title: middle child
series: sibling rivalry (03)
by: jane, the frog on the wall
rating: PG-13, for...well, language of the kind you'd hear on the show.
spoilers: "and jesus brought a casserole"
disclaimer: Once upon a time, there was a little girl. And she was verry little, and didn't know much about copyrights or complicated things with big words. And one day this little girl wrote a fic, using somebody else's characters, which was very illegal. But then she told people they weren't hers, in a disclaimer, and it was a little less illegal.
notes: Ever seen "Patch Adams?" Content based on (and inspired by) Kate Bolin's BtVS Challenge-in-a-Can generator...I just changed around the name I got. My original challenge was Oz -- rain -- grateful, which explains the fact that Zane now likes to sing. Lyrics were taken from various bits of music, the songs that belong to them are (in order) "500 Miles," The Proclaimers; "Consequence Free," Great Big Sea
feedback: send all questions, comments, death threats and everything else concerning the fic should be sent to Happygirl_com@yahoo.com
+++
He sings for her, taps his foot and warbles "500 Miles" to a tune only he seems to know. If she wasn't so scared, she'd tell him his singing could wake the dead, and give him a friendly shove. Or maybe she'd start singing with him, she doesn't know. She's a soldier - a lover - a soldier, and she doesn't know these things. She only knows that she's not supposed to speak unless spoken to, the heartbeat taught her that. If she speaks out of line, she gets beaten. If she doesn't follow orders, she loses food priveleges. If she doesn't speak when spoken to, she loses the privelege of sitting down at meals and when sleeping.
/: Well, I would walk 500 miles/And I would walk 500 more/Just to be the man/Who walked a thousand miles/to fall down at your door :/
She feels...she doesn't feel, he knows, as he licks his lips and tries to remember the chorus. It's tricky, because he's only ever heard the song once, sung by some hobo in the streets of Chicago a week before the pulse. No, he corrects, on a radio, too. That's twice. Some pre-pulse punk band was covering it, but it was the same song. He likes it, 'cause the lyrics sound like something he could do, even though a normal human would cause themselves endless problems. It makes him think that maybe somebody normal could love him for being what he is. He also likes the tune, even though he doesn't know it. The tune he's making up is nice, and he feels like maybe he should write it down. Max's tune, if she's ever coherent enough to realize something's being dedicated to her.
/: Wouldn't it be great?/If no one ever got offended/And wouldn't it be great?/To say what's really on your mind? :/
He recognizes the tune as belonging to another song, so he changes. Some folksey one by a Canadian band he's never heard of, but he doesn't know that. She listens to it - the words, the message - and thinks that maybe he'll be okay. Maybe he won't beat her like the men in the strange hats - berets. Maybe he won't scream at her and smile in a way that makes her crazy, like the woman with the insect eyes. Maybe he won't cry like the girls - fragile and scared, incoherent with emotion, strangely familiar. She feels like maybe she should feel bad for insulting the girls, maybe they're supposed to be nice. She tells herself she's bad. There. He casts a glance at the girl he's singing to, and sighs. He needs...he needs conversation, because Syl's always with Krit, and Logan won't talk, and Jondy had to tie up some loose ends in California.
He spies a lonely, abused marker lying on the ground, helpless, and picks it up thoughtfully. It looks so...important. Like maybe a higher power slipped into the room while he was butchering some poor bastard's song, and put a black felt pen on the floor so he could see it. He pulls the cap off with his mouth, carefully balancing it in his teeth as he balls his left hand into a fist and draws. She sits up, crossing her legs underneath her and leaning forward in child-like interest. Jondy would probably have some kind of scientific name for it, she reads the medical journals and the scientific whatevers. He sits back in his chair and examines his work. He's proud - proud that he got Max to sit up, proud that he has something to occupy him and his notoriously short attention span. There's something missing - he grabs a greasy rag from his back pocket and adjusts it on his fist. There. "So..." he says, trying to start conversation. It's awkward at first, it always is. "What's up with you? What's it like not talking and everything?"
She looks around, and her jaw goes slack. "How rude! Zane, you know I'm the most talkative person at the party!" If she could, he knows she'd have her hands on her hips. "Don't make fun of me like that again, or I'll just have to leave."
His lips twitch a little, but he keeps control. He has to, or it won't work, he's sure of it. The marker was fate. He strokes her hair, and puts a thumb on her pouty lips. "I'm sorry, baby." The genuine concern in his voice makes her heart melt, he can tell. "You know I don't want to hurt you. What do you want to talk about?"
She tosses her head from side to side, trying to make up her mind and maintain her dignity. "Well..." she drags out the word like...silly putty is the only metaphor he can think of, and it's not a very good one. But the silly-putty word goes on for a while, making his throat hurt. "I want to talk about me. Tell me how beautiful I am."
"Little sister," he murmurs, tracing a finger down her delicate jaw, "You're...you're gorgeous. Your lips are like rose petals...your eyes black as, well, something really black. Your hair..." He reaches over and adjusts the rag on his fist, but it falls to the ground. "It used to be beautiful, I promise."
He hears the strangest sound from behind him - foreign and loud in the room where the only sound is his own voice and the gentle drumming of rain starting to fall outside. It's scratchy from disuse, and it surprises them both, but he turns to find her laughing. She's laughing at him and his fist-puppet, and he wants to hug her. He waits, unsure of what to do next. She decides for him, places a shaky hand on his arm - right above his elbow - and asks in a small child's voice. "Can I play?"
He laughs - a short, sharp bark that almost makes her think she's done something wrong - and takes a seat facing her on the rusty cot. "Sure," he says, still grinning wildly. "You can be Max."
She nods, accepting despite her obvious confusion. Quietly, shyly, she asks him, "Who's Max?"
Oh god. He shows no outward emotion - living under constant scrutiny at Manticore taught him that much. He's dying, quietly spiralling into that black ball of hopelessness that lives in the pit of his stomach and threatens to kill him whenever he sees her. Whenever he sees the dead look in her eyes, whenever he has to teach her that it's okay to not sit up straight, that she doesn't need permission to speak. He quietly explains it to her. She's Max, she lives here in Seattle, she's Max. No, Max is her name. No, she's not a soldier, what is she? She's a Max.
She doesn't understand. What's a Max? He says it like it's something she should know, somebody she should know. He catches her confusion, written across her face, and tries again. He doesn't know her, doesn't know who she is. He never knew a Max, but he tries. "Max is...Max is the girl you used to be. Do you remember anything? Before you were a soldier, you were a person. You had a life, you lived here. You had a boyfriend, and a motorcycle, and a job, and friends. Do you remember?" She nods, a little uncertainly, but she has a fuzzy recollection of somebody who used to be her boo, and a man smiling down at her with three-day-old stubble framing his face. "You were...you were Max. You had an attitude, you didn't take shit from anybody."
Her frown smooths itself a fraction, and she leans closer to him. "Max is me?"
He nods, and she looks slightly worried. She doesn't know if she can be a Max anymore, if she doesn't know who she is. But the man - some hidden memory says Zane - looks like he'll help her. And boyfriend. Boyfriend will help her, that's his job. She takes a deep breath, and looks him in the eye with something between hope and grim determination. "I think..." she starts, and he's on the edge of his seat. "I think I could try to be Max."
He laughs and jumps off the bed. Pulls her smaller frame into a hug, spins her in circles until they're both dizzy and barks his laughter again. He runs outside to meet the car that he hears pulling up, the one with Syl and Krit and Millie, not caring that his socks are getting soaked, and the rain is trickling down his collar and sending shivers across his spine.
He pulls them into a hug, and it's him and her and him and Millie, leaping and screaming and shaking the water out of their eyes like big, enthusiastic dogs, capering and laughing and hugging. And it's Max, standing just outside the doorway watching her siblings, as the rain flows over her bare toes in tiny rivers, and the fat drops falling from the roof soak her uniform. Slowly, a new idea trickles into her head. Cautiously at first, then recklessly, she rips off the thick military-issue jacket, throws it into the air, and yells - a deliriously happy ululation that brings her family around her. And she knows what she is. She's a lover, a sister, a friend. She's a Max.
/: We could step off the edge/and never worry 'bout the fall :/
[[[End]]]
series: sibling rivalry (03)
by: jane, the frog on the wall
rating: PG-13, for...well, language of the kind you'd hear on the show.
spoilers: "and jesus brought a casserole"
disclaimer: Once upon a time, there was a little girl. And she was verry little, and didn't know much about copyrights or complicated things with big words. And one day this little girl wrote a fic, using somebody else's characters, which was very illegal. But then she told people they weren't hers, in a disclaimer, and it was a little less illegal.
notes: Ever seen "Patch Adams?" Content based on (and inspired by) Kate Bolin's BtVS Challenge-in-a-Can generator...I just changed around the name I got. My original challenge was Oz -- rain -- grateful, which explains the fact that Zane now likes to sing. Lyrics were taken from various bits of music, the songs that belong to them are (in order) "500 Miles," The Proclaimers; "Consequence Free," Great Big Sea
feedback: send all questions, comments, death threats and everything else concerning the fic should be sent to Happygirl_com@yahoo.com
+++
He sings for her, taps his foot and warbles "500 Miles" to a tune only he seems to know. If she wasn't so scared, she'd tell him his singing could wake the dead, and give him a friendly shove. Or maybe she'd start singing with him, she doesn't know. She's a soldier - a lover - a soldier, and she doesn't know these things. She only knows that she's not supposed to speak unless spoken to, the heartbeat taught her that. If she speaks out of line, she gets beaten. If she doesn't follow orders, she loses food priveleges. If she doesn't speak when spoken to, she loses the privelege of sitting down at meals and when sleeping.
/: Well, I would walk 500 miles/And I would walk 500 more/Just to be the man/Who walked a thousand miles/to fall down at your door :/
She feels...she doesn't feel, he knows, as he licks his lips and tries to remember the chorus. It's tricky, because he's only ever heard the song once, sung by some hobo in the streets of Chicago a week before the pulse. No, he corrects, on a radio, too. That's twice. Some pre-pulse punk band was covering it, but it was the same song. He likes it, 'cause the lyrics sound like something he could do, even though a normal human would cause themselves endless problems. It makes him think that maybe somebody normal could love him for being what he is. He also likes the tune, even though he doesn't know it. The tune he's making up is nice, and he feels like maybe he should write it down. Max's tune, if she's ever coherent enough to realize something's being dedicated to her.
/: Wouldn't it be great?/If no one ever got offended/And wouldn't it be great?/To say what's really on your mind? :/
He recognizes the tune as belonging to another song, so he changes. Some folksey one by a Canadian band he's never heard of, but he doesn't know that. She listens to it - the words, the message - and thinks that maybe he'll be okay. Maybe he won't beat her like the men in the strange hats - berets. Maybe he won't scream at her and smile in a way that makes her crazy, like the woman with the insect eyes. Maybe he won't cry like the girls - fragile and scared, incoherent with emotion, strangely familiar. She feels like maybe she should feel bad for insulting the girls, maybe they're supposed to be nice. She tells herself she's bad. There. He casts a glance at the girl he's singing to, and sighs. He needs...he needs conversation, because Syl's always with Krit, and Logan won't talk, and Jondy had to tie up some loose ends in California.
He spies a lonely, abused marker lying on the ground, helpless, and picks it up thoughtfully. It looks so...important. Like maybe a higher power slipped into the room while he was butchering some poor bastard's song, and put a black felt pen on the floor so he could see it. He pulls the cap off with his mouth, carefully balancing it in his teeth as he balls his left hand into a fist and draws. She sits up, crossing her legs underneath her and leaning forward in child-like interest. Jondy would probably have some kind of scientific name for it, she reads the medical journals and the scientific whatevers. He sits back in his chair and examines his work. He's proud - proud that he got Max to sit up, proud that he has something to occupy him and his notoriously short attention span. There's something missing - he grabs a greasy rag from his back pocket and adjusts it on his fist. There. "So..." he says, trying to start conversation. It's awkward at first, it always is. "What's up with you? What's it like not talking and everything?"
She looks around, and her jaw goes slack. "How rude! Zane, you know I'm the most talkative person at the party!" If she could, he knows she'd have her hands on her hips. "Don't make fun of me like that again, or I'll just have to leave."
His lips twitch a little, but he keeps control. He has to, or it won't work, he's sure of it. The marker was fate. He strokes her hair, and puts a thumb on her pouty lips. "I'm sorry, baby." The genuine concern in his voice makes her heart melt, he can tell. "You know I don't want to hurt you. What do you want to talk about?"
She tosses her head from side to side, trying to make up her mind and maintain her dignity. "Well..." she drags out the word like...silly putty is the only metaphor he can think of, and it's not a very good one. But the silly-putty word goes on for a while, making his throat hurt. "I want to talk about me. Tell me how beautiful I am."
"Little sister," he murmurs, tracing a finger down her delicate jaw, "You're...you're gorgeous. Your lips are like rose petals...your eyes black as, well, something really black. Your hair..." He reaches over and adjusts the rag on his fist, but it falls to the ground. "It used to be beautiful, I promise."
He hears the strangest sound from behind him - foreign and loud in the room where the only sound is his own voice and the gentle drumming of rain starting to fall outside. It's scratchy from disuse, and it surprises them both, but he turns to find her laughing. She's laughing at him and his fist-puppet, and he wants to hug her. He waits, unsure of what to do next. She decides for him, places a shaky hand on his arm - right above his elbow - and asks in a small child's voice. "Can I play?"
He laughs - a short, sharp bark that almost makes her think she's done something wrong - and takes a seat facing her on the rusty cot. "Sure," he says, still grinning wildly. "You can be Max."
She nods, accepting despite her obvious confusion. Quietly, shyly, she asks him, "Who's Max?"
Oh god. He shows no outward emotion - living under constant scrutiny at Manticore taught him that much. He's dying, quietly spiralling into that black ball of hopelessness that lives in the pit of his stomach and threatens to kill him whenever he sees her. Whenever he sees the dead look in her eyes, whenever he has to teach her that it's okay to not sit up straight, that she doesn't need permission to speak. He quietly explains it to her. She's Max, she lives here in Seattle, she's Max. No, Max is her name. No, she's not a soldier, what is she? She's a Max.
She doesn't understand. What's a Max? He says it like it's something she should know, somebody she should know. He catches her confusion, written across her face, and tries again. He doesn't know her, doesn't know who she is. He never knew a Max, but he tries. "Max is...Max is the girl you used to be. Do you remember anything? Before you were a soldier, you were a person. You had a life, you lived here. You had a boyfriend, and a motorcycle, and a job, and friends. Do you remember?" She nods, a little uncertainly, but she has a fuzzy recollection of somebody who used to be her boo, and a man smiling down at her with three-day-old stubble framing his face. "You were...you were Max. You had an attitude, you didn't take shit from anybody."
Her frown smooths itself a fraction, and she leans closer to him. "Max is me?"
He nods, and she looks slightly worried. She doesn't know if she can be a Max anymore, if she doesn't know who she is. But the man - some hidden memory says Zane - looks like he'll help her. And boyfriend. Boyfriend will help her, that's his job. She takes a deep breath, and looks him in the eye with something between hope and grim determination. "I think..." she starts, and he's on the edge of his seat. "I think I could try to be Max."
He laughs and jumps off the bed. Pulls her smaller frame into a hug, spins her in circles until they're both dizzy and barks his laughter again. He runs outside to meet the car that he hears pulling up, the one with Syl and Krit and Millie, not caring that his socks are getting soaked, and the rain is trickling down his collar and sending shivers across his spine.
He pulls them into a hug, and it's him and her and him and Millie, leaping and screaming and shaking the water out of their eyes like big, enthusiastic dogs, capering and laughing and hugging. And it's Max, standing just outside the doorway watching her siblings, as the rain flows over her bare toes in tiny rivers, and the fat drops falling from the roof soak her uniform. Slowly, a new idea trickles into her head. Cautiously at first, then recklessly, she rips off the thick military-issue jacket, throws it into the air, and yells - a deliriously happy ululation that brings her family around her. And she knows what she is. She's a lover, a sister, a friend. She's a Max.
/: We could step off the edge/and never worry 'bout the fall :/
[[[End]]]