A/N: ...what's up? I don't know what this is, but I haven't written in a while. Drabble with no real plot. I could continue, possibly. My birthday was last Friday, too. Whoo.
Words: 216.
Pairng: Tate Langdon and Violet Harmon.
Date Written on: May 21, 2012.
"Birds?"
That word, those small five letters, had been the first thing she said to him in over a decade. In that time, the house, once eerily beautiful, had been run-down by the many owners the house had come to know. Those five letters, which hadn't been meant to slip out, were the first words Tate had heard Violet say, ever, in a decade. Ten years of silence can startle someone.
"What?"
"Birds."
This time, the five letters hadn't been said as a question, more a statement. He watched as she rolled her eyes, tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, and lit a cigarette. It took her a moment to answer, blowing the smoke out of her mouth towards the ceiling in the baby's room.
"You know, birds. Look out the window, Frankenstein."
Eight words. Eight and five equal thirteen. Thirteen words in under fifteen minutes. It was a start.
Tate turned his head slowly, glancing at the red crib. The crib the baby never slept in, since it was always curled between Vivien and Ben or Chad or Patrick or whoever else was in the house. Blinking away the thought, he looked out the window. It was a crow.
When he looked back, Violet was gone, a trail of smoke leading towards the closed door.