Work Text:
When Vanya Falls, she lands in Dallas in 1963.
She can’t remember her wings, or the calamity that cast her out. Vanya has forgotten the cold perfection that chafed her, gagged her until she nearly tore the heavens from the sky.
Sissy takes her home. It’s not perfect. The sun is hot, the air smells of manure. Sissy paints Vanya’s throbbing shoulder blades orange-red with stinging mercurochrome.
It’s not perfect, but it’s good.
Life is easy here, with her, with Harlan. “You’re an angel,” Sissy says warmly, watching Vanya’s calm keep him grounded.
Vanya replies absently; unthinking, truthful. “Not anymore.”