(no subject)
I have all these things to say about Dexter and Atlantis and omg my boys but i just can't seem to put them in any kind of order resembling intelligent thought. True Blood, however, looks good.
Instead I will write unpublishable fanfiction about unrepentant Winglies and Post Traumatic Stress Sacred Sisters.
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One week after they had stumbled out of the desert with a dirty little secret, Miranda woke up with a hollow feeling carving out her chest and something cold and hard snug against her spine.
The dragon spirit didn’t glow or shine when she reached down into the thick tangle of blankets and pulled out into the light. Felt heavier in her palm as she rolled flat on her back and held it up towards the ceiling, tarnished in wide streaks of leaden color, flat and cold and dead.
It looked like she felt. Old bone colored hangover.
”Fucking rock.” Miranda muttered and let it drop into the blankets.
She got up, got dressed and when she was washing her face in icy water, there was a run of uneven thumps from the room next to hers. There was a headache blooming in the back of her skull like fire. The light was too bright; the inside of her mouth tasted like something had died in it. If there was a god, she had helped kill it.
The thumping came back, followed by a hard crash of glass.
Miranda started to count to ten, got to one and slammed her fists against the washbasin with enough force to send water sloshing wildly and shoved off for the door separating the rooms.
It was a glorified closet. Some of her earlier archery targets were still tacked proudly to the walls. The small space echoed with lost time that squeezed at her heart until she let go of the knob and turned to the bed wedged between a rack of Setie’s hats and Luanna’s impressionist paintings (“Impressionist of what?” “Being blind.” “They’re all black!” “Then they’re accurate.”)
A broken glass at the side, water in a puddle. The man on the bed barely had enough time to open his dulled over red eyes before Miranda leaned down and put a hand to his forehead, her frown deepening to epic proportions.
”Thank you,” she said sourly, gesturing to the glass. “For adding a little more suck to my day.”
Lloyd just stared at her for a minute, no expression, and then he let out a long slow breath and tried to sit up. The muscles in the sides of his stomach hollowed out.
”Don’t bust anything I have to fix,” she told him, moving to the wooden cupboard and pulled out another glass. The supply was dwindling. She made a note to pillage more from the kitchen and filled it with water from the pitcher.
She held out the glass and watched Lloyd’s hand brush against, fingers curled. The hollow feeling in her chest expanded. “Here.” His face went tight, mouth a colorless line. She bent down and brought the glass to his mouth. “Drink it.”
Whatever his problem was, he wasn’t sharing. He went stiff and turned his head away from her. Like this was all her fault he was in this position.
’It is.’ Said a low voice in her head.
Miranda let out a cheh sound. It was generally what came out when she couldn’t scream at someone. The glass went onto the nightstand, where his stubborn dumb ass could knock it over again and he could die of thirst and her problem would be solved.
”You’re feedin’s in an hour,” she told him, curt, and left.