Title: Christmas Oranges
By: Jane, the Frog on the Wall
Disclaimer: Asha and Logan both belong to Boat Boy and Charles Eglee. Christmas belongs to a jolly old fat man in a big red suit - please don't sue.
Rating: R
Distribution: Ask, please
Feedback: Happygirl_com@yahoo.com. I'll give you legions of flamingo slaves. Or cookies. . .
A/N: I was feeling festive this weekend. It's a little trippy, 'cause I'm all doped up on lack of sleep, and all. See? I can write Asha/Logan fluff if I want to. . .
A/A/N: Christmas Oranges, for those of you who haven't come across the term before, are those little Mandarin oranges that you can buy around Christmas. They're easy to peel, and it's a bit of a tradition to stick them into the bottoms of oversized footwear around December 25.
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She shows up at his apartment, unannounced like she always does. Waking him from his nap on the couch, she sits down beside him wearing nothing at all.
Well, nothing of consequence, anyway. If he'd bothered to notice her outfit, he would've seen her looking her best. She wore a shirt - red, fuzzy, the kind that made him think of teddy bears and Christmas parties - and low slung pants - the kind that made him think Max wasn't the only woman in existence.
She smiles at him, says "Hey," in the voice that makes him shiver, even though he'd never admit that it did.
"Hey yourself," he replies, surprised that he doesn't feel his lips move. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"
She curls her lips into a smile, something Max never did. Her eyes sparkle, she does that thing that makes it look like she's laughing. Like she's got a secret, maybe. "Logan, what's the date today?"
He stands, not half as stiffly as he thought he might, from being cramped onto his disgustingly expensive - yet entirely uncomfortable - living room couch. He walks over to the calendar - the one that lives on his computer desk - barely registering the fact that he can't hear the gentle hum of his exoskeleton. "December. December. . .24."
He doesn't understand why the date is important to her, today. Maybe it's her birthday? Maybe it's his birthday. He always forgets these things. Always has, since the virus. "Date ring a bell, Logan?"
No. It really, really doesn't. He looks at her silently, shakes his head in a way that makes him look stupid. Incredibly stupid, but he doesn't really care. Neither does she, apparently, because she gives him that smile again and stands. He can feel his chest tighten as she comes closer and closer, making it difficult for him to breathe. He hadn't noticed before, how blue her eyes are. Bluer that Aunt Margot's sapphire earrings, and much prettier. Radiant, that's the word he's looking for. "It's Christmas Eve, silly."
Oh, she's talking again. Words come out of his mouth before he's ready to say something, a disconcerting effect she seems to have on him. "Oh. Which ghost are you, then?"
The corners of her eyes turn up, like she's laughing. "The cute one."
Really? He hadn't noticed.
"I brought you something," she says, looking nervous.
It's his turn to smile, now. He remembers Christmas Eves years ago, with the same look on her face, the same nervous habits. She draws her lower lip into her mouth, just like she used to. Christmas Past, that's who she must be. "I'm honoured," he says, like his mother taught him to when they were fourteen.
She smiles, because she remembers that Christmas as well as he does, and produces something from the depths of her coat. Was she wearing a coat when she came in? He takes the proffered gift, pulls away the faded, vaguely festive wrapping. "Remember these?" she asks.
Christmas oranges. How could he forget? They shared one - her first - in his bedroom, one Christmas. When all the adults were chatting about the post-pulse economy, and all the kids were asleep, he'd stolen one from the kitchen, as a present for her. He still remembers the way she took it from his fingers with her teeth. Gently, her ruby-stained lips closing around the pads of his index finger and thumb as she closed her eyes. "Of course," he replies, and his voice is hoarse.
The room is silent, save the slap-slap of the orange hitting his palm, as he tosses it from hand to hand. She's biting her lip again, almost hard enough to draw blood as she waits for him to respond. She's not exactly at her most breathtaking right now, but he still thinks she's cute, even with "Spanish Copper" tinting her teeth as she gives him a tentative smile.
Suddenly, she's right in front of him. He can smell her, from this close - citrus and toothpaste and steel - and it's dizzying. For the third time tonight, he speaks before his brain can stop him, drawing out her name in a low, hungry voice that sends a thrill of anticipation through her. The space between her name and her lips is forever and a moment at once. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours until she rises onto her toes. And his hand is in her hair, and she tastes like raspberries, and they come together so hard he can hear the click of her teeth as they're crushed against his.
"Bed," he gasps, as she helps him pull off her shirt.
"Couch," she replies, dragging him onto her as they crash over furniture.
It's hungry, and intense, and everything they both crave as he tumbles onto the couch, rolls off with a yelp of pain.
He opens his eyes, unable to remember when he closed them. Reaches for her hand, finds nothing but air. She always was god at disappearing. He pulls himself up, but she's gone. She was never there. He's stiff, and tired, and his eyes are red, but he doesn't remember why. From crying himself to sleep, maybe?
Life is never simple, is it? She was here, and she was real, and she gave him a Christmas present, and it was snowing, but now it's not. He should've known he was dreaming, really. It hasn't snowed in Seattle for the past three years - global warming and all that. But he ignored that, because he wanted to believe it. He wanted it to be real, wanted her to be his.
But she's not. She never will be. And all he has are the painful memories of his dreams, and a Christmas orange on the corner of his desk.
By: Jane, the Frog on the Wall
Disclaimer: Asha and Logan both belong to Boat Boy and Charles Eglee. Christmas belongs to a jolly old fat man in a big red suit - please don't sue.
Rating: R
Distribution: Ask, please
Feedback: Happygirl_com@yahoo.com. I'll give you legions of flamingo slaves. Or cookies. . .
A/N: I was feeling festive this weekend. It's a little trippy, 'cause I'm all doped up on lack of sleep, and all. See? I can write Asha/Logan fluff if I want to. . .
A/A/N: Christmas Oranges, for those of you who haven't come across the term before, are those little Mandarin oranges that you can buy around Christmas. They're easy to peel, and it's a bit of a tradition to stick them into the bottoms of oversized footwear around December 25.
+++++
She shows up at his apartment, unannounced like she always does. Waking him from his nap on the couch, she sits down beside him wearing nothing at all.
Well, nothing of consequence, anyway. If he'd bothered to notice her outfit, he would've seen her looking her best. She wore a shirt - red, fuzzy, the kind that made him think of teddy bears and Christmas parties - and low slung pants - the kind that made him think Max wasn't the only woman in existence.
She smiles at him, says "Hey," in the voice that makes him shiver, even though he'd never admit that it did.
"Hey yourself," he replies, surprised that he doesn't feel his lips move. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"
She curls her lips into a smile, something Max never did. Her eyes sparkle, she does that thing that makes it look like she's laughing. Like she's got a secret, maybe. "Logan, what's the date today?"
He stands, not half as stiffly as he thought he might, from being cramped onto his disgustingly expensive - yet entirely uncomfortable - living room couch. He walks over to the calendar - the one that lives on his computer desk - barely registering the fact that he can't hear the gentle hum of his exoskeleton. "December. December. . .24."
He doesn't understand why the date is important to her, today. Maybe it's her birthday? Maybe it's his birthday. He always forgets these things. Always has, since the virus. "Date ring a bell, Logan?"
No. It really, really doesn't. He looks at her silently, shakes his head in a way that makes him look stupid. Incredibly stupid, but he doesn't really care. Neither does she, apparently, because she gives him that smile again and stands. He can feel his chest tighten as she comes closer and closer, making it difficult for him to breathe. He hadn't noticed before, how blue her eyes are. Bluer that Aunt Margot's sapphire earrings, and much prettier. Radiant, that's the word he's looking for. "It's Christmas Eve, silly."
Oh, she's talking again. Words come out of his mouth before he's ready to say something, a disconcerting effect she seems to have on him. "Oh. Which ghost are you, then?"
The corners of her eyes turn up, like she's laughing. "The cute one."
Really? He hadn't noticed.
"I brought you something," she says, looking nervous.
It's his turn to smile, now. He remembers Christmas Eves years ago, with the same look on her face, the same nervous habits. She draws her lower lip into her mouth, just like she used to. Christmas Past, that's who she must be. "I'm honoured," he says, like his mother taught him to when they were fourteen.
She smiles, because she remembers that Christmas as well as he does, and produces something from the depths of her coat. Was she wearing a coat when she came in? He takes the proffered gift, pulls away the faded, vaguely festive wrapping. "Remember these?" she asks.
Christmas oranges. How could he forget? They shared one - her first - in his bedroom, one Christmas. When all the adults were chatting about the post-pulse economy, and all the kids were asleep, he'd stolen one from the kitchen, as a present for her. He still remembers the way she took it from his fingers with her teeth. Gently, her ruby-stained lips closing around the pads of his index finger and thumb as she closed her eyes. "Of course," he replies, and his voice is hoarse.
The room is silent, save the slap-slap of the orange hitting his palm, as he tosses it from hand to hand. She's biting her lip again, almost hard enough to draw blood as she waits for him to respond. She's not exactly at her most breathtaking right now, but he still thinks she's cute, even with "Spanish Copper" tinting her teeth as she gives him a tentative smile.
Suddenly, she's right in front of him. He can smell her, from this close - citrus and toothpaste and steel - and it's dizzying. For the third time tonight, he speaks before his brain can stop him, drawing out her name in a low, hungry voice that sends a thrill of anticipation through her. The space between her name and her lips is forever and a moment at once. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours until she rises onto her toes. And his hand is in her hair, and she tastes like raspberries, and they come together so hard he can hear the click of her teeth as they're crushed against his.
"Bed," he gasps, as she helps him pull off her shirt.
"Couch," she replies, dragging him onto her as they crash over furniture.
It's hungry, and intense, and everything they both crave as he tumbles onto the couch, rolls off with a yelp of pain.
He opens his eyes, unable to remember when he closed them. Reaches for her hand, finds nothing but air. She always was god at disappearing. He pulls himself up, but she's gone. She was never there. He's stiff, and tired, and his eyes are red, but he doesn't remember why. From crying himself to sleep, maybe?
Life is never simple, is it? She was here, and she was real, and she gave him a Christmas present, and it was snowing, but now it's not. He should've known he was dreaming, really. It hasn't snowed in Seattle for the past three years - global warming and all that. But he ignored that, because he wanted to believe it. He wanted it to be real, wanted her to be his.
But she's not. She never will be. And all he has are the painful memories of his dreams, and a Christmas orange on the corner of his desk.