorphous and undefined. Everything would be okay one moment. Then the next thing she knew, Snow would wink at her and she'd feel a heated flush creep up over her face, or he'd tease her and something in her gut would twist and clench. It wasn't anger or embarrassment. She couldn't figure out what the hell it was, so she did her best to avoid it and him altogether. She felt like she was always running away, and Lightning never ran from anything in her life. Hell, she ran head first towards death and destruction for weeks and weeks and never flinched.
The whole experience made her skin crawl. It made her jumpy and irritable. She hated this uncertainty blossoming within her. She no longer understood her reactions; she no longer knew herself. She didn't want to be around Snow at all because of this indefinable thing twisting inside her.
She never suspected the real problem, and that's the real kicker here.
She never put her finger on the problem; never probed or dissected her discomfort to ascertain its cause. She never would have believed that he noticed her discomfort. And she never would have thought he'd be astute enough to figure out the reason for said discomfort when she hadn't. The very idea that he might have any sort of feelings for her beyond exasperation and possible familial affection was preposterous. Snow radiated lovesick joy, spent his days and nights making googly eyes at Serah. Serah shined brighter than any gemstone Lightning ever saw when she was with Snow and she swore up and down that 'Her Hero' hung the stars in the heavens just for her. They were happy, and Lightning was happy for them both. There was no hint of bitterness or jealousy inside her.
She still doesn't feel jealous or covetous. She doesn't feel anything but treacherous.
Despite her happiness for her sister, there was a thread of ickiness inside her too; something that remained unsettled despite all her best efforts. She figured she was uncomfortable being third wheel in their little group; she didn't like feeling like she was intruding on what should be private moments between lovers. It was, and still is, a reasonable explanation for her discomfiture.
Other times she blamed it on sitting idle while so many people were struggling. Lightning was born for activity. She never sat idle a day in her life. In school she worked hard and played harder. When her parents died, she worked to prove to the authorities that she was a capable caregiver for her sister despite her youth, and never faltered in that endeavor. After graduation, she enlisted in the military, determined to become a member of the Guardian Corps and protect the citizens of Cocoon. She achieved that goal and became one of the most respected member of the GC in her regiment.
She needed work but instead of helping people she was just sitting on her ass for months, collecting dust and getting stale.
Also a viable explanation.
Apparently, that was the explanation Snow came up with for her withdrawal as well. About four months after they settled, Snow (and his merry band of idiots) showed up at her door and asked her if she would help out with keeping the settlement perimeter clear to prevent local wildlife wandering into the developing community. Snow's exact words were "It'll be good for you." The comment rankled and Lightning balked; found the idea irritating-mostly because it was his idea and she really didn't accept direction well. The idea of working for Snow in any capacity pissed her off. He was an undisciplined ass and she was a sergeant in the Guardian Corps. But once her kneejerk denial passed, she realized that she liked the idea of having a purpose again. Real work of a type at which she was exceptional would go a long way towards making her feel like she belonged here.
And of course, the rush and thrill of fighting was a great bonus.
Snow winked at her, clapped her on the back in one of his painful and playful signs of encouragement, and yelled "Atta girl!" She almost socked him in the mouth. The look he gave her told her he expected the hit, so she surprised him (and herself) by not doing it. Instead she surprised them both by placing a hand on his chest over his heart, giving him her best warm smile and saying with all sincerity, "Thank you, Snow."
The stammering and blushing that followed was worth the effort it took to rein in her baser instincts.
Of course, she can now see that Snow was paying far too close attention to her. It's a benefit of hindsight she could do without to be honest.
So for a while she was able to burn off her excess energy protecting people again; she could push away uncomfortable thoughts and just be herself and do her thing. Her weapon, herself and the great outdoors! She was invigorated and felt more alive than she'd felt...in years, if she were being truthful. There was no more chain of command, no more shaky, unsettling orders. She could put all her training to good use doing good works. It was excellent! She was exorcising her demons and having a great time in the process.
Life was good, right up until she got injured on a patrol. She misstepped, zigged when she should have zagged and caught a nasty rake from some filthy claws. She slew the bastard creature and kept going, ignoring the blood leaking through her shirt, too high on the adrenaline to notice or care.
It was nothing. A scratch!
"Scratch, Lightning?" Snow yells as he wipes antiseptic over the claw marks on her back. She flinches away, more from the anger vibrating through him than from any actual pain from the injury.
"I'm fine." She is. The pain is negligible, and they both know that she's had far worse. Hell, he saw her get far worse than this glancing hit during their travels together. There's minor bleeding and marginal pain.
"This one is almost to the bone. It needs stitches!" He traces his finger none-too-gently along the undamaged skin next to the wound. It's a long gash, and now that he disturbed it, it burns like he poured salt into it. She grits her teeth and exhales. Bastard made it hurt to make a point.
Screw him! It's still nothing.
"So? It's not my first rodeo Snow." She pulls her hair over her shoulder to give him access to the shoulder blade. "And it's not the first time you've seen me hurt. Just stitch it up already."
He slams things as he pulls suture materials from the kit. "You're unbelievable!" He drops everything with a loud crash, nearly bowls her over as he stands up and storms out of the room. She stares after him in shock.
"What the hell just happened?" She asks the empty room.
Serah stitched it up, lecturing the entire time about being careful and taking care of herself. "We love you Claire." Lightning bristled at the use of her given name, tensed under sweeping allegations of love, but kept her temper in check. Pain tended to make her cranky and ornery. She knew this particular truth about herself, recognized it as one of her worst qualities. She held her tongue, offered thanks for the help and empty promises to be more careful. She went home, took a painkiller and forgot all about the incident as she fell into a dreamless sleep. She didn't think about it again at all until the next day when Snow showed up to accompany her on her next patrol.
She opens the door and finds Snow loitering on her front porch. She stares at him, speechless. Trying to determine what the hell he is doing on her doorstep. He stormed out on her last night and left her to bleed and hurt until Serah got home.
When Serah asked him what he was thinking, Lightning heard him yell from a far room, "Serves her right!"
Now he stands here at her doorstep like nothing happened, and she wonders if she hallucinated the entire event. He gives her his megawatt smile and she feels dread creeping in. "Hey. Ready to go?"
Ready to go? Has she stepped into an alternate universe?
"What are you doing here?" She's cautious, hurtling towards pissed.
He winks at her. "I'm here to keep you out of trouble."
A strange feeling lights up her insides, makes her queasy and angry all at once. She grits her teeth. "I don't need a babysitter, Snow." She leaves out the implied: Especially not you.
"Well, Serah asked me to look after you. And that's what I'm going to do from now on. So get used to it."
And that was that.
He stole her solace then and blamed the mess on Serah. The one place where she was free, where she found a measure of happiness and he infiltrated it like some sort of disease. She retreated from everything after he'd taken her last shred of freedom from her, clipped her wings and shackled her good and proper. He couldn't have made her more a prisoner if he'd tried.
She started retreating from everything then. She pulled further and further away. Patrols no longer gave her happiness so she'd begged off them claiming pains and other obligations. Hope would call her on the two way radios and could always hear her distress. Her unwillingness to tell him her troubles hurt him, so she stopped talking to him altogether.
She began to resent her sister for putting her on a choke chain and handing her very short leash to Snow.
She had no escape but within the walls of her very shabby home, so she shut herself away in it and wallowed as she'd never done before. She hadn't felt that sorry for herself after her parents died! She pissed herself off no end and she spent most days either sulking or raging aloud about her childish, churlish behavior.
Then he had the audacity to violate her last retreat as well. He showed up in the middle of the night and took a wrecking ball to her entire life. Then he poured gasoline on it and lit it on fire for good measure.
The whispered confessions will haunt her until she dies.
Don't misunderstand now-she's not some romantic asshole who believes she'll never get over him. She's still pissed off that she fell for him in the first place. So pissed off that she spent months and months denying that there were any feelings at all. She knows damn well that she'll get over him. In fact, she can't frigging wait to get over him! It'll be a long, slow, and irritating process, but one day she'll wake up and it will be gone.
Kind of like a virus. A sickening, insanity inducing virus.
She'll be able to look at him and remember without dredging up the gut-wrenching feelings and crushing guilt. There'll be memories of feelings, which is not even close to the same thing. They'll just be...memories. Vague. Like faded, yellowed photographs. She knows that she won't even be able to recall what it felt like, or why she'd felt it at all. She may have one or two regrets. She may even indulge them once in a while in the middle of the night, or when the healed fracture line in her hand aches from the cold or the damp; she'll dream that she hadn't turned him away, or that his 'just once' meant more than one kiss.
She shivers at the idea.
Then she'll remember that he was never hers to take, and that doing so would have been the worst sort of betrayal of the only family she has left. She'll remember that she may be many things, but she is no base thief, and sure as hell is no traitor. She'll remember that any other decision would trash the lives of the two people she loves most in the world, and destroy any semblance of self worth she might have left. She'll realize that she has done the best she possibly can in a miserable situation. She has honored her sister as far as she could with a traitorous, idiotic heart that simply would not listen to reason. At all.
She stops pacing, runs her fingers through her hair and exhales. She feels better, like her idle thoughts and random musings have actually resolved the matter when in actuality, she's accomplished nothing at all. She walks out of her room and heads to the shower. She is cold now. And tired. A hot shower will help both problems, and she's almost salivating at the idea of it.
The pipes groan and shake when she twists the faucet but she decides to be patient and waits for the water to run hot. She looks at the makeshift splint that Snow constructed for her last night, knows that she cannot get it wet. She considers tearing off the tape and rebinding the injury after her shower before dismissing the idea. The task might prove too difficult considering her right hand is dominant.
She is definitely not refusing to change the bandaging because Snow constructed the splint; not because his fingers smoothed the tape with care and his teeth tore the ragged end. That would be stupid sentimental nonsense and unworthy of a soldier: a sergeantin the Guardian Corp (though that rank means less than nothing in the wake of Cocoon's destruction.) She growls at herself and hunts down a plastic bag to cover the bandaging.
She is absurd. Absurd, and more than a bit pathetic. When the hell did that happen?
Locating and positioning the bag takes enough time that the bathroom is steamy and warm when she gets back . She's practically drooling as she strips off her pajamas and climbs into the dingy porcelain tub. She stands beneath the near scalding spray and lets out a moan that would be more appropriate in a pornographic film than in a disgusting bathtub. Although, now that she thinks of it, many porno movies have scenes in disgusting bathtubs.
She needs to switch her brain's track now.
The hot water is heaven, and Lightning stands under the spray far longer than it takes to clean herself. She lets the water cascade over her, beat down on her muscles and pour over her head, washing every mental and physical ache away. It is a purification and it is heaven. She stands there until the water temperature starts dropping by degrees per second.
"Damn it!" She scowls as she twists off the faucet, wraps a towel around herself and climbs out of the tub. She pulls off the bag over her hand with her teeth, sees that the hot water has called up bruises in every shade of blue and purple across her right hand. The skin feels tight now, swelled up over the injury from the damage. She tries to move her hand, feels the pain shoot right to her elbow and grunts. Her best bet is not moving it.
Damn it!
Brushing her teeth is an awkward and annoying thing to do with her left hand. It seems strange how backwards it feels to her, and it takes at least twice as long as usual to brush. Her feet have gone numb from the cold tile floor and she has a strange déjà vu for a few hours ago.
/Cold feet. Prickling skin. Can I come in?/
She shakes her head to dispel the memory before she gets lost in it. She has no desire to relive events that she wishes she hadn't experienced in the first place. She slams the cabinet over the sink hard enough to crack the mirror. The crack splits right through her face, giving the illusion that the two halves of her don't match up. That she's as broken outside as she is inside.
Her empty expression twists into a disgusted sneer.
She needs to get the hell out of here. She's seeing metaphors in cracked mirrors now! Soon she'll start seeing images of the Maker in her burnt toast, and the future in wet tea leaves! She'll lose what little grip she has left. She's losing her goddamn mind sitting around here day in and day out, doing nothing but counting out her days in snowfall accumulations and dodged calls. She's withering into a dried out husk, a mere shadow of herself, and somewhere along the way she stopped caring.
She's no good to anyone here. Her presence only threatens to ruin the lives of two people she loves. Sazh has extended multiple invitations to her, then multiple requests for aid. She has resisted going only to keep her sister happy.
Is that really the only reason, Lightning?
No! She's so not going there and screw him for making her doubt her own motivations.
Well, whatever. Considering last night's events, her sister will be much happier if Lightning is on the other side of this forsaken planet.
Lucky for her, that's just where she's going. Sazh lives on the far side of the Archylte Steppe.
She lets her years of training take over. Soldiers have to be able to break down camp, pack up and move out within minutes of receiving the order. It's a comfortable and familiar thing to boil her life down to essentials that can be carried in a pack. She sorts through her belongings in no time, packs a bag for her gear, cleans and prepares her weapon, and dresses herself in the most sensible clothing she can find for the journey she is about to take. She glances around the house for anything that she might want to take. She has no intentions of ever returning to this hovel. She realizes now that this was never her home. It was a mere way-station; a place for her to marinate in her own juices until inactivity drove her back to her first, best destiny. She is a warrior, a soldier without an army.
She is an army of one. She always has been.
She's not a home-maker, and she won't stick around to be Crazy Aunt Claire, or 'that lady with thirty cats.' She is not meant for staying home and keeping house. She only ever did that to take care of Serah.
Serah can care for herself now, and Snow can keep her safe. Lightning trusts the moron not screw that up, at least. He may be mixed up and confused, but Lightning is positive that he loves Serah and would die to keep her safe. That is all she will ever ask of him. Ever. Again.
Lightning longs for the open road. She longs for freedom and fighting. She's very skilled and highly trained, and she's rotting here in her own self indulgent depression.
She is a wasting damned shame. But no more.
She packs her things with speed and efficiency. She's a whirlwind tearing through her house, plucking essentials from their places amongst the useless crap that she's scattered about in vain effort to create the illusion of domesticity in this prison. She packs her clothing, her med-kit and her items; she grabs her ammo, gun oil, sharpening stone and polishing cloth. She grabs rope and climbing gear-just in case. She considers leaving behind the communicator Sazh built for all of them out of two way radios and cannibalized cell phone parts. It was an act of inspired brilliance on his part, and shortened the distance between the members of their makeshift family dramatically.
She stares at it where it lays on the table and realizes that leaving it would be a hurtful act, not to mention a stupid one. She knows this is a dangerous undertaking; she knows she might die. Leaving behind her only means to reach her loved ones would be petty and cruel, and while she doesn't deny her own capacity for cruelty, she isn't proud of it. Nor does she indulge it willingly. Leaving this here will hurt Serah. She's done more than her share of hurting Serah in her lifetime. She stops considering, shoves the communicator into a waterproof bag in her pack and forgets it.
Lightning turns her attention to her weapon. She lifts it in her injured hand, feels the pain, but knows it won't interfere in the usage. She flips the switch watches the blade extend with a smooth snap, then retract clean and easy. Her weapon is beautiful and unfailing-her most treasured possession. She smiles, strokes the long line of her Edged Carbine, and holsters it. She slips her birthday dagger into a case and straps it to her thigh. She debates taking the sphere from its pedestal on her dresser. It is her Odin Stone and it earned a place of honor in her life and bedroom. She hasn't touched it since placing it; she always figured the best course was to leave the past in the past and not look back. She turns away from it now and takes two steps toward the door. She pauses and glances back over her shoulder, catches a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye.
Ah, what the hell?
She spins, stretches and swipes the stone from the pedestal, pets it once before secreting it away into her pouch. She doubts it works, but it is hers and she wants it. Odin became a part of her during that nightmare journey, and she is not ready to part company just yet.
Is she demented for missing her Eidolon?
She shakes her head, decides that the answer to that question doesn't matter anyway, and gives the empty rooms a cursory glance. She spots the two pictures that sit in her bedroom: one of Hope, Sazh, Dajh, Snow and her in front of the crystal of their lost friends and home, and a childhood picture of her and Serah with their parents. She swipes them both, places her childhood family picture in her bag and lets her fingers linger over the image of their little motley crew. She feels her eyes burn as she stares at Fang and Vanille, lost to them now forever in a final act of sacrifice and friendship, and feels a gaping hole open so wide inside her that she's afraid her whole house might just fall into it.
She misses them so much sometimes. She doesn't really understand how it's possible for two people she'd only known briefly to create such an absence in her now. Through their time and trials together, they became a family.
She pulls out the picture with her parents, stares at her mother's kind eyes-so much like Serah's-and her father's wide smile. Her heart hurts at the idea of losing her last connection to them.
She's tired of losing her family.
She sniffs and packs the pictures away. She'll see some of her lost family again soon. She'll go and pay her respects to Fang and Vanille at their 'resting place.' She turns away, deciding that she is packed and ready, before remembering that she's forgotten the only other thing she has left of Fang-that bottle of poisonous liquor from five hundred years ago stuffed away in her kitchen-and goes to retrieve it. It is frivolous and unnecessary.
Like the Odin stone, it is hers and she wants it.
She slips the liquor into her pouch, hears the clinking and gurgling indicative of a bottle of liquid. She can almost hear Fang's voice saying "Cheers!" in those innocuous sounds. She smiles at the memory of her friend, feels the pang of loneliness hit her hard.
She grabs her boots, sits onto her couch and feels the broken spring stick her in her ass again. She slides over, scowls down at the couch and sees something black pressed between the cushions. She pulls the crumpled cloth from its hiding place already knowing what she's going to find.
Snow's bandana. She pulled it off him last night when she checked him for head injuries, before she realized that he wasn't injured-just insane. She sees a few blond hairs tied into the knot at the back, drops the thing onto the couch as if it were on fire. She ignores it, turns back toward the task at hand.
She tucks her winter white wool leggings into her fur lined boots, laces them as tightly as possible to keep heat in and moisture out. Walking in these sorts of conditions risks frostbite, gangrene and possible amputation. She looks back over at the bandana where it lays abandoned on the cushions, feels her face heat. She stands up and moves away. She pulls a heavy white wool sweater over her knit shirts for extra layers and warmth. She's already sweating. She pulls on her heavy animal skin poncho, her hat, scarf and mittens. Her right hand throbs and she scowls at it while coveting the pain.
/This is the only thing we'll ever give one another./
The stupid sentiment makes her want to punch herself in the face and break her hand all over again. It also calls her attention to the discarded bandana. She looks away again. She needs to get the hell out of here. Now that she's packed away her few important possessions, this house contains nothing for her but bad memories. Memories of her drinking too much to avoid thinking too much. Inactivity doesn't agree with her. Her mother used to say that idle hands are the devil's workshop. She's met the devil-good old Barthandelus-so she's pretty sure that's not true. Everything was that bastard's workshop.
Totally besides the point.
She needs to be doing something useful, something worthwhile. There's too much to do in this world for her to sit in a house and feel sorry for herself. She's positive that doing things will help purge this insanity from her. It was too much time spent in too close proximity under dire circumstances that birthed this abomination in her heart. Distance and time will restore sanity to her life, and hopefully do the same for Snow. She straps on her weapon, positions it for easy access, slings her pack onto her back, pulls open the door and gets smacked with the icy breeze. She pauses...
Inhales. Exhales.
...Storms over to the couch and swipes the bandana with a curse, turns her back on the crappy room, heads out into the frigid winter morning and never looks back.
.
TBC...
Chapter 3
Author: frkmgnt1
Rating: PG-13 or T (Pick your poison.)
Pairing: Snow/Lightning, Snow/Serah
Chapter 2: I Have Measured out My Life with Coffee Spoons
Word count: for this chapter ~5,600,. Total ~ 11,500
Description: Snow has something he needs to say. Lightning cannot hear it.
Genre: Angst angst and more angst. Romance (Oh my god! I wrote Romance. WTF?)
Notes: This started life as a one shot, and perhaps should have stayed that way. But the characters nagged me to continue the story and SOMEONE challenged me to write a story without a doomed Snow/Lightning pairing. That's not easy to do and I'm not sure I'll pull it off. But I'm sure as hell going to try it!
I had a few people comment that they didn't understand why Lightning might be living in squalor in Chapter 1. I hope this chapter clears things up for you a bit.
I will say that this is not the same universe as my story Evolution, but the relationship between Snow and Lightning in Evolution did inspire this little ditty. So, I guess it's an AU of my AU. (And I usually hate those a lot, but bear with me.)
Chapter 1 here
"The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait till that other is ready."
-Henry David Thoreau
-I Have Measured out my Life with Coffee Spoons-
Sleep eludes Lightning in the aftermath of Snow's visit.
Oh she tries to sleep. She does the best damn imitation of sleep any human has ever done! Still, she cannot shake the feelings churning inside her long enough for sleep to seep into her exhausted body or quell her spinning mind. Her stomach roils around, combining anger, hurt, liquor and painkillers together like some sort of sick witch's brew.
She might throw up. An acidic grumble of her stomach makes her wonder if that wouldn't be the best thing. She contemplates forcing the issue before deciding that it would just take too much effort. Not to mention the act would force her from beneath her warm covers and out of her imitation sleep. She settles, counts out heartbeats in her head.
Feels the warmth of his hand like a brand along her hipbone.
She rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling.
The room is dark, but it's not a perfect darkness. She can see the crack that runs across her ceiling like some sort of tectonic fault line. She focuses on it, hopes that concentrating on nothing will let her anxiety drain away like pus from a boil and allow her a measure of peace. She feels her heartbeat steady out, feels her eyelids get heavy and droop.
Sees blue eyes and white teeth surrounded by smiling, chapped lips. Feels the moisture of his breath slide over her jaw and earlobe as he whispers unspeakable things to her. Feels the shiver that started at the base of her spine rattle through her all over again.
She hurls herself back onto her side and punches her pillow once to try and get it right. She decides that it must be the problem, because she is never going to admit that SNOW of all people can steal sleep and solace from her. He doesn't have that kind of power. She won't let him have that kind of power over her. The decision makes her feel better. She closes her eyes, takes steadying breaths to calm herself; feels herself drift for a sweet moment, body sinking deeper into her warm, inviting bed.
Just once.
She opens her eyes, kicks her legs once in frustration; settles again and closes her eyes. She swallows, moistens her lips and tastes him all over again.
"Damn it!" She wishes he were here right now. She'd break his goddamn neck!
She takes a steadying breath, closes her eyes and tries again to find slumber. She drifts, makes it to that wonderful in-between space where sleep is just an inch away...
I'm in love with you.
Tell me you don't love me.
That's it! She opens her eyes and kicks her blankets off with more violence than necessary. Her legs tangle in them and she thrashes like an infant having a tantrum.
"Asshole!" She yells to her empty room. "Just...goddamn...stupid...jerk!" She blows out a hard breath.
Very articulate.
Not only did he steal her sleep, he stole her coherence as well! This just keeps getting better and better. She pulls the tangled blankets from around her legs and hurls them onto the floor. They whip through the air, lash her cheek, whisper against her eye and brush her lashes. She flinches, rage growing by leaps and bounds with every stupid second. Her eye waters and she dashes away the tears, scrapes her eyelid with the bandaging she'd forgotten about and lets out a frustrated shout. She clenches a fist in a rage, feels the pain from her fractured hand fire up her arm. She forces herself to unclench her muscles, to take a breath before she hurts herself in some stupid childish temper tantrum. The energy bubbling up inside her refuses to dissipate without an outlet. She gets out of bed and paces her room to blow off this inflated anger born of sleeplessness and fear.
How could he do this? What could have been going through his tiny, pea brain to make him think that this was acceptable or appropriate?
If she could go back in time, she'd have never opened the goddamn door! Hell, as long as she is dreaming up pointless what ifs, she'd have never moved into this house. She didn't want to! She wanted to stay near Sazh and Dajh from the start. They settled near Cocoon-near Fang and Vanille; near Hope and his father. She wanted to stay near her new friends to build a new life-for herself and for the survivors from Cocoon.
Sazh thought that the refugees would need help building a settlement: supplies, food, fresh water, agriculture, not to mention protection from the dangers of Gran Pulse. He managed to somehow get hold of an aircraft before everything went to hell, said it would be great for shuttling heavy loads as well as passengers. So, he stayed where he could do some good. Bartholomew Estheim made a similar choice, most likely at the behest of his son. Hope didn't want their group to separate; he thought that perhaps their being together might rouse Fang and Vanille from their stasis.
She doubted that was possible, but leaving Fang and Vanille behind felt wrong enough that she entertained Hope's idea.
But Snow and Serah wanted a seaside town. They wanted something that resembled the home they'd lost in Bodhum back on Cocoon. Serah grew up by the sea, had her happiest moments and fondest memories under the sun, soft sand squishing between her toes. Snow wanted only Serah's happiness; so Snow and his band of merry idiots, aka N.O.R.A., decided to start building on and near the ruins of Oerba, clear across the Archylte Steppe from their friends. And Serah begged Lightning to stay with them.
Lightning hesitated in agreeing to the request. It was a first in both their lives. Part of her knew even then that living here would be difficult. The seaside settlement didn't suit her. Oerba carried memories she would just as soon forget: memories of Cieth, of Fang's devastation at finding her home destroyed, of Vanille's squeals of delight when they reassembled her pet...whatever the hell it was; memories of Barthandelus taunting and mocking them in Serah's form.
She shivers.
She would have been happier never seeing Oerba again, truth be told.
Bodhum was her home by circumstance, not choice. She had no real attachment to the beach or ocean. Her only attachments to Bodhum were in the memories it carried, and the family that remained.
But she soon found her apathy to beachfront property in general, and her aversion to Oerba specifically were was just the tip of the metaphorical iceberg. A few weeks after settling, Lightning realized that Snow made her uncomfortable. It wasn't the intense dislike that she felt when she first met him. That would have been easy to quash or deal with. She could have pointed to it and said, 'there's the problem, now get the hell over it.'
No, it was nothing that obvious. The discomfort was amorphous and undefined. Everything would be okay one moment. Then the next thing she knew, Snow would wink at her and she'd feel a heated flush creep up over her face, or he'd tease her and something in her gut would twist and clench. It wasn't anger or embarrassment. She couldn't figure out what the hell it was, so she did her best to avoid it and him altogether. She felt like she was always running away, and Lightning never ran from anything in her life. Hell, she ran head first towards death and destruction for weeks and weeks and never flinched.
The whole experience made her skin crawl. It made her jumpy and irritable. She hated this uncertainty blossoming within her. She no longer understood her reactions; she no longer knew herself. She didn't want to be around Snow at all because of this indefinable thing twisting inside her.
She never suspected the real problem, and that's the real kicker here.
She never put her finger on the problem; never probed or dissected her discomfort to ascertain its cause. She never would have believed that he noticed her discomfort. And she never would have thought he'd be astute enough to figure out the reason for said discomfort when she hadn't. The very idea that he might have any sort of feelings for her beyond exasperation and possible familial affection was preposterous. Snow radiated lovesick joy, spent his days and nights making googly eyes at Serah. Serah shined brighter than any gemstone Lightning ever saw when she was with Snow and she swore up and down that 'Her Hero' hung the stars in the heavens just for her. They were happy, and Lightning was happy for them both. There was no hint of bitterness or jealousy inside her.
She still doesn't feel jealous or covetous. She doesn't feel anything but treacherous.
Despite her happiness for her sister, there was a thread of ickiness inside her too; something that remained unsettled despite all her best efforts. She figured she was uncomfortable being third wheel in their little group; she didn't like feeling like she was intruding on what should be private moments between lovers. It was, and still is, a reasonable explanation for her discomfiture.
Other times she blamed it on sitting idle while so many people were struggling. Lightning was born for activity. She never sat idle a day in her life. In school she worked hard and played harder. When her parents died, she worked to prove to the authorities that she was a capable caregiver for her sister despite her youth, and never faltered in that endeavor. After graduation, she enlisted in the military, determined to become a member of the Guardian Corps and protect the citizens of Cocoon. She achieved that goal and became one of the most respected member of the GC in her regiment.
She needed work but instead of helping people she was just sitting on her ass for months, collecting dust and getting stale.
Also a viable explanation.
Apparently, that was the explanation Snow came up with for her withdrawal as well. About four months after they settled, Snow (and his merry band of idiots) showed up at her door and asked her if she would help out with keeping the settlement perimeter clear to prevent local wildlife wandering into the developing community. Snow's exact words were "It'll be good for you." The comment rankled and Lightning balked; found the idea irritating-mostly because it was his idea and she really didn't accept direction well. The idea of working for Snow in any capacity pissed her off. He was an undisciplined ass and she was a sergeant in the Guardian Corps. But once her kneejerk denial passed, she realized that she liked the idea of having a purpose again. Real work of a type at which she was exceptional would go a long way towards making her feel like she belonged here.
And of course, the rush and thrill of fighting was a great bonus.
Snow winked at her, clapped her on the back in one of his painful and playful signs of encouragement, and yelled "Atta girl!" She almost socked him in the mouth. The look he gave her told her he expected the hit, so she surprised him (and herself) by not doing it. Instead she surprised them both by placing a hand on his chest over his heart, giving him her best warm smile and saying with all sincerity, "Thank you, Snow."
The stammering and blushing that followed was worth the effort it took to rein in her baser instincts.
Of course, she can now see that Snow was paying far too close attention to her. It's a benefit of hindsight she could do without to be honest.
So for a while she was able to burn off her excess energy protecting people again; she could push away uncomfortable thoughts and just be herself and do her thing. Her weapon, herself and the great outdoors! She was invigorated and felt more alive than she'd felt...in years, if she were being truthful. There was no more chain of command, no more shaky, unsettling orders. She could put all her training to good use doing good works. It was excellent! She was exorcising her demons and having a great time in the process.
Life was good, right up until she got injured on a patrol. She misstepped, zigged when she should have zagged and caught a nasty rake from some filthy claws. She slew the bastard creature and kept going, ignoring the blood leaking through her shirt, too high on the adrenaline to notice or care.
It was nothing. A scratch!
"Scratch, Lightning?" Snow yells as he wipes antiseptic over the claw marks on her back. She flinches away, more from the anger vibrating through him than from any actual pain from the injury.
"I'm fine." She is. The pain is negligible, and they both know that she's had far worse. Hell, he saw her get far worse than this glancing hit during their travels together. There's minor bleeding and marginal pain.
"This one is almost to the bone. It needs stitches!" He traces his finger none-too-gently along the undamaged skin next to the wound. It's a long gash, and now that he disturbed it, it burns like he poured salt into it. She grits her teeth and exhales. Bastard made it hurt to make a point.
Screw him! It's still nothing.
"So? It's not my first rodeo Snow." She pulls her hair over her shoulder to give him access to the shoulder blade. "And it's not the first time you've seen me hurt. Just stitch it up already."
He slams things as he pulls suture materials from the kit. "You're unbelievable!" He drops everything with a loud crash, nearly bowls her over as he stands up and storms out of the room. She stares after him in shock.
"What the hell just happened?" She asks the empty room.
Serah stitched it up, lecturing the entire time about being careful and taking care of herself. "We love you Claire." Lightning bristled at the use of her given name, tensed under sweeping allegations of love, but kept her temper in check. Pain tended to make her cranky and ornery. She knew this particular truth about herself, recognized it as one of her worst qualities. She held her tongue, offered thanks for the help and empty promises to be more careful. She went home, took a painkiller and forgot all about the incident as she fell into a dreamless sleep. She didn't think about it again at all until the next day when Snow showed up to accompany her on her next patrol.
She opens the door and finds Snow loitering on her front porch. She stares at him, speechless. Trying to determine what the hell he is doing on her doorstep. He stormed out on her last night and left her to bleed and hurt until Serah got home.
When Serah asked him what he was thinking, Lightning heard him yell from a far room, "Serves her right!"
Now he stands here at her doorstep like nothing happened, and she wonders if she hallucinated the entire event. He gives her his megawatt smile and she feels dread creeping in. "Hey. Ready to go?"
Ready to go? Has she stepped into an alternate universe?
"What are you doing here?" She's cautious, hurtling towards pissed.
He winks at her. "I'm here to keep you out of trouble."
A strange feeling lights up her insides, makes her queasy and angry all at once. She grits her teeth. "I don't need a babysitter, Snow." She leaves out the implied: Especially not you.
"Well, Serah asked me to look after you. And that's what I'm going to do from now on. So get used to it."
And that was that.
He stole her solace then and blamed the mess on Serah. The one place where she was free, where she found a measure of happiness and he infiltrated it like some sort of disease. She retreated from everything after he'd taken her last shred of freedom from her, clipped her wings and shackled her good and proper. He couldn't have made her more a prisoner if he'd tried.
She started retreating from everything then. She pulled further and further away. Patrols no longer gave her happiness so she'd begged off them claiming pains and other obligations. Hope would call her on the two way radios and could always hear her distress. Her unwillingness to tell him her troubles hurt him, so she stopped talking to him altogether.
She began to resent her sister for putting her on a choke chain and handing her very short leash to Snow.
She had no escape but within the walls of her very shabby home, so she shut herself away in it and wallowed as she'd never done before. She hadn't felt that sorry for herself after her parents died! She pissed herself off no end and she spent most days either sulking or raging aloud about her childish, churlish behavior.
Then he had the audacity to violate her last retreat as well. He showed up in the middle of the night and took a wrecking ball to her entire life. Then he poured gasoline on it and lit it on fire for good measure.
The whispered confessions will haunt her until she dies.
Don't misunderstand now-she's not some romantic asshole who believes she'll never get over him. She's still pissed off that she fell for him in the first place. So pissed off that she spent months and months denying that there were any feelings at all. She knows damn well that she'll get over him. In fact, she can't frigging wait to get over him! It'll be a long, slow, and irritating process, but one day she'll wake up and it will be gone.
Kind of like a virus. A sickening, insanity inducing virus.
She'll be able to look at him and remember without dredging up the gut-wrenching feelings and crushing guilt. There'll be memories of feelings, which is not even close to the same thing. They'll just be...memories. Vague. Like faded, yellowed photographs. She knows that she won't even be able to recall what it felt like, or why she'd felt it at all. She may have one or two regrets. She may even indulge them once in a while in the middle of the night, or when the healed fracture line in her hand aches from the cold or the damp; she'll dream that she hadn't turned him away, or that his 'just once' meant more than one kiss.
She shivers at the idea.
Then she'll remember that he was never hers to take, and that doing so would have been the worst sort of betrayal of the only family she has left. She'll remember that she may be many things, but she is no base thief, and sure as hell is no traitor. She'll remember that any other decision would trash the lives of the two people she loves most in the world, and destroy any semblance of self worth she might have left. She'll realize that she has done the best she possibly can in a miserable situation. She has honored her sister as far as she could with a traitorous, idiotic heart that simply would not listen to reason. At all.
She stops pacing, runs her fingers through her hair and exhales. She feels better, like her idle thoughts and random musings have actually resolved the matter when in actuality, she's accomplished nothing at all. She walks out of her room and heads to the shower. She is cold now. And tired. A hot shower will help both problems, and she's almost salivating at the idea of it.
The pipes groan and shake when she twists the faucet but she decides to be patient and waits for the water to run hot. She looks at the makeshift splint that Snow constructed for her last night, knows that she cannot get it wet. She considers tearing off the tape and rebinding the injury after her shower before dismissing the idea. The task might prove too difficult considering her right hand is dominant.
She is definitely not refusing to change the bandaging because Snow constructed the splint; not because his fingers smoothed the tape with care and his teeth tore the ragged end. That would be stupid sentimental nonsense and unworthy of a soldier: a sergeantin the Guardian Corp (though that rank means less than nothing in the wake of Cocoon's destruction.) She growls at herself and hunts down a plastic bag to cover the bandaging.
She is absurd. Absurd, and more than a bit pathetic. When the hell did that happen?
Locating and positioning the bag takes enough time that the bathroom is steamy and warm when she gets back . She's practically drooling as she strips off her pajamas and climbs into the dingy porcelain tub. She stands beneath the near scalding spray and lets out a moan that would be more appropriate in a pornographic film than in a disgusting bathtub. Although, now that she thinks of it, many porno movies have scenes in disgusting bathtubs.
She needs to switch her brain's track now.
The hot water is heaven, and Lightning stands under the spray far longer than it takes to clean herself. She lets the water cascade over her, beat down on her muscles and pour over her head, washing every mental and physical ache away. It is a purification and it is heaven. She stands there until the water temperature starts dropping by degrees per second.
"Damn it!" She scowls as she twists off the faucet, wraps a towel around herself and climbs out of the tub. She pulls off the bag over her hand with her teeth, sees that the hot water has called up bruises in every shade of blue and purple across her right hand. The skin feels tight now, swelled up over the injury from the damage. She tries to move her hand, feels the pain shoot right to her elbow and grunts. Her best bet is not moving it.
Damn it!
Brushing her teeth is an awkward and annoying thing to do with her left hand. It seems strange how backwards it feels to her, and it takes at least twice as long as usual to brush. Her feet have gone numb from the cold tile floor and she has a strange déjà vu for a few hours ago.
/Cold feet. Prickling skin. Can I come in?/
She shakes her head to dispel the memory before she gets lost in it. She has no desire to relive events that she wishes she hadn't experienced in the first place. She slams the cabinet over the sink hard enough to crack the mirror. The crack splits right through her face, giving the illusion that the two halves of her don't match up. That she's as broken outside as she is inside.
Her empty expression twists into a disgusted sneer.
She needs to get the hell out of here. She's seeing metaphors in cracked mirrors now! Soon she'll start seeing images of the Maker in her burnt toast, and the future in wet tea leaves! She'll lose what little grip she has left. She's losing her goddamn mind sitting around here day in and day out, doing nothing but counting out her days in snowfall accumulations and dodged calls. She's withering into a dried out husk, a mere shadow of herself, and somewhere along the way she stopped caring.
She's no good to anyone here. Her presence only threatens to ruin the lives of two people she loves. Sazh has extended multiple invitations to her, then multiple requests for aid. She has resisted going only to keep her sister happy.
Is that really the only reason, Lightning?
No! She's so not going there and screw him for making her doubt her own motivations.
Well, whatever. Considering last night's events, her sister will be much happier if Lightning is on the other side of this forsaken planet.
Lucky for her, that's just where she's going. Sazh lives on the far side of the Archylte Steppe.
She lets her years of training take over. Soldiers have to be able to break down camp, pack up and move out within minutes of receiving the order. It's a comfortable and familiar thing to boil her life down to essentials that can be carried in a pack. She sorts through her belongings in no time, packs a bag for her gear, cleans and prepares her weapon, and dresses herself in the most sensible clothing she can find for the journey she is about to take. She glances around the house for anything that she might want to take. She has no intentions of ever returning to this hovel. She realizes now that this was never her home. It was a mere way-station; a place for her to marinate in her own juices until inactivity drove her back to her first, best destiny. She is a warrior, a soldier without an army.
She is an army of one. She always has been.
She's not a home-maker, and she won't stick around to be Crazy Aunt Claire, or 'that lady with thirty cats.' She is not meant for staying home and keeping house. She only ever did that to take care of Serah.
Serah can care for herself now, and Snow can keep her safe. Lightning trusts the moron not screw that up, at least. He may be mixed up and confused, but Lightning is positive that he loves Serah and would die to keep her safe. That is all she will ever ask of him. Ever. Again.
Lightning longs for the open road. She longs for freedom and fighting. She's very skilled and highly trained, and she's rotting here in her own self indulgent depression.
She is a wasting damned shame. But no more.
She packs her things with speed and efficiency. She's a whirlwind tearing through her house, plucking essentials from their places amongst the useless crap that she's scattered about in vain effort to create the illusion of domesticity in this prison. She packs her clothing, her med-kit and her items; she grabs her ammo, gun oil, sharpening stone and polishing cloth. She grabs rope and climbing gear-just in case. She considers leaving behind the communicator Sazh built for all of them out of two way radios and cannibalized cell phone parts. It was an act of inspired brilliance on his part, and shortened the distance between the members of their makeshift family dramatically.
She stares at it where it lays on the table and realizes that leaving it would be a hurtful act, not to mention a stupid one. She knows this is a dangerous undertaking; she knows she might die. Leaving behind her only means to reach her loved ones would be petty and cruel, and while she doesn't deny her own capacity for cruelty, she isn't proud of it. Nor does she indulge it willingly. Leaving this here will hurt Serah. She's done more than her share of hurting Serah in her lifetime. She stops considering, shoves the communicator into a waterproof bag in her pack and forgets it.
Lightning turns her attention to her weapon. She lifts it in her injured hand, feels the pain, but knows it won't interfere in the usage. She flips the switch watches the blade extend with a smooth snap, then retract clean and easy. Her weapon is beautiful and unfailing-her most treasured possession. She smiles, strokes the long line of her Edged Carbine, and holsters it. She slips her birthday dagger into a case and straps it to her thigh. She debates taking the sphere from its pedestal on her dresser. It is her Odin Stone and it earned a place of honor in her life and bedroom. She hasn't touched it since placing it; she always figured the best course was to leave the past in the past and not look back. She turns away from it now and takes two steps toward the door. She pauses and glances back over her shoulder, catches a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye.
Ah, what the hell?
She spins, stretches and swipes the stone from the pedestal, pets it once before secreting it away into her pouch. She doubts it works, but it is hers and she wants it. Odin became a part of her during that nightmare journey, and she is not ready to part company just yet.
Is she demented for missing her Eidolon?
She shakes her head, decides that the answer to that question doesn't matter anyway, and gives the empty rooms a cursory glance. She spots the two pictures that sit in her bedroom: one of Hope, Sazh, Dajh, Snow and her in front of the crystal of their lost friends and home, and a childhood picture of her and Serah with their parents. She swipes them both, places her childhood family picture in her bag and lets her fingers linger over the image of their little motley crew. She feels her eyes burn as she stares at Fang and Vanille, lost to them now forever in a final act of sacrifice and friendship, and feels a gaping hole open so wide inside her that she's afraid her whole house might just fall into it.
She misses them so much sometimes. She doesn't really understand how it's possible for two people she'd only known briefly to create such an absence in her now. Through their time and trials together, they became a family.
She pulls out the picture with her parents, stares at her mother's kind eyes-so much like Serah's-and her father's wide smile. Her heart hurts at the idea of losing her last connection to them.
She's tired of losing her family.
She sniffs and packs the pictures away. She'll see some of her lost family again soon. She'll go and pay her respects to Fang and Vanille at their 'resting place.' She turns away, deciding that she is packed and ready, before remembering that she's forgotten the only other thing she has left of Fang-that bottle of poisonous liquor from five hundred years ago stuffed away in her kitchen-and goes to retrieve it. It is frivolous and unnecessary.
Like the Odin stone, it is hers and she wants it.
She slips the liquor into her pouch, hears the clinking and gurgling indicative of a bottle of liquid. She can almost hear Fang's voice saying "Cheers!" in those innocuous sounds. She smiles at the memory of her friend, feels the pang of loneliness hit her hard.
She grabs her boots, sits onto her couch and feels the broken spring stick her in her ass again. She slides over, scowls down at the couch and sees something black pressed between the cushions. She pulls the crumpled cloth from its hiding place already knowing what she's going to find.
Snow's bandana. She pulled it off him last night when she checked him for head injuries, before she realized that he wasn't injured-just insane. She sees a few blond hairs tied into the knot at the back, drops the thing onto the couch as if it were on fire. She ignores it, turns back toward the task at hand.
She tucks her winter white wool leggings into her fur lined boots, laces them as tightly as possible to keep heat in and moisture out. Walking in these sorts of conditions risks frostbite, gangrene and possible amputation. She looks back over at the bandana where it lays abandoned on the cushions, feels her face heat. She stands up and moves away. She pulls a heavy white wool sweater over her knit shirts for extra layers and warmth. She's already sweating. She pulls on her heavy animal skin poncho, her hat, scarf and mittens. Her right hand throbs and she scowls at it while coveting the pain.
/This is the only thing we'll ever give one another./
The stupid sentiment makes her want to punch herself in the face and break her hand all over again. It also calls her attention to the discarded bandana. She looks away again. She needs to get the hell out of here. Now that she's packed away her few important possessions, this house contains nothing for her but bad memories. Memories of her drinking too much to avoid thinking too much. Inactivity doesn't agree with her. Her mother used to say that idle hands are the devil's workshop. She's met the devil-good old Barthandelus-so she's pretty sure that's not true. Everything was that bastard's workshop.
Totally besides the point.
She needs to be doing something useful, something worthwhile. There's too much to do in this world for her to sit in a house and feel sorry for herself. She's positive that doing things will help purge this insanity from her. It was too much time spent in too close proximity under dire circumstances that birthed this abomination in her heart. Distance and time will restore sanity to her life, and hopefully do the same for Snow. She straps on her weapon, positions it for easy access, slings her pack onto her back, pulls open the door and gets smacked with the icy breeze. She pauses...
Inhales. Exhales.
...Storms over to the couch and swipes the bandana with a curse, turns her back on the crappy room, heads out into the frigid winter morning and never looks back.
.
TBC...
Chapter 3