Sunbirds
Author/Artist: The Waitress. (Do not come bothering about this. I am the original writer.)
Character/Pairing: Violet Parr, Buddy Pine
Fandom: The Incredibles
Ratings: K+
Genre: Romance/Spiritual
A/N: (I hate fanfictionnet, its formatting messes my stories up. If you want to see the stories in their original format, head over to livejournal.)
Oh, and Merry Early Christmas.
Disclaimer: Do not own.
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"Just another day on earth." -- Brian Eno, Just Another Day
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1985
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Her eyes closed against the bright sunshine, and she rolled the other way, still caught amongst her sheets and dreams, slipping out of the covers and letting her small feet tap the floor. Rising slowly, she stretched, feeling the kinks of yesterday's fight resonate through each 'pop' and 'crack'.
Smacking her lips absently, she looked around, wondering where her bed partner had gone. Padding across the floor, she debated putting a shirt picked off of a plush chair on, over her little shorts, but decided against.
The townhouse was pleasantly warm, like always in the winter mornings.
Quietly she set it down and left the room, promising herself she would make the bed someday. Rubbing her flat stomach, she walked down the narrow hallway cluttered with picture frames and taped up papers and newspaper clippings, and every time she came into this hall she couldn't help but feel like she was walking through history.
Her history. Herstory. She giggled, and heard it hum through the walls, almost like a spirit shifting from room to room, touching here and there with the sound.
Waving off the feelings of ghosts, she walks into the cozy living room furnished in bright blues and dark browns. Stepping carefully over scattered papers and still sitting out presents.
Champagne flutes for the adults perched atop several surfaces, and numerous plastic cups still half full for children lay precariously beside her Nativity set, bought when they first moved in. The children had sat around it, telling each other stories of adventures their parents lived out, and legends of heroes that they live with every day.
Days that now she has put behind her.
They were just days on earth, days that slipped away as the world turned through space.
The Christmas tree, she was happy to notice, stood strong, even after yesterday, and only two ornaments were on the floor.
Stopping to set them carefully back on two particularly lonely branches, she noticed the blinds were still shut even as sunbeams were slipping brilliantly through.
Sighing in light relief, she tilts her head roofwards, working the cricks from her thin neck. He likes to say she needs to find a good masseuse - he emphasized the feminine suffix - because he's getting tired of rubbing her neck every night.
Still, it's been six years, and he hasn't stopped.
Her feet catch on the thick carpet wafting under her, so she steps lightly, moving into the kitchen where delectable scents have started to come from.
Peeking her head in, she scans the cozy kitchen, shelves stacked high with knick-knacks, green tea herbs and office supplies. The light purple walls shine blue under the sunlight. The soft clatter of pots and pans bring her eyes to the figure struggling over the stove.
She took a moment to admire him, his shaggy red hair dripping wet onto his ill-fitting shirt that hung loose over Santa-head boxers, his white scars shone, and she once-overs the empty right sleeve.
Her grin widens at the Santa hat perched half-heartedly atop his head.
Humming, she sits at the nearest chair, all of which are different from one another, but she likes this one the best.
She bought it with nursing a child in the middle of the night in mind; it's bright blue lacquer both rejuvenating her and its light purple soothing her fraying nerves.
Leaning back, watching his back where she knows the scars still remain, she waves the thought away.
What could he could never give, never be, is nothing she wants to cling to.
"Good morning," she says, and at that moment, from its journey escaping her lips to his ears, she forgives him.
He doesn't jump startled like he would most days, instead he sets the pan down, puts the hat aside, and turns to look at her with a small grin. His eyes trace her like his hand loves to do, and she feels better already.
"Nice to see once again you have ignored clothing. Santa works 'round the clock for his naughty list, you know." His hand gestures to the coffee machine that's been collecting dust for the past decade despite constant use. A fresh pot is just finishing up in there and she takes full advantage of it.
Taking the first sip, hot and bitter, she exhales in bliss, slurring her speech.
"I enjoy it, in a very non-sexual way. Santa probably does too."
"Not an image I want, but...can I enjoy both ways?" His wolfish grin never faded, even after the accident that cut his mouth deep into his jaw and the laugh lines etched into his strong face.
If anything, she thinks, he has gotten more provocative, but that could be her own bias speaking.
"Of course."
"Glad to hear."
"But... if you truly enjoyed it, you would come over here and give me a morning kiss." Taking the cup from her lips, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, breathing in slowly the mingling scents of both his spicy body wash and the food he was preparing.
Christmas, for them, was celebrated the night before, but they are greedy people, so they have it two days.
"Brush your teeth."
"Did you?"
His smile was hidden by his back, but she could sense it. "...my crimes do not pardon yours."
"Ah - so it's a crime now?"
"Yes, for you have denied me the privilege to kiss you."
"How about a peck on the lips?"
He looked up from the frying pan at her, smiling widely, the sunlight pouring in making his loose hair gleam like flames. Setting the heat lower on the stove top, he shuffled over, 'An acceptable compromise..' and bent down, kissing her sweetly.
A very good reason to wake up this Christmas morning, she muses.
When his hand slides against her cheek, deepening the kiss, she figures it's a very good reason to wake up any morning.
And the dawn crystallizes across the floor.
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