Fanfic: Phoenix Wright - Warmth
I really do wish I would write more regularly. I need to whip my brain into shape in that regard. This 600-ish words every fortnight will just not fly.
Anyway. Would you like some vaugely Lana/Mia reflection fic? Because I have some vaugely Lana/Mia reflection fic.
Title: Warmth
By: neutraltwin
Rating: PG?
Fandom: Phoenix Wright
Pairing/Characters: Lana Skye, Mia Fey, Damon Gant
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, property of Capcom, etc.
Lana leaned back in her chair, rubbing at her eyes with one ink-smudged hand. The paperwork just kept coming, an endless stream of words that were starting to mean less and less; whole paragraphs were fading into keywords beneath her tired gaze, murder and blackmail and guilty almost bulging out of the page at her, burrowing into her mind.
She glanced across the office at his desk, flash of searing orange catching her eye and making her squint, just like it always did. Good lord but that suit was tacky. She knew he didn’t wear it just to bug her, though that was part of the effect; he wore it because he could, because no-one would dare questioning the fashion decisions of the Chief of Police. He wore it because, quite simply, he had the power to get away with it.
Power. There was that word again, another keyword holding her fast within her self-imposed prison. The smile, the laugh, the deafening, horrible sound of leather striking leather, it was all a power play. Some days, it was all she could do not to go over there and strike him right in his wrinkled old face, scream at him to let her go, tell him how she was slowly dying inside, how every minute holding this secret inside was an incremental increase in her agony, and how she had to make herself colder and colder, just to survive.
Clasping her hands together in her lap, she let out a slow breath, cooling. Revenge would solve nothing. This was just something she would have to live with. The days of warmth and kindness, working for those beautiful concepts of justice and doing the right thing, they were behind her. Her motives were darker now, tainted. There was nothing she could do.
Not for the first time, she thought back to her happier days, turning slightly in her seat and letting the dim rays of sunlight catch her face. Just like power made her think of her plight, and what she had to do, so did sunlight - and by assocation, warmth, the beautiful warmth of that simplest of pleasures - always make her think of happier times; and, of course, the person at the centre of it all. She’d always equate her with those times, all smiles and quiet intelligence and that sunlight-yellow scarf that never left her neck.
Well. It had left her neck once or twice, but that was not the sort of thing you mentioned in polite company. A small smile graced her face as she thought back; by this point, she couldn’t even remember which one of them had donned the neckwear first. Had she been copying her, or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter, really; the memories warmed her heart all the same. Warmth, in all forms, that’s what she remembered from that time. The warmth of her sister’s love, bright-eyed and adoring; the warmth of those long summer days, whiled away underneath reliable old Oakie with far-too-thick law books in hand; the warmth of another body, comforting and real, achingly soft skin pressed warm against her...
A slight clatter of metal from the other side of the room, and Lana’s eyes opened a crack, that familiar orange managing to draw her eye like a moth to its flame. The warmth fled, her situation dragging her back down into harsh reality, and the familiar weight settled back into her stomach, cold as iron and twice as heavy. Gant had knocked his stapler over while reaching for another file; his gaze flickered up, catching hers. She gave him a curt nod, and he returned to his work, far too busy and important to bother with something he knew would curtail itself.
With an imperceptible sigh, Lana picked up her pen again and returned to her work. Those days were over, she reminded herself, and they were not coming back. She would just have to suffer on through to the end.
She just had to hope the memories of that warmth would carry her through to whatever that end might be.
...so yeah apparently I am totally obsessed with writing Lana now. Who knew?
Screencap adventure tomorrow, I think. Looks like we're going to the Lightning Club, barring any last-minute votes. Woo!
~ Aaron
Anyway. Would you like some vaugely Lana/Mia reflection fic? Because I have some vaugely Lana/Mia reflection fic.
Title: Warmth
By: neutraltwin
Rating: PG?
Fandom: Phoenix Wright
Pairing/Characters: Lana Skye, Mia Fey, Damon Gant
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, property of Capcom, etc.
Lana leaned back in her chair, rubbing at her eyes with one ink-smudged hand. The paperwork just kept coming, an endless stream of words that were starting to mean less and less; whole paragraphs were fading into keywords beneath her tired gaze, murder and blackmail and guilty almost bulging out of the page at her, burrowing into her mind.
She glanced across the office at his desk, flash of searing orange catching her eye and making her squint, just like it always did. Good lord but that suit was tacky. She knew he didn’t wear it just to bug her, though that was part of the effect; he wore it because he could, because no-one would dare questioning the fashion decisions of the Chief of Police. He wore it because, quite simply, he had the power to get away with it.
Power. There was that word again, another keyword holding her fast within her self-imposed prison. The smile, the laugh, the deafening, horrible sound of leather striking leather, it was all a power play. Some days, it was all she could do not to go over there and strike him right in his wrinkled old face, scream at him to let her go, tell him how she was slowly dying inside, how every minute holding this secret inside was an incremental increase in her agony, and how she had to make herself colder and colder, just to survive.
Clasping her hands together in her lap, she let out a slow breath, cooling. Revenge would solve nothing. This was just something she would have to live with. The days of warmth and kindness, working for those beautiful concepts of justice and doing the right thing, they were behind her. Her motives were darker now, tainted. There was nothing she could do.
Not for the first time, she thought back to her happier days, turning slightly in her seat and letting the dim rays of sunlight catch her face. Just like power made her think of her plight, and what she had to do, so did sunlight - and by assocation, warmth, the beautiful warmth of that simplest of pleasures - always make her think of happier times; and, of course, the person at the centre of it all. She’d always equate her with those times, all smiles and quiet intelligence and that sunlight-yellow scarf that never left her neck.
Well. It had left her neck once or twice, but that was not the sort of thing you mentioned in polite company. A small smile graced her face as she thought back; by this point, she couldn’t even remember which one of them had donned the neckwear first. Had she been copying her, or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter, really; the memories warmed her heart all the same. Warmth, in all forms, that’s what she remembered from that time. The warmth of her sister’s love, bright-eyed and adoring; the warmth of those long summer days, whiled away underneath reliable old Oakie with far-too-thick law books in hand; the warmth of another body, comforting and real, achingly soft skin pressed warm against her...
A slight clatter of metal from the other side of the room, and Lana’s eyes opened a crack, that familiar orange managing to draw her eye like a moth to its flame. The warmth fled, her situation dragging her back down into harsh reality, and the familiar weight settled back into her stomach, cold as iron and twice as heavy. Gant had knocked his stapler over while reaching for another file; his gaze flickered up, catching hers. She gave him a curt nod, and he returned to his work, far too busy and important to bother with something he knew would curtail itself.
With an imperceptible sigh, Lana picked up her pen again and returned to her work. Those days were over, she reminded herself, and they were not coming back. She would just have to suffer on through to the end.
She just had to hope the memories of that warmth would carry her through to whatever that end might be.
...so yeah apparently I am totally obsessed with writing Lana now. Who knew?
Screencap adventure tomorrow, I think. Looks like we're going to the Lightning Club, barring any last-minute votes. Woo!
~ Aaron