For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts.
Title: Getting Ready
Prompt: Fixed
It is dark in Susan's room; a single light shines from the kitchen. Over the sink, clutching a glass of amber ale, stands Marcus. His head is too busy, tonight, for sleeping.
With a sigh, he leans against the cupboard and tries to smooth his mussy hair. When he stares into his glass he sees his brother's reflection, his brother smiling. His brother saying, 'you're happy, now, big brother; I'm glad for you...'
And it's alright, for once, because he is.
In the other room sleeps a woman more precious to him than anything. He doesn't say it to her; not because he is ashamed, but rather she isn't ready to hear. He takes what he can get.
He notices her coming out of her shell, so to speak. More and more often as the days go by, he sees her smiling. Sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, she will even go so far as to take his hand in public.
She isn't ready for some things, yet. He sleeps beside her, but he knows, in spite of that, she isn't ready for the ring he hides behind the silverware. She isn't ready for proposals or kissing in public. She isn't ready for roses, either, but he ignores that and gets them anyways.
It's so quiet he can hear the faucet dripping; compulsively, he reaches behind him to tighten it. It continues leaking. He gives up, lifts his glass, and pads over to the refrigerator for another drink.
She got him started on that, too. Her and her bad habits.
He leans against the back of a chair, drinking. He feels something in the pocket of his cloak, draped over the chair; it's a piece of paper. Folded in half, it has her handwriting on it; it says, 'thank you, you ugly fleabag, for everything. Susan.' Looking at it, he chuckles to himself and tucks it back in the pocket. She's so abusive; he'll get her back. Maybe with roses.
He hears shifting noises from the other room. A sleep-muzzy voice reaches him through the hallway. "Stop drinking my booze and come back to bed."
"Of course, my lady," he replies, setting the glass in the sink. "Though it's my booze, not yours.'" He can't understand her and vodka: it has no flavour. Other than the taste of alcohol, he supposes, if one could say it counted as a flavour.
He slips off his wool sweater and slides back under the covers. She feigns annoyance with him. "It was in my refrigerator, so it's my alcohol. That's how it works around here."
In the dim light, she can just make out his grin. "I don't think so. Just because something's gotten put someplace, doesn't mean it doesn't belong to him who bought it."
"I beg to differ," she says. "That fridge? Is in my quarters. It belongs to me. All the things inside belong to me. Heck, this bed belongs to me. You're in my bed. You belong to me."
Oh. Well then.
Couldn't really argue with that.
000
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