Chapter Text
A multitude of Pupeteers
Socks and all
The last day started cloudy. The sun lost in a misty haze, winds flicked tree tips with fickle fingers.
His fingers were twined , chin atop lump, his eyes were for the sky. Silver lining to the storm, he watched the quicksilver spark blaze across the storms belly with a smirk. She seemed so fragile, even in flight, especially against a show of such power. Brown eyes flashed to red as he thought he recalled flight, flight and feast. So like the lightening she threw, was her power. Throbbing, scalding, it had (possibly) snapped about his fingers. Her life flowing into him until it warmed the aching hollow places inside.
She’d fallen crumpled, wings of wind clipped, it hadn’t taken much to reclaim his… the other’s… prize. A half stoop and dive and…
Pain flared about his toes.
Hissing softly at the episode he closed hot eyes. Counting to thirty, in two languages, such sterile thoughts stilled the appetite that was his… yet not. Only when the flash of pressure behind his skull died and the alien thoughts ceased did he dare to open his eyes.
Brown again, surely. His eyes were brown… weren’t they?
A glimpse at the window with its sketchy reflective properties reassured him he was right. Save he wasn’t. Reassured or right. They’d been… and he wasn’t… and that was just how it was.
And he had other things to think about.
Like warm a bed, a warmer meal, and his wife.
So he left storms to their play, without comment, because he knew that the clouds would disperse at flights end, and when they did he was sure it would be a beautiful day.
XXX
Tanya Lykos was a contradiction. Shy, sincere, sardonic, svelte, sweet, scattered yet endearingly studious… and harried. Granted she was an hour late, and with the packing undone (they’d found other ways to spend the night, thank you) she was likely to be more. Still, he watched her increasingly frantic efforts with an indulgent smile, propped on one arm, his own lanky frame blurred by blankets and pillows and a mattress (maybe) underneath it all. The visual overlap of what was what was made all the more complete when one considered that the pillows matched the blankets, which matched the sheets, which matched the carpet, and the whole of the uniformly fluffy mass was a deep forest green that was further confused by the fact the bed was kept low.
And in all truth, her husband wasn’t inclined to lift a cl- finger to help.
Frowning at the oddness of his thoughts he wormed out an arm, said arm ended in a hand that was clasped around a book. A few idle flips later and he was back to reading… about hobbits.
After all it was best to start these things from the beginning.
Beyond his world of the cerebral amusement clothes thumped as they were thrown about. Her’s and his. It was a good thing neither one of them held to sentimental materialism as one coat (his, balled and wrinkled) skidded over the long dresser with enough force to knock over the folders piled atop it. The rush of papers made him look up, the glance at the folders side (red) assured him it wasn’t his (guess who won the coin toss on what to color the bed their favorite color that month?) so he contributed to the growing madness by turning a page.
“Gah, what’s the weather like out there anyway?”
“Unstable.” Another page turn. “Considering they don’t have a weather witch and considering it is the tail end of November I’d pack for the cold.”
“You always pack for the cold.”
“Touche.”
Another rustle, papers, the tone of the sound told him it wasn’t notebook or stapled printer pages, so he looked up to find her… reading the paper. A squint confirmed the newspaper to be two weeks old.
“Tanya…”
“Hmmm?”
“Weather report is on the front page, not in the opinion section at the back.”
“Oh, I read that.” She mumbled, distraction incarnate.
Remembering that there was an article on genetics that he’d been meaning to share with her (hence why the paper was saved when all its kin had been scrapped) he almost didn’t say anything. She was clearly enjoying her read and… And she’d kill him for letting her get side tracked again.
“And what was the weather outside like, two weeks ago?”
“Hmm?”
“Tanya!”
“What?”
“The paper is two weeks old.”
Silence, more reading. Well he knew how to counter that. Lifting his book he perused his read as she flipped through the pages to find the other half of the article. Granted half was a misdemeanor as the remnant took up two whole pages in the center flaps. Well he might get a chapter in, perhaps two if he hurried along. When the pages stopped rustling and was hurriedly dropped did he look up with a smirk. To her guilt, expression and the faint flush of her cheeks served as exhibit one and two, he laughed.
Still laughing, he offered around chuckles. “You could stay, read a bit with me, it’s not like we have work.”
Never mind the disorder she was adding to the salvageable situation of the spilled folders, up came the coat, and a toss sent it his way. He grunted, brought low by a mess of long sleeves and let himself fall back onto the fluff.
It wasn’t like he was going anywhere today.
“Seriously Tan’” He drawled her name, gaze lingering on the predominant red crescent where he’d left a mark during his earlier anti-packing efforts. She hitched up her short sleeve shirt with a little glare at his scrutiny. Unrepentant towards her wordless scolding he continued. “You don’t like them, they don’t like you, and they want us divorced because I sometimes have glow in the dark eyes. Why visit?”
“They’re family Karl and I know you don’t have… I mean... You don’t have the traditional family, but it’s expected.”
That certainly true, though considering her overwhelming gentleness her words had a bit of a bite to them.
Considering… everything though… it might have been a justified rebuke. Running a finger over his stubble he made a note for himself to crawl out of the covers eventually and shave before she got back. Because the scraping sound was really irritating and he wasn’t Strider. DVD or book version. It was only after that idle thought that he was visited by something that might have been guilt.
He should feel bad, no mom, or dad, or anything really. Just him and Tanya for as far back as he could remember.
But a baser, deeper, deepest part liked them alone. And that part hissed for him to sabotage, to push her away from them, more towards him. It was that part that opened his mouth, spilling out truths that should have been awful but weren’t.
“You said you won’t visit during Christmas, they ruin it.” At the pain in her blue eyes and the subtle twisting of her round face said “too far” even to his baser half he bit his lip, swallowed. “Sorry, it’s just… I’ll… make breakfast or something...”
Still, tribulations of his error aside he closed his book with care. Then, recalling propriety like how a man hears a snippet of a song in the back of his head, disjointed, and inappropriately, he wound the blankets around his frame a little late.
Another toss, another thump (or five), and plopped at his feet are his pants (holey, and not in the celestial sense), underthings, socks... The last was unmatching, one frilly and pink the other grey and clearly not clean. Obviously a punishment, but a look up to her wickedly upturned lips and just-so tip of her head tells him he’s been forgiven.
But only if he puts on the socks.
Strings upon strings, with a multitude of puppeteers for each thread, hers and only hers, he doesn’t mind. And it’s with something like love (is, it is, that baser part avows, in a crackling croak), that coagulation of lust, affection, tolerance, and closeness that he permits her her little games.
As she, wending about him, picking up his choice bit of fantasy, spine worn and pages almost crumbling, is influenced to permit him in her life. No linguist, he wonders if those who made the word wife and life sound so similar were onto something.
“So…” Cue rustling sheets as he holds into modesty and retrieves clothes, it’s a farce but she’s smiling at it so it’s one he’ll indulge. “What would you like?”
“Breakfast, preferably not screaming, bloody, or begging.”
“I’m not that bad a coo-“
But she’s gone, out of the bedroom, and the cheery meep of keypad tells him she’s making a call.
To whom he knows, she’s off to explain, console, and amend a broken promise with a rushed excuse. Leaving her to it he fumbles on the peace offering, socks and all.