damalurbackup (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
damalurbackup) wrote2009-02-10 07:30 pm
damalurbackup) wrote2009-02-10 07:30 pm
Entry tags:
there's a hole in the world. feels like we ought to have known.
Stories that I should write, but probably won't. Grr argh.
Five things that never happened to Kate Bishop and Billy Kaplan.
Billy/Penny - "How long have you been in love with me?"
This Wes/Faith story:
there's a hole in the world. feels like we ought to have known.
She makes art from his body. She takes the raw material of his flesh and bends it to her will, cracks open his skin as a painter cracks open a fresh tube of oil paint, molds his face with her fists as a sculptor shapes wet clay. His pain matters because she enjoys it as an inevitable side effect like charcoal on her fingertips and because it is a reflection of the tempest she carries within.
As is the right of the artist, she sets her mark on him.
As befits a work of art, he is silent until she gives him voice.
"Still haven't heard you scream, Wes," she says, and steps back. There's a cocky jut to her jaw as she admires the way the reds blend with the black and the blues; wide sweeps of scarlet down his neck and chest deepening to a rich crimson on his flanks, the lovely flush of an indigo bruise on one cheekbone -
He shifts, then, and looks at her, and mouths, "You never will," but there is screaming, there is, she can hear it, it's choking her ears and
-
Faith woke up clutching a separate piece of her pillow in each hand. A cloud of feathers still floated above her head, only heightening the disorientation; one drifted down to settle on her nose, a whimsical contrast to her lingering panic and horror.
The body beside her stirred. He was awake, Faith sensed, but before he could reach for her she was on her feet and out the bedroom door.
The hotel was dark save for a single desk-lamp left on in the office, and she made her way to the kitchen by feel and memory. It was habit now to pull two mugs out of the cupboard, to add cinnamon and orange peels in after the milk and coca but before heating. Wes had a great-aunt who made hot chocolate this way, although apparently she used the stove rather than the microwave.
A hand landed on her shoulder; she started. "Jesus Christ, Pryce, give a woman warning before sneaking up on her!"
Wesley's expression was wry and a little groggy; it was too early for the reflexive sarcasm she'd come to expect from him. "Faith..."
"Don't, Wes. Just don't."
The microwave beeped, and they both reached for it at the same time. Faith let out an involuntary snarl. Wesley's hand halted, then shifted directions to slide across her shoulders. She stood unyielding for a moment, but when he tugged a second time she folded into his embrace.
"Faith," he said again, and because he was her Watcher and her husband and hers he didn't need to say more. She clung to him; he was solid beneath her arms, the ribs, the firm muscles of his back, the lean, familiar strength of his arms, the rasp of stubble against her forehead - she had to be careful to not break him, but he was still reassuringly warm and whole.
"Here," he said, and shifted them just enough to open the microwave. Then Faith's hands were being wrapped around a warm mug, and Wes was guiding her through the lobby and into their little family room. Faith had talked Wes into a flatscreen large enough to dominate one wall. There were books, too, of course, and not all of them Wesley's; there wasn't much to do in prison besides read, and Faith had developed a taste for fiction and some poetry.
MARVEL SKRULL-ZOMBIE WORLD
She sleeps with Billy sometimes. He usually wants her on top, and not once does he look her in the eyes as she rides him. Sometimes they come; sometimes they don't. It's a little less than comfort and a little more than grief.
One night, mid-coitus, she stills and raises a hand to her cheek and finds it wet.
They're not making love and they're not fucking, not really, so Kate calls it having sex in her mind. When they're having sex, Billy doesn't look at her because he's trying not to think of Teddy, but he's going about it wrong. She doesn't think of anything but the act itself - no Eli, no Tommy - no Clint, and where did that come from?
Here's how it went with Eli:
She shot Teddy in the eye, and Eli stared at her and said, "I can't believe you shot Teddy."
"He was going to kill you," she said. Flat. Monotonous. Fact.
Eli shoved Teddy's body off and rolled to his feet in one fluid hand-knee-stand motion she'd only ever seen him and Captain America manage. He stood, turned, walked away, and didn't look back. It was the last time she saw him.
Billy doesn't blame her for Teddy's death. Tommy's dead too, anyway, and Clint - well, she wishes Clint were dead. That's the problem with the war, this war: sometimes they're fighting Skrulls and sometimes they're fighting humans-who-are-really-Skrulls and sometimes they're fighting brainwashed humans and sometimes they're just fighting humans.
-
For a while it's just Billy and her, but after three months or so they meet up with a few others. There's Spider-man, costume and humor both gone black; he's a little more brutal than Kate remembers, and little bit quieter. There's Tony, half-mad with grief over loosing Steve for a second time, and a woman who dresses in Cap's colors and claims to be from the future, and a mutant with odd red-on-black eyes. Doctor Strange wanders into the dimension occasionally, and sometimes they see Wolverine - he doesn't talk much anymore, just grunts and growls, but he's as dangerous as ever.
Mostly it's the six of them, though, and mostly they sleep back-to-back and kill things.
-
One of the nights that Doctor Strange is there, Kate sits up and tends the fire with him. The others are asleep in the back, but Kate stays up and watches the fire flicker through the rainbow: it dances red and blue and green and purple and flares back into red.
"I don't know why we stay together," she says after a while. "We wouldn't be nearly as obvious if we split up, and, well - "
"Mm," says Doctor Strange. "There's something to be said for camaraderie, though, even - no, especially - in times like these."
"There are other teams, though," she says.
"But you've all lost someone. Peter's wife is dead, and Gambit's - and Billy's lover, and Tony's. Dream was taken from her time, and you - "
"I haven't lost anyone," Kate interrupts.
Strange doesn't look at her, but the fire leaps. "Haven't you?" he murmurs. "I wonder."
Kate goes to bed.
-
She dreams in words and images:
I do not aim with my hand, and she nocks her arrow and raises it to her cheek. She who aims with her hand has forgotten the face of her father.
I aim with my Eye.
-
She dreams in black and white:
I do not shoot with my hand, and she draws back the string, muscles smooth and practiced in arm and shoulder and back. She who shoots with her hand has forgotten the face of her father.
I shoot with my Mind.
-
She dreams:
I do not kill with my hand, and she flicks her fingers and lets fly the arrow. It barrels through the air, and her eyes narrow and track like a thousand times before. She who kills with her hand has forgotten the face of her father.
I kill with my Heart.
-
There's something worse, though, than killing and being killing and watching as her city and her world fall down around her ears. There's something worse: a tiny part of Kate enjoys killing. She likes shooting and stabbing and bleeding out beings until they fall down dead. Tony understands, and Gambit, and maybe even Peter; Billy and Dream don't.
Five things that never happened to Kate Bishop and Billy Kaplan.
Billy/Penny - "How long have you been in love with me?"
This Wes/Faith story:
there's a hole in the world. feels like we ought to have known.
She makes art from his body. She takes the raw material of his flesh and bends it to her will, cracks open his skin as a painter cracks open a fresh tube of oil paint, molds his face with her fists as a sculptor shapes wet clay. His pain matters because she enjoys it as an inevitable side effect like charcoal on her fingertips and because it is a reflection of the tempest she carries within.
As is the right of the artist, she sets her mark on him.
As befits a work of art, he is silent until she gives him voice.
"Still haven't heard you scream, Wes," she says, and steps back. There's a cocky jut to her jaw as she admires the way the reds blend with the black and the blues; wide sweeps of scarlet down his neck and chest deepening to a rich crimson on his flanks, the lovely flush of an indigo bruise on one cheekbone -
He shifts, then, and looks at her, and mouths, "You never will," but there is screaming, there is, she can hear it, it's choking her ears and
-
Faith woke up clutching a separate piece of her pillow in each hand. A cloud of feathers still floated above her head, only heightening the disorientation; one drifted down to settle on her nose, a whimsical contrast to her lingering panic and horror.
The body beside her stirred. He was awake, Faith sensed, but before he could reach for her she was on her feet and out the bedroom door.
The hotel was dark save for a single desk-lamp left on in the office, and she made her way to the kitchen by feel and memory. It was habit now to pull two mugs out of the cupboard, to add cinnamon and orange peels in after the milk and coca but before heating. Wes had a great-aunt who made hot chocolate this way, although apparently she used the stove rather than the microwave.
A hand landed on her shoulder; she started. "Jesus Christ, Pryce, give a woman warning before sneaking up on her!"
Wesley's expression was wry and a little groggy; it was too early for the reflexive sarcasm she'd come to expect from him. "Faith..."
"Don't, Wes. Just don't."
The microwave beeped, and they both reached for it at the same time. Faith let out an involuntary snarl. Wesley's hand halted, then shifted directions to slide across her shoulders. She stood unyielding for a moment, but when he tugged a second time she folded into his embrace.
"Faith," he said again, and because he was her Watcher and her husband and hers he didn't need to say more. She clung to him; he was solid beneath her arms, the ribs, the firm muscles of his back, the lean, familiar strength of his arms, the rasp of stubble against her forehead - she had to be careful to not break him, but he was still reassuringly warm and whole.
"Here," he said, and shifted them just enough to open the microwave. Then Faith's hands were being wrapped around a warm mug, and Wes was guiding her through the lobby and into their little family room. Faith had talked Wes into a flatscreen large enough to dominate one wall. There were books, too, of course, and not all of them Wesley's; there wasn't much to do in prison besides read, and Faith had developed a taste for fiction and some poetry.
MARVEL SKRULL-ZOMBIE WORLD
She sleeps with Billy sometimes. He usually wants her on top, and not once does he look her in the eyes as she rides him. Sometimes they come; sometimes they don't. It's a little less than comfort and a little more than grief.
One night, mid-coitus, she stills and raises a hand to her cheek and finds it wet.
They're not making love and they're not fucking, not really, so Kate calls it having sex in her mind. When they're having sex, Billy doesn't look at her because he's trying not to think of Teddy, but he's going about it wrong. She doesn't think of anything but the act itself - no Eli, no Tommy - no Clint, and where did that come from?
Here's how it went with Eli:
She shot Teddy in the eye, and Eli stared at her and said, "I can't believe you shot Teddy."
"He was going to kill you," she said. Flat. Monotonous. Fact.
Eli shoved Teddy's body off and rolled to his feet in one fluid hand-knee-stand motion she'd only ever seen him and Captain America manage. He stood, turned, walked away, and didn't look back. It was the last time she saw him.
Billy doesn't blame her for Teddy's death. Tommy's dead too, anyway, and Clint - well, she wishes Clint were dead. That's the problem with the war, this war: sometimes they're fighting Skrulls and sometimes they're fighting humans-who-are-really-Skrulls and sometimes they're fighting brainwashed humans and sometimes they're just fighting humans.
-
For a while it's just Billy and her, but after three months or so they meet up with a few others. There's Spider-man, costume and humor both gone black; he's a little more brutal than Kate remembers, and little bit quieter. There's Tony, half-mad with grief over loosing Steve for a second time, and a woman who dresses in Cap's colors and claims to be from the future, and a mutant with odd red-on-black eyes. Doctor Strange wanders into the dimension occasionally, and sometimes they see Wolverine - he doesn't talk much anymore, just grunts and growls, but he's as dangerous as ever.
Mostly it's the six of them, though, and mostly they sleep back-to-back and kill things.
-
One of the nights that Doctor Strange is there, Kate sits up and tends the fire with him. The others are asleep in the back, but Kate stays up and watches the fire flicker through the rainbow: it dances red and blue and green and purple and flares back into red.
"I don't know why we stay together," she says after a while. "We wouldn't be nearly as obvious if we split up, and, well - "
"Mm," says Doctor Strange. "There's something to be said for camaraderie, though, even - no, especially - in times like these."
"There are other teams, though," she says.
"But you've all lost someone. Peter's wife is dead, and Gambit's - and Billy's lover, and Tony's. Dream was taken from her time, and you - "
"I haven't lost anyone," Kate interrupts.
Strange doesn't look at her, but the fire leaps. "Haven't you?" he murmurs. "I wonder."
Kate goes to bed.
-
She dreams in words and images:
I do not aim with my hand, and she nocks her arrow and raises it to her cheek. She who aims with her hand has forgotten the face of her father.
I aim with my Eye.
-
She dreams in black and white:
I do not shoot with my hand, and she draws back the string, muscles smooth and practiced in arm and shoulder and back. She who shoots with her hand has forgotten the face of her father.
I shoot with my Mind.
-
She dreams:
I do not kill with my hand, and she flicks her fingers and lets fly the arrow. It barrels through the air, and her eyes narrow and track like a thousand times before. She who kills with her hand has forgotten the face of her father.
I kill with my Heart.
-
There's something worse, though, than killing and being killing and watching as her city and her world fall down around her ears. There's something worse: a tiny part of Kate enjoys killing. She likes shooting and stabbing and bleeding out beings until they fall down dead. Tony understands, and Gambit, and maybe even Peter; Billy and Dream don't.
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It just makes me so happy to have another Wes/Faith fan around! I always felt so isolated in my love for them. :D