Disclaimer: I'm not fooling myself and neither should you. If I owned them, it would be all Billy, all the time . . .
The Challenge: If you want to join in the challenge, please do so. If I can get enough people involved, I'll create a C2 for the collection.
Author's Note: This has been a rather interesting exercise because it's forcing me to confront a lot of my fears as a writer. One of them is this particular pairing. Let's face it, this is the most iconic pairing for my Ranger of choice, and I've never really felt it the way I think others have, so it's a little scary. Please be sure to tell me whether I've done them any kind of justice.
Turncoats and Translations
(Trini)
When he finds her application tucked among the fifty others from Angel Grove alone, he thinks of turncoats and knives in the back. He pulls it out, running his fingers along the pen-ink of her name, imagining it next to those of Brutus, Benedict Arnold and Vidkun Quisling. But he can't quite bring himself to call her a traitor, so he slips the packet back among the others, and pretends he didn't see.
But he thinks about it constantly, over the next few weeks, tries to puzzle it all out, like an equation. Because if he can only find the right variable, he'll know how to make her stay.
They call him, running down the list of names from AGHS. Any he can vouch for? He speaks at length about Jason's abilities as a leader, Zack's endless energy and enthusiasm. Any he wouldn't recommend? Eugene Skullovitch might not be exactly what they're looking for. What about Trini Kwan? No- No, sorry don't know her very well.
He puts down the phone and imagines his name next to Cassius and Judas, thinks of Dante Alighieri and how cold it must be away from the light.
He's with her when she gets the phone call, as he knew she would, and somehow by the time she's turned to tell him the amazing news, he's contrived to smile. When for the first time ever, she misses the fact that it doesn't reach his eyes, he thinks this might just be what death feels like.
"I wish you were coming."
I wish you weren't going. Were he someone other than who he is, he'd actually say it. But he's only Billy, and he hasn't figured out how to say anything so simply. So he starts to ramble about the engineering feats accomplished by the architects of European cathedrals. The 'I love you' hidden beneath the discourse on flying buttresses is beyond even Trini's ability to translate.
He'd had some vague notion of making the most of the next few weeks, being with her every waking moment, crafting memories that will hold up next to the glitter of Geneva, the beauty of the Alps. But that's not what happens. He loses her sooner than he thought, watches her slip away to excited conversations with Zack and Jason, conferences on what to pack, the assignments they're already getting, how they'll get to the airport. He can feel himself fading into the background of her consciousness and he doesn't know how to stop it.
The days rush forward, time heedless of his pleas. And soon the flight is not more than twenty-four hours away, becoming less with each tick of the second hand. Determined to carve out these last few moments as his own, he offers to help her finish packing.
She's got too much stuff, which strikes him as beyond funny, and he laughs for what might be the last time. He's going to tell her to get rid of a few things, but his eyes catch on the photo album he put together for her, and he's afraid that might be the first to go.
"We need to exert more pressure. The addition of your weight plus some effort on my part should be sufficient."
"What? No Billy, that's--" But her protests are lost in laughter as he lifts her up and sets her down on top of the suitcase. Bracing his hands on either side of her, he adds to the effort. They just make it, the locks sliding closed with a quiet snick that sounds like a gunshot next to the silence that follows.
There's something intimate and important happening now, something that he'll just ruin with words. Trini's hands linger on the locks, as though she's not exactly sure what to do next, and with her bent towards him he can smell the jasmine of her shampoo, even as the curtain hair hides her face. His hand moves almost of its own volition, reaching down to capture her fingers and draw them away.
"Oh." The not-quite word is enough, enough to tell him that this time she's been able to master the translation, to decipher his meaning.
Not waiting to find out if she intended to add words, he dips his head under her bowed one, and presses his lips to hers, trying to communicate through the gentle, tender kiss all the things he'd trip over trying to say. The audacity of the move startles him, but then he has little left to lose. When she brings her hand up to stroke his cheek, he thinks he might have even won something.
But as he pulls away, he can see the start of tears in her eyes, and he knows he hasn't.
"I'll wait." He makes the promise before she has a chance to speak because it lets her go; because he can't bear to hear that it's not enough, that he's not enough. "I'll wait for you."
And were he someone other than who he is, he'd say much more, but he's not, he's just Billy, and he has to start learning to say things simply.
Two years later, when he makes the decision to stay on Aquitar he thinks of turncoats and knives in the back. And though he tells himself that she left first, that she never asked for him to wait, it doesn't stop him from placing his name next to Brutus and Cassius and Judas Iscariot.
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Comments and Criticisms always appreciated.
Next up we're doing Tanya, which is its own kind of challenge.
Panache
