Title: Moss Rose
Author: Keeper of Tomes
Song: None
Summary: 96 of the 100 Challenge. P/MC- "A newspaper. Smoky chamomile tea. A pair of jeans." News of an injured Master brings more than expected to the Condor.
Words: 953
Pairing(s): P/MC
This is a Writer's Choice theme. The idea? Well...It just struck me a while ago, but I didn't get around to working on it 'till now. Inspired by...well, by many yuri fics. And by Hermonthis. Again. Heh. And a pair of jeans. (insert a "story behind a story")
A companion piece to "Touch." I've decided that the period in which "Touch" took place, as well as this one, was that long lull of "NO CYCLONIS" during the show. Turns out she was lying in bed recovering from self-inflicted injuries...while Piper pined. Tsk, tsk, tsk. In other words, before episode 27.
To Xekstrin, for REVIEWING FIVE 100 CHALLENGE FICS! You have become owner of my undying love and affection. (Only if you want it, of couse. XD) And for asking most graciously for "MOAR!" femslash from me. Thou has asked, and thou shall receive.
A newspaper.
Smoky chamomile tea.
A pair of jeans.
.
A bloody, confounded, newspaper, lying on her tray. She's sprawled across bed, wrapped in two pink towels, fresh from a shower. Her hair is making the sheets darker and darker by the second, a watery stain spreading slowly but steadily across the fabric. News from Cyclonia that Master Cyclonis has been temporarily incapacitated... Reports of an attempted suicide...Temporary lull in the violence...
These headlines made her friends nod their heads solemnly, then get about to the ever important task of relaxing. She had jumped into the shower immediately after seeing. Not because she was readying herself for a few peaceful weeks, no. Some inexplicable urge inside her just wanted to wash, to rid herself of the bad feelings that had sprung upon her when she read those words. The paper still sat on top of her breakfast, tossed there when her stomach had threatened to rebel. Piper. Buck up. She's just... just...
The papers hadn't been detailed; how could they be? Yet she couldn't help but blame them for not digging deeper into such an important matter. Atmos deserved to know. I deserve to know.
A blank and very annoying screen placed itself between Piper and the truth. She could write anything on it she pleased, so long as it was a lie.
A thought: How badly is she hurt?
Blood? Did she bleed? Did she poison herself? String a rope around her neck and...
No.
Another thought: What if she dies?
A muffled sob bounces against fabric, as Piper buries her face into the pillows and tries not to think about that too vigorously...
.
"Tea?"
He poured another cup. She hadn't even answered yet, but Stork always knew. He sat down opposite her and fiddled with the teapot.
"Thanks," she mumbled, before taking a scorching hot sip. The liquid burned her insides and filled it with a temporary warmth, so permeating that it made her ribs ache. A barely perceptible nod from the Merb was all she needed to see to bring a watery smile to her lips. "Thanks," she said again.
He pushes the pot in her direction, before throwing a quizical look over there as well. "Piper, what's the matter? It's...she's..." He sighs.
Piper shrugs. "I'm not sure. I guess...she just sort of hit me with something."
"You only knew her for a few hours. You haven't seen her since..." Stork groans. "This should be good news."
Piper slams the mug onto the table; scalding tea flies everywhere. "Good? GOOD NEWS?" she shouts, standing. The chair flies back against the wall behind her. "I...don't know how you can see...how you can call...a death...a suicide...self murder..." Her words choke out of her throat. She realizes she can't talk and resorts to crying. Collapse. Onto the floor. Stork doesn't even flich when the hot tea hits him, but he does, now. He kneels beside her, (trying not to touch the ground...you never know,) and watches her cry. He feels helpless. He looks helpless.
The tears cease. Her lurching breaths silence. "I'm sorry," is whispered in unison.
.
A pair of jeans is hooked around the bedpost, eyeing her.
Back to the sheets, but no tears.
Back to her room, but no sobs.
The blank screen has returned, to taunt, to leer, to laugh. She pushes, pulls, yanks, but it stays firm.
Piper's quarters are a mess, a horrible mess of an assortment of things. Shoes, crystals, instruments...clothes...jeans...
A green pattern never noticed before. A moss rose. Tickles and toys and teases. The fabric slides between her fingers. The sheets murmur as she moves. She knows why she feels this way; what she doesn't know is if it'll leave. If the urges and the desires, the thoughts that she thinks are dirty and filthy and wrong, will depart. Will cease to climb into her head at night. The images of two bodies, stripped down to their bare parts, pulled to their core, to their most basic instincts of living.
An evil and yet strangely comforting idea envelops her. If she dies, she can't hurt me anymore. She'll be gone.
She laughs, loudly, almost maniacal. The others worry, but her door is shut, and no one has the heart to knock.
.
A newspaper.
Healed...Back to the throne...Attacks on supply lines resume with vigor...
Smoky chamomile tea.
Shreds and shimmers of steam rise from the liquid...
A pair of jeans.
A moss rose, clinging to dew...as if that day had no meaning, as if I had forgotten who you were.
And who you are.
I'm not particularly pleased with this one, so look for a rewrite. Oh, and because you've read, you must now review. Else I'll set ninja monkeys on you. (Or my weird friends, whichever proves to be more convenient.)