Fic: Rounded like a Globe, Pokemon Ranger
Title: Rounded like a Globe
Author: wingsofcharity
Fandom: Pokemon Ranger
Pairing: Murph/Solana
Rating: G. Like, Disney-can-hire-me kind of G.
Word Count: 1000
Warnings: ... none. Like, seriously.
Disclaimer: Pokemon Ranger has buttsex with Nintendo. I get it.
done for the prompt "17. flower" at 20_firstkisses
If there is one thing in life that Murph is absolutely certain of (and there are a few, he's sure, but he can't remember them) it's that you can't escape people like Solana.
Not even for a moment.
Not even when people stop talking about her, because she's there in his head; Solana does this with her wrist when she's capturing a Pokemon moving faster than her rings, Solana would know exactly what to say to this woman, you reached Ranger Rank 4 in three years and Solana reached Ranger Rank 10 in three days, you will never be as good as Solana, Murph, so you might as well turn in your Styler now and just stop trying.
People like Solana never settle, and so, by default, neither do the people around them.
It occurs to Murph that it must be an exhausting way to live.
(He wouldn't know, of course, because in Murph's mind the world is arching very slowly towards something he hasn't reached yet, even though he's fairly certain the world isn't slow at all. He thinks it might have something to do with his Slowpoke; he's heard of Pokemon kenning, and perhaps that's why Lunick and Solana flicker this way and that like sparks and Spenser is always giving the impression of building a nest.)
Murph doesn't go on a lot of missions anymore.
When Solana talks to him, he can feel her manic energy pressing on him and can see the distraction in her eyes, and he doesn't realize how agitated she makes the very air around her until after she's gone. It's been a long time since he's done anything to willingly draw her attention, the way he used to.
(He used to stutter, too.)
Maybe he's the only one who sees, but one girl alone isn't enough to change Fiore. She's changed the Base -- he cannot tell yet if it's for better or worse -- and for the rest of them, perhaps that's all the convincing they need to believe everything else is changed, too. By day, she is Solana, and yes, everyone knows her name and no, she's sorry, she doesn't remember theirs; perhaps if people named fountains and children after other people, she'd know more of them. By night, she's a woman who came half-way around the world to chase a dream she's fairly sure she doesn't remember, and she'll stand outside in the rain that blows in from the sea, and she'll wait for something she already has.
There was a saying his mother had (or she would have had, if she was the kind of mother who had sayings, but she wasn't; she was more of a "Murph, when are you going to start applying yourself?" kind of mother, but people always seem much more soft in your memories when you know you'll never see them again and Murph will give her this much.) and it had something to do with still waters, steady waters.
To Slowpoke, he mumbles deep waters, with a mouth gummy like molasses, and he peels an apple in one long, even rind. He would know it takes talent to do that, if anyone had bothered to tell him.
He isn't really sure where he's going, but he likes where he is, and that might be the one thing he and Solana have in common.
Murph, she says from behind him, and there it is, that constant impatience, bridling and bubbling like rainwater in a gutter, sliding beneath her voice like sunlight (sol in Latin) and making him squirm inside his own skin like he has no right to be there. This is not how you spell 'flour.'
Slowpoke grunts thoughtfully, concluding some contemplation he'd begun probably a full hour ago, and Solana's eyes move down to him like water from a waterfall, smiling at the edges.
When Murph reaches out and kisses her, the static almost explodes in his mind like a television turned up too loud, but it doesn't belong to her. These are the pieces of everyone that she carries with her like burrs; their expectations with its frequency too high for human hearing, turned grainy and out of tune like a bad horn. It wasn't her agitation he felt every time he drew near her; it was his own, reflected off of her for him to see. This is Solana, underneath it. Solana is clear, crisp like the mountain air and she makes his lungs hurt, and if she had a sound it would be dry, brittle like bones and autumn leaves and paper burning, and he thinks she's a little bit like Miltank leather when it's been left unoiled too long and has become cracked, little ridges and fissures rupturing her skin.
He cannot tame Suicuine with only his mind, he cannot loop his Styler as tight and fast as she can, he's not even particularly good at changing light bulbs, but Murph understands, since he's the only one who's willing to stand still enough.
She pulls herself away from him, frowning, her eyes a little bit unfocused and Murph thinks he's thrown a stone into glass waters; the ripples shatter themselves across her face and the image won't be the same. I barely know a thing about you, she tells him.
Murph thinks of his mother, of the spelling bee he lost when he was eleven, of his childhood in Hoenn and how sad it is that an entire childhood will someday be compacted into just a couple of words, of his studies in dead languages in college and the good reasons he has for not liking the Fire type, of the Pokemon programs he used to watch and he notices that he's still holding the apple and the paring knife and he's accidently cut off one of the buttons on Solana's jacket while he was kissing her and hopes she doesn't call him on it.
That's okay, he says. We have time.
Author: wingsofcharity
Fandom: Pokemon Ranger
Pairing: Murph/Solana
Rating: G. Like, Disney-can-hire-me kind of G.
Word Count: 1000
Warnings: ... none. Like, seriously.
Disclaimer: Pokemon Ranger has buttsex with Nintendo. I get it.
done for the prompt "17. flower" at 20_firstkisses
If there is one thing in life that Murph is absolutely certain of (and there are a few, he's sure, but he can't remember them) it's that you can't escape people like Solana.
Not even for a moment.
Not even when people stop talking about her, because she's there in his head; Solana does this with her wrist when she's capturing a Pokemon moving faster than her rings, Solana would know exactly what to say to this woman, you reached Ranger Rank 4 in three years and Solana reached Ranger Rank 10 in three days, you will never be as good as Solana, Murph, so you might as well turn in your Styler now and just stop trying.
People like Solana never settle, and so, by default, neither do the people around them.
It occurs to Murph that it must be an exhausting way to live.
(He wouldn't know, of course, because in Murph's mind the world is arching very slowly towards something he hasn't reached yet, even though he's fairly certain the world isn't slow at all. He thinks it might have something to do with his Slowpoke; he's heard of Pokemon kenning, and perhaps that's why Lunick and Solana flicker this way and that like sparks and Spenser is always giving the impression of building a nest.)
Murph doesn't go on a lot of missions anymore.
When Solana talks to him, he can feel her manic energy pressing on him and can see the distraction in her eyes, and he doesn't realize how agitated she makes the very air around her until after she's gone. It's been a long time since he's done anything to willingly draw her attention, the way he used to.
(He used to stutter, too.)
Maybe he's the only one who sees, but one girl alone isn't enough to change Fiore. She's changed the Base -- he cannot tell yet if it's for better or worse -- and for the rest of them, perhaps that's all the convincing they need to believe everything else is changed, too. By day, she is Solana, and yes, everyone knows her name and no, she's sorry, she doesn't remember theirs; perhaps if people named fountains and children after other people, she'd know more of them. By night, she's a woman who came half-way around the world to chase a dream she's fairly sure she doesn't remember, and she'll stand outside in the rain that blows in from the sea, and she'll wait for something she already has.
There was a saying his mother had (or she would have had, if she was the kind of mother who had sayings, but she wasn't; she was more of a "Murph, when are you going to start applying yourself?" kind of mother, but people always seem much more soft in your memories when you know you'll never see them again and Murph will give her this much.) and it had something to do with still waters, steady waters.
To Slowpoke, he mumbles deep waters, with a mouth gummy like molasses, and he peels an apple in one long, even rind. He would know it takes talent to do that, if anyone had bothered to tell him.
He isn't really sure where he's going, but he likes where he is, and that might be the one thing he and Solana have in common.
Murph, she says from behind him, and there it is, that constant impatience, bridling and bubbling like rainwater in a gutter, sliding beneath her voice like sunlight (sol in Latin) and making him squirm inside his own skin like he has no right to be there. This is not how you spell 'flour.'
Slowpoke grunts thoughtfully, concluding some contemplation he'd begun probably a full hour ago, and Solana's eyes move down to him like water from a waterfall, smiling at the edges.
When Murph reaches out and kisses her, the static almost explodes in his mind like a television turned up too loud, but it doesn't belong to her. These are the pieces of everyone that she carries with her like burrs; their expectations with its frequency too high for human hearing, turned grainy and out of tune like a bad horn. It wasn't her agitation he felt every time he drew near her; it was his own, reflected off of her for him to see. This is Solana, underneath it. Solana is clear, crisp like the mountain air and she makes his lungs hurt, and if she had a sound it would be dry, brittle like bones and autumn leaves and paper burning, and he thinks she's a little bit like Miltank leather when it's been left unoiled too long and has become cracked, little ridges and fissures rupturing her skin.
He cannot tame Suicuine with only his mind, he cannot loop his Styler as tight and fast as she can, he's not even particularly good at changing light bulbs, but Murph understands, since he's the only one who's willing to stand still enough.
She pulls herself away from him, frowning, her eyes a little bit unfocused and Murph thinks he's thrown a stone into glass waters; the ripples shatter themselves across her face and the image won't be the same. I barely know a thing about you, she tells him.
Murph thinks of his mother, of the spelling bee he lost when he was eleven, of his childhood in Hoenn and how sad it is that an entire childhood will someday be compacted into just a couple of words, of his studies in dead languages in college and the good reasons he has for not liking the Fire type, of the Pokemon programs he used to watch and he notices that he's still holding the apple and the paring knife and he's accidently cut off one of the buttons on Solana's jacket while he was kissing her and hopes she doesn't call him on it.
That's okay, he says. We have time.