Like someone has flipped a switch, and that is a delightful image. On. Off. On.... Acting out in public is a bad idea in a room full of children looking up to you. Looking up to you and ready to tell their parents that Auntie Dot looked a little spacy in class today... Auntie Dot's mind was nowhere near the classroom today. Sorry kids. Her body was in the classroom even though it wanted to be at home, tangled in sheets and a warm and eager girl.
All 'international incidents' will have to wait for hometime.
Wrung out. Tingly from head to toe. Drowsy and warm and...sated, for the time being anyway. FAR too content to even think about moving. Much easier to stay right here, curled around and draped over another warm and sleepy girl. Listen to the house settle and creak, the clock tick. Heartbeats and breath settling at last into a slower rhythm. Eyes could slide closed at any second..except when a sudden quivering aftershock nudges them open for just a moment.. Even that must be carefully controlled -- too much movement will break the spell.
#76 -Synchronicity (Author's Choice)greenthumbchickJune 25 2010, 03:26:19 UTC
(Initiative research station 513, a respectable distance from the Cleveland Hellmouth. Early 2001)
Play. Pause. Notate. Rewind.
On the tape, the scuff of movement, material scraping against stone. Something warbles and is cut short, high-pitched and from far away. Then singing, almost too quiet for the equipment to detect. "I just can't think who in the world is that girl; I know I met her somewhere.."
"Ma'am?" This is closer at hand, over her shoulder, and she jumps; she is unused to visitors now. This is the monster hour.
"Mr. Parker. Rewind this, please. What is this?" She has been replaying this for hours.
"Field audio from Sunnydale - the Drusilla Incident, ma'am."
#77 -Sprout (Author's Choice)greenthumbchickJune 25 2010, 05:33:56 UTC
(little!Dot)
Tromping barefoot through the yard, pulling the little red wagon full of Outside Things -- shovels and pots and gloves and the dirt claw. And the radio. Always the radio. Stretching out RIGHT There, fingers and toes in the dirt that just got all plowed up.
"Dorothy Jane, what did I say? Whose bed is that?"
"The flowers?"
"That's right. And if you sleep in their bed, the flowers will have to sleep in yours. Is that what's supposed to happen?"
"...No. But it looks soft...."
"Soft for plants, not little girls. Come here, little Sprout."
It's true that they are both past the age where parents can tell them what to do. On the other hand, this is the family home. So, compromise. Separate rooms. Everything above the board, isn't she just the best houseguest, Mom? There's not even anything untoward happening yet (not that anyone needs to know that). Everything is still so new. Everything is a work in progress -- under construction. But late at night when the rest of the house is asleep, cautiously and quietly they move from room to room. Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs, curling close and comfortable, together til sunrise.
Comments 14
Acting out in public is a bad idea in a room full of children looking up to you. Looking up to you and ready to tell their parents that Auntie Dot looked a little spacy in class today...
Auntie Dot's mind was nowhere near the classroom today. Sorry kids. Her body was in the classroom even though it wanted to be at home, tangled in sheets and a warm and eager girl.
All 'international incidents' will have to wait for hometime.
Timer's set.
Tick, tock.
Reply
Much easier to stay right here, curled around and draped over another warm and sleepy girl.
Listen to the house settle and creak, the clock tick. Heartbeats and breath settling at last into a slower rhythm.
Eyes could slide closed at any second..except when a sudden quivering aftershock nudges them open for just a moment..
Even that must be carefully controlled -- too much movement will break the spell.
Better just to stay in bed.
Reply
Play. Pause. Notate. Rewind.
On the tape, the scuff of movement, material scraping against stone. Something warbles and is cut short, high-pitched and from far away.
Then singing, almost too quiet for the equipment to detect. "I just can't think who in the world is that girl; I know I met her somewhere.."
"Ma'am?" This is closer at hand, over her shoulder, and she jumps; she is unused to visitors now. This is the monster hour.
"Mr. Parker. Rewind this, please. What is this?" She has been replaying this for hours.
"Field audio from Sunnydale - the Drusilla Incident, ma'am."
Reply
Tromping barefoot through the yard, pulling the little red wagon full of Outside Things -- shovels and pots and gloves and the dirt claw. And the radio. Always the radio.
Stretching out RIGHT There, fingers and toes in the dirt that just got all plowed up.
"Dorothy Jane, what did I say? Whose bed is that?"
"The flowers?"
"That's right. And if you sleep in their bed, the flowers will have to sleep in yours. Is that what's supposed to happen?"
"...No. But it looks soft...."
"Soft for plants, not little girls. Come here, little Sprout."
Happiness is gardening with mom.
Reply
On the other hand, this is the family home.
So, compromise. Separate rooms. Everything above the board, isn't she just the best houseguest, Mom?
There's not even anything untoward happening yet (not that anyone needs to know that). Everything is still so new. Everything is a work in progress -- under construction.
But late at night when the rest of the house is asleep, cautiously and quietly they move from room to room.
Sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs, curling close and comfortable, together til sunrise.
Reply
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