Common Ground, a LwD fic
AN: Okay. TV is a wasteland. There are very few things that I like to watch for myself, or can conscionably allow my pre-teen daughters to watch… and almost nothing that we can actually watch together, and all enjoy.
True; until LwD appeared on the horizon, that is. All of a sudden, I am interested in and enjoying a show that both my daughters like… and am (horribly, terrible, shamefully) intrigued by the catalytic relationship on said show; that of two teen-aged step-sibs of the same age, opposite gender, forced to co-exist. Aaaaand, I'm a fic writer. You do the math.
Thus, the germ of this… thing... was born.
There will be no smut; this will never go beyond a bit of mildly blue language (they are teen-agers, after all). I'm a mom; I cannot, will not(!) think about, imagine, formulate, let alone write about two teens doing the horizontal mambo. No if's, and's or but's.
Now, go eat your vegetables. (after you read my fic, of course.)
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Moonlight glinting off the fresh blanket of snow lent a surreal quality to the ambient light pooling just inside the window. The character of it filled her with a sense of calm she rarely felt these days and, for this brief, quiet moment, she surrendered herself to its lull. No one else in the house stirred; she had the stillness, the peace, all to herself.
Resisting the urge to ruminate on the events of the day, she simply let the fresh-fallen purity fill her instead, and her heart felt as if it would burst with the-
"What are you doing up?" That voice cut her through her thoughts with a sharp tang. She snapped her journal shut and turned, glancing up the stairs at her intruder. With practiced wariness, she settled her face into non-committal ease.
"I'm watching the first snowfall of the year," she whispered, "And be quiet; you'll wake the house."
She watched as he ambled sleepily down the stairs and stopped on the landing next to her. He propped his elbows on the window sill and landed his chin heavily on his hand. "It's like a recording booth for the world." At her confused look, he explained, "It's so quiet after a snow." He carefully avoided her frank stare.
Her brow furrowed the tiniest bit. She was surprised. For him, the description was almost…poetic. "Wow. You actually used a metaphor." she snotted automatically, then cringed a little, bracing for one of his patented scathing responses. But he just yawned and didn't take the bait.
They stood in comfortable silence for a few moments before he spoke, "You writing about it in your journal?" he asked companionably. She simply nodded, afraid of breaking the spell. He nodded tiredly back, but otherwise remained silent.
As they stood there, the minutes stretching, the unsettled feeling in her stomach grew. What is he up to? she wondered. He stretched, his joints faintly popping, and she brushed away the vague awareness of how close he was standing. Out of the corner of her eye, she catalogued the worn t-shirt hanging loosely over his shoulders, the cotton sleep pants and the bare feet. Nothing remarkably different, and yet, at that moment, reality dipped and tilted. Just a little.
"Hey…" she swallowed dry, "why are you awake? Don't you have a hockey game tomorrow -" she remembered it was actually early in the morning, "This afternoon?" she corrected herself.
He shrugged slightly and turned toward her, "Just nervous energy, I guess." He had flopped back down on his elbows but his face was turned to her instead of the wonderland just outside. He gestured toward her journal, "I wrote, once, about the snow," he chuckled softly and turned back toward the window, "A song…a very bad song." He shot her a side-long glance, "I still have it…somewhere." She smiled sympathetically, but refrained from saying anything. This was too…rare to spoil.
Silence blanketed them again, matching the hush of the world outside. How long had it been since they were able to stand together in companionable silence? Neither one jockeying for position, dominance…control?
Like, never.
"Are you going to come?" he asked.
She was startled by the seeming non-sequitor, until she realized that he was referring to the hockey game she'd mentioned. "Oh…uh – you want me to?" Her voice squeaked a little, and she silently cursed herself for handing him ammo on a silver platter.
He smiled slyly, and for a moment, she braced herself for the Return of Sarcasm, but he just lightly bumped her shoulder with his and muttered, "If you want to, Spacey." She rolled her eyes and straightened, stretching out suddenly weary limbs.
"I guess, Smerek," she mirrored his cheesy grin, "if I've got nothing better to do," and bumped his shoulder back. He reached out and ruffled the top of her hair, calling to mind the many times she'd seen the same gesture appropriated on Marti. It made her stomach butterfly a little.
"A'right," he drawled, "I'm gonna head back to bed." He had a faint smile on his face, "Hey – I made a rhyme, Case – two po-thetic devices in one night. Must be a record, eh?" And he headed back up the stairs.
She shook her head, her own small smile touching just the corners of her mouth, watching him until he was obscured from her view by the darkness. She turned back to the window and opened her journal.
One succinct yet oddly touching moment rendered in a truce brought on and surrounded by the equalizing power of a blanket of snow. All 'scapes – whether they are rusted carcasses of old cars, heaps of bagged trash or a perfectly landscaped lawn – are granted the same serene perfection by a pure, untouched blanket of snow. They all take on the camaraderie of common ground…
Fin