I like this one too. :)
Disclaimer: Okay, I do not own it. End of discussion.
Kisses,
{--Inky--}
It's been days since she's heard anything. It's almost as though she's been taken off all the agent rosters. This thought scares her, more than she wishes to admit.
Her time with the Jackson's has been relaxing, the closest to a vacation she's ever really had. This house is as much home as her own house, with Ms. Jackson significantly more maternal than her own mother.
But she still finds it extremely alarming that no one's contacted her, even to assure that she's still breathing. This wasn't how she Saw things playing out. Someone was supposed to track her down, and the two of them were supposed to be back at headquarters to debrief and prepare by now.
Her bordering-on-panicked musings are done over dishes. She and Percy were enlisted onto the front lines to tackle chores, and she'd offered to wash.
Absently, she rolls the extra-long paring knife she's scrubbing over her knuckles, weaving through her nimble fingers. It was a habit she'd picked up, learning how to handle her dagger. Usually it just calms her, to know that she has perfect control over one aspect of her life.
Today, it astounds him. She Feels it, rather than sees.
One glance at his awed face makes her smirk, complicating her movements. She twirls the knife, tosses it end over end, catches it, and spins it again.
"Can you teach me how to do that?" he asks. "That was sweet!"
She winces, Seeing again.
"Don't count on it."
He plucks the now-still knife from her slightly stiff fingers. "Why not?"
She rolls her eyes. "Because it ends in a hospital, a severed finger, reconstructive surgery, and about a dozen skin grafts. Don't ask for more details than that." He hastily hands the knife back to her, an indiscernible expression on his face.
"Oh."
"Yeah," she laughs.
"Where'd you learn that anyways?" he asks, completely unaware he is tearing open old wounds. She frowns, wrinkling her forehead and pulling her eyebrows together. He doesn't notice.
"Luke." Even the name is a grimace.
Her face, angry and agonized at the same time, stops him from saying anything more. Lightly, he changes the subject.
"So, um, how 'bout those Yankees?"
She snorts out a laugh unwillingly. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and chuckles at himself.
What? What was that? Did I hear a little bit of. . . gasp. . . Percabeth!?
. .
O
