Welcome to this, my first Labyrinth fanfic. Need I even mention my overwhelming love of all things J/S? Anyhow. If the writing seems a little vague... just run with it. :P
Disclaimer: Everything that appears herein is © Henson, Lucas, or Bowie. One of them, I'm sure. I own nothing.
Dedicated to Subtilior, whose amazing writing galvanized me into trying my own hand at some Labyrinth fanfiction.
Labyrinth
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Lines Across A Canvas
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She starts with a tree.
It's a smallish, stunted thing, to one side of the center of the page, but it grows and flowers until it's a bunch of trees – a forest, or just a thicket – spread out around the top part of the page.
He watches the trees grow, through the frigid glass pane, until it seems their uppermost branches are in danger of spilling out over the top of the paper, onto her desk and into the real world. She stops.
She draws a bridge of stone (it looks like it's floating, but not for long), and grass and rocks and still water that glitters in the light of an imaginary sun; it's not a forest anymore but a park.
She draws a figure (that is obviously female) in an oratory kind of pose, head high and chin tilted upwards just so, one foot in front of the other and one arm slightly extended. A long skirt – dress – sprouts from the figure's hips as she draws; loose sleeves weave themselves onto her arms –
– Sarah crumples the paper and tosses it over her shoulder. Fiercely.
More plants, but this time small and stringy, with small flowers at the tips – dominating the foreground. Behind them (background, here) her nimble fingers give rise to something like a small mountain, lines radiating from the center and stretching weblike (mazelike) across it.
Then, behind the plants but in front of the mountain, not one but two figures this time; boy and girl, man and woman – man and girl –
– the second paper joins the first on the floor, with a little extra vehemency.
She starts again, omitting the plants this time because obviously that's not going anywhere.
With easy, practiced movements, she draws a largeish, circular-looking thing around the center of the page, which grows a vaguely triangular lower part, and then the rough, vivacious contours of a face. It's just a suggestion of a face, really – lacks in anything approaching eyes, the mouth merely a sketchy line; but the energy and passion she pours into the sculpted cheekbones, the barest hint of a smirk about the mouth – they make it seem positively alive.
Finished for now with the face, she continues with a neck, a pair of broad shoulders. Going back up: a head of wild hair that comes down just past the shoulders –
– and hang on, he realizes. That's someone they both know.
From the other side of the window pane, he watches as she starts to draw his eyes.
It's obvious by the care she puts into them – hunched over the paper, slowly, laboriously drawing with the utmost care – that this is not something she wants to get wrong. She erases them once, twice, thrice until at last she's satisfied.
He's left staring at what is probably the best drawing of him he's ever seen. (Not that there have been that many. Goblins, by and large, do not the world's best artists make.) It's not just accurate; it's like she's seen that one thing that makes him him, not just seen it but somehow been able to put it down on paper. It's almost uncanny.
If owls could smile, he would have. Were she not so full of loathing for him he would be in there right now, offering her a post as royal painter.
She's staring at it too, he realizes; fixedly. Then, suddenly, he shoulders tense. She reverses her grip on the pencil, holding it almost like a dagger. It hovers uncertainly over the page; whether she's not sure whether to strike or simply deciding the best place for it, he's unable to guess.
Then, to his eternal surprise, the pencil drops from her grasp; tumbles to the floor. Her head drops forward into her arms, and sobs shake her frame.
And even through the windowpane, he can hear the words she whispers.
His world turns upside down. Again.
He doesn't bother with dramatic entrances this time; he alights on the windowsill and with a touch he's inside. She must feel the cold breeze on her arms but doesn't raise her head. Doesn't dare, perhaps.
His gloved hand on her shoulder and she freezes. He can almost feel the waves of panic rolling off her; her breath's caught in her throat.
"Sarah–" he begins, but his voice sounds broken, raw with emotion. "Sarah," he starts again. "Why didn't you just say?"
"I just – I c-couldn't–" she gulps out. Her voice is in a worse state than his, but at least she's breathing again. "I thought–" she takes a huge, tremulous breath which comes out in a whoosh. "I thought that after I – after you – that you hated me... after what I did – I..."
He frowns.
"If your referring to my defeat at your hands," he says deliberately, and he feels her flinch under the hand still resting on her shoulder, "I wasn't happy about it, no... but neither was I unprepared."
Silence apart from her hiccoughing sobs: he knows she's curious and wonders how to properly phrase what comes next.
"Call it my one last favor for you; I knew you believed you could win – that you would win, and where your belief was concerned I was powerless to resist... but, Sarah – my precious Sarah – look at me."
He walks around the chair and crouches down by her side; she, with extreme caution, doesn't look at him.
"Sarah, after everything I've done for you..." he knows she can feel his stare on her neck, her cheek – "How could you possibly think I hate you?"
No answer, but her cheeks are a rosy shade of pink.
"Humans," he growls, exasperated. Then he grasps her by the shoulders. "Sarah, look at me–" with more force, this time; she finally meets his eyes. Her cheeks are tear-tracked. "I have never hated you, Sarah, even when you waltzed in with your childish expectations and blind faith and gleefully turned my world upside down–"
Crying again. He curses himself for a tactless idiot.
"Sarah, precious, don't cry – oh, Hell with it," he growls. One hand snakes across the back of her neck, the other brushes her hair away, and he does exactly what he considers appropriate, given the circumstances.
Kisses her. Fiercely.
It's somewhat awkward, given that she's sitting and he's somewhere between crouching and kneeling, but as it continues he (dimly, very dimly) realizes that at some point she slid off the wooden chair and is practically in his lap – when did he end up sitting, anyway?
They finally break apart and she stares at him, eyes wide with shock. Damn. Damn it all.
"Jareth..." she whispers. "I–"
"Stop." He holds up one hand, looking pained and knowing it. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for a repeat of You have no power over me or, alternatively, Get out of my house, you creep.
But – second surprise in about as many minutes, and joy of joys – she quite deliberately takes his outstretched hand and lays it against her cheek (the better for bringing her jaw up to kiss her again, he can't help but think).
"Jareth," she murmurs against his palm. "I didn't know... I thought..."
He attempts a crooked smile.
"Always jumping to conclusions, aren't we? I told you quite inequivocably years ago: 'Everything I've done, I've done for you. Perhaps you were to young then to fully appreciate the sentiment behind the words..."
Her eyes widen, and to his delight she blushes again, and smiles – Gods, her smile –
"In that case..." she says slowly, and her smile takes on a slightly impish cast, "if I know, and you know... why are we still talking about it?"
He blinks. Good question.
With a wicked smile to more than match her own, he wraps his arms firmly around her waist, and gathers her into his lap, delighting in the small gasp of surprise she gives.
The next few minutes – minutes, only? – are thoughtless, breathless, and utter, utter paradise.
Finally, she's curled up in his arms, head leaned against his collarbone, and he breathes something she doesn't quite catch.
"Hmm?"
"I said... 'Well worth it.'" He tightens his embrace. He'll be damned if he's letting go any time soon –
"Sarah?" A voice from below. "Come down, honey, it's time for dinner!"
A pause.
"... Damn it all."
Hahahah. -headdesk-
I really can't overstate how much I did not have time for this. Damn inspiration, always grabbing hold at just the wrong moment! -shakes fist-
Whoo. My style's all over the bloody place with this one. I wish the concept 'own worst critic' didn't even exist, since I've lately become all sorts of insecure about my writing. I'm not entirely (or even close to, actually) satisfied with this, but since it's my first attempt I'm still figuring out the characterizations and such.
So comments would definitely make my day. P
Also, a couple notes: the "words she whispers"... I've left them out on purpose because the whole things soppy enough as it is. Use your imagination; I'm sure it runs something along the lines of 'Woe is me, Jareth I need you.' And about the last line... couldn't resist.
FLUFF, I CANNOT WRITES IT. D: