bellaknoti (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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peopleofthedas2010-11-25 11:35 am
bellaknoti) wrote in peopleofthedas2010-11-25 11:35 am
fanfic: Wings of the Storm Crow
Series: Wings of the Storm Crow
Title: Life Lessons (Chapter Two)
Rating: AO
Pairing: Lily/Zevran
Summary: He's still here. I'm not crazy... I think. Now... If I can just manage not to piss him off...
As requested: Mary-Sue reprised.
There is this horrible moment of panic, when I wake, and I am alone in my bed. I sit up abruptly, looking around. The grey light filtering in through the curtains casts the room in familiar NorthWest gloom, and I can hear the rain pelting down outside; the storm has not yet passed. I pass my hand over the pillow, where he lay last night, and a strand of yellow hair tangles through my fingers. I look down at it, stretch it between them. It is not my imagination, and my hair is dark brown. It's not even the right length for me to fool myself; far too short. Something painful clutches at my heart, and I think maybe I'm going to cry, but then I smell it: coffee.
I scramble from the bed and clutch my waist as I immediately break out in goosebumps. It is still frozen cold in the house, and I hurry to the dresser. I yank on some panties and fasten my bra with trembling fingers, then throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Over the t-shirt, I pile a flannel, and then a hoodie. I tuck my fingers into the sleeves and stuff my hands in my pockets as I make my way to the living room.
I find a pot by the fire that has the coffee in it. I pour myself a mug, and fetch my cigarettes from my coat. Stepping onto the front porch, I light one, and then jump, as Zev appears out of nowhere, knocking sand from his boots against the boards.
He is wearing one of my old cloaks; he must have found my garb trunk. As he turns, I can see that he's got dressed out of it, and I smile. Most of the clothes in there belonged to my ex, and I kept them out of spite, since I was the one who made all of them. It makes me happy to see them being put to better use, though my tailor's eye tells me that they need adjusting. Zev is broader of shoulder, but leaner. It will have to wait until the power comes back on.
I pause. Power. How am I going to explain electricity?
He looks up at me, and flashes me a grin. “You're still here!” I say, and dash over to him. I throw my arms around his neck and he catches me, laughing.
“Sì, cara, I am still here. It has been a most eventful morning,” he says, kissing the corner of my jaw. I smell wind, rain, and ocean on him; his hair, damp from the storm, sticks to my cheek, and I close my eyes, clinging to him. He's real. I feel the shift in him when he realizes I'm not just hugging him for a hug, and he wraps me in his arms, his hand sliding into my hair. “Shh... I am still here,” he whispers. He pulls back, after a moment, and takes my hand. “Come, you did not eat.”
“Uh... just let me finish my coffee,” I say, drawing back and taking another drag off my smoke.
He looks at it curiously, and I feel self-conscious. “What is this that you are smoking?”
“Uh... a cigarette? It's tobacco.” Shit. I didn't think about having to explain this to him.
He watches me take a drag off of it, then grabs it out of my hand and does so, himself. I am surprised that he knows how, knows what to do, and he hands it back, making a face. “It's foul,” he says, blowing the smoke out. “There are other things that taste sweeter. Does this have some effect on your perceptions?” he asks, wary. I shake my head in negation.
“It's not like it's opium or something,” I say, taken aback.
He narrows his eyes and looks at me speculatively. “It does nothing like that?” I shake my head again. “Then, why have it?” He picks up the pack, turning it around in his hands.
I shrug. “I've been smoking for fifteen years. It... relieves stress. Keeps me from eating too much. Gives me something to do with my hands, and an excuse to leave a crowded room when I need one. Lots of reasons,” I say, looking away.
“What is this, 'cancer'?” he asks, looking at the warning on the side.
I tense and look at my feet. “It... it's a... kind of... sickness,” I admit.
He grabs my chin, makes me look him in the eye. “You never could look me in the eye when you felt guilty about something,” he mutters darkly. Shit, I put so much of myself in my writing, he knows me too well for me to fool him. I stare at him as he searches my face, his eyes hardening. “This will cause you sickness?” He is not impressed. He is... getting irritated with me. I hang my head, pulling away.
“Uh... well, it can...”
He growls at me and grabs my shoulder, but I don't look up. “Speak the truth, cara. Is there poison in it?”
I bite my lip, but I can't lie to this man, not him. “It... Well... yes, basically,” I admit. He snatches the cigarette from my hand before I can even react, and disappears into the house with it and the pack in his hands.
“Hey!” I hasten after him, but he strides straight over to the hearth and throws them in. “That... that was my last pack,” I say, softly, despondently, watching them burn.
He folds his arms over his chest, his face set in hard lines. I cover my mouth with my hand. Oh my god, I pissed him off. I am shocked silent. “And glad I am to hear it. You will not harm yourself while I am with you,” he says, and his tone brooks no argument. My shoulders drop, and I nod.
“Right,” I sigh. “I'll quit.” I rub at my forehead. Cold turkey. Great.
He points to the chair next to the hearth that I had occupied last night. “Sit.” I sit, and he begins to pace, agitated. “There are other ways of relieving stress, other reasons to leave a room, other things you can do with your hands. Tch. And to stop yourself from eating?” He stops and looks down at me, his face dark as the sky outside, and I feel myself going pale. “Nulla! It is nonsense,” he says, his hand slashing through the air. I look at my hands, and he goes back outside. He is gone for a few minutes, just enough time for me to feel completely stupid and think about maybe having a cry. The door bangs shut behind him as he comes in again, and he presses my mug into my hands.
He crouches down by the hearth and begins to rummage in the pots and pans that stand there, covered; he hands me a bowl, at last, with eggs, roasted potatoes, and bacon. I can't remember the last time I didn't have to cook my own food without paying for it, and this touches my heart in an unexpected way. Now I feel like total shit for fucking things up this morning with my stupid cigarette habit. I try not to think about the fact that I'm so desperate to stay in his good graces. Silence reigns so long between us, I'm almost on the verge of tears anyway, when he finally speaks, as though nothing happened.
“You must show me this merchant who sells you your coffee.”
I blink. “What? Why?”
“It is terrible,” he says, making a face. “They have burned it. I hope you did not pay a great deal.” I cough. Hilarious. He doesn't like French roast. He frowns at me. “What is funny?”
I shake my head. “I didn't know you don't like dark coffee.”
He leans forward, opening the tin, and shows me the beans. “Look, they should not shed oil to your fingers,” he says, rubbing one and showing me the pad of his thumb. “Shiny, but not oily. Oil means it has been poorly done.” He replaces the lid and sits back, obviously certain of himself. I make a mental note to bring home some Italian roast. The idea that I'm automatically beginning to think of shopping lists in terms of his preferences terrifies me. I try not to think about what it means, that I am doing this.
“So noted,” I murmur. “Tell me about this eventful morning of yours?” I ask, trying to bring him back to what he had said before all the unpleasantness over my bad habits.
He nods, but I see that look in his eye; we're not done with the cigarette conversation, not by a long shot. I know it's going to come up again, right around the time I have a nic-fit, right around the time that my hands start shaking and I turn into super-cranky psycho-bitch. I shiver. He lets it go, for now, though. “As I was searching our house, I discovered a trunk with a man's clothing in it,” he begins, and I choke on my coffee. I cough and set the cup down, covering my mouth with my sleeve, then wiping my watering eyes. 'Our house', he said. Oh, gods.
“Sorry,” I rasp, picking up my mug again. I motion for him to continue.
“You're all right? Yes? Good. As I was saying, the trunk. Very little inside fit me, but I did find this, which will serve, but is obviously not... Made for me. I realize, such things are an expense... but, I wondered if you knew of someone who can do something about that.”
I nod. “Actually, I made everything in that trunk, so... I can make you anything you like.” His eyebrows raise, and I blush under his clear respect for my skill. I wave a hand and hide behind my mug. “We can get to that later, though... For now, I'm just glad you've found something to wear. What else?”
He regards me seriously, watching my face carefully as he tells me of the things he's discovered. “There are many things which confuse me. There are cabinets in the kitchen which are very strange: one of them is very cold; another holds a plate, and nothing else, but it has numbers on the side of it, like a safe, yet, it does not lock. I find lamps, but no oil or wicks. There is a box, with a window on it, but it is opaque. Outside, there is a cart, but no way to attach it to horses, and the wheels...” He shakes his head. “There is much I do not understand, many things which serve no purpose that I can see. But there is one thing I found that makes perfect sense.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What?”
“There,” he says, pointing toward the beach, “I found a workshop, filled to bursting with driftwood and things collected from the beach, and the most beautiful creations made from them. Furniture, artwork, carvings, and on every single piece, a little lily, carved somewhere out of the way.” He smiles at me, obviously proud of my work.
I blush and look down. He found my shed. I only have to sell one or two a month, depending on the size of them, in order to keep myself afloat, comfortably. If I cut the power completely and went to generator, it might be cheaper, but I don't like the idea of being responsible for the repairs when it goes out; the power company deals with outages, the way I'm set up now. It's hard enough just keeping my stupid truck going.
I don't know what to say. Uh... “I'm flattered that you approve.” I turn my mug in my hands as there is a pause in the conversation. “Since the storm has mostly passed, I'll need to go out and scour the beach for more materials today.”
He nods. “I will help you.” I smile. It will be so much easier with another pair of hands... fewer trips, bigger pieces that can be hauled back. A sudden glimmer of what a life like this could be like, stretching on toward the horizon, beckons me to think ahead, to plan, and I shut it out, quickly slamming the door, trying not to hang my hopes on someone who, by all rights, should not exist. I have a sudden yearning for things I never spared a second thought, before: marriage, children, family, growing old with someone and sharing grandchildren. My heart aches with it, and I don't want to cry; I'm already a little fragile from our earlier altercation. So I do what I do best: run from it; I change the subject.
“There are many things that will be difficult to explain,” I say, at last. “The first thing you should know, above all else, is that there is no magic here, of any kind. This makes our world much more perilous than the one you've left, because there is no such thing as healing. Everything has to be done the hard way. All we have are science and alchemy; however, with just these two tools at our disposal, we have made wonders such as your world has never known.”
He looks at me over the rim of his mug, and I take a deep breath. Now I'm thinking about things like passports, birth certificates, social security numbers, fingerprints, driver's licensing; doctors, dentists, hospitals and everything else. Shit. One thing at a time. I take another breath.
“A lot of what you see can be explained by electricity. We've harnessed the power of lightning, bent it to our wills, and created things that use it in order to work. Sometimes, out here on the coast, when there is a bad storm, I lose my connection to it, and have to use candles, oil lamps, and the fire place, but this is not how I live, usually. Eventually, the power company will turn the lights back on, and then you will see. As for the rest... well, with electricity at our disposal, we have been able to bend just about everything else in the world to our will, as well. You will discover more and more of these things, as we go along. You must not openly express surprise, nor startle; I'm sure you can understand how it might be dangerous to do so, but it's even worse than you might imagine.” I sigh.
“I have many books; we can begin your education today. There is much you need to know, and not a lot of time to teach it to you. Thedas is much like our history of five hundred years ago... with two exceptions: one, there has never been magic here, and two, there have never been elves, dwarves, dragons, or darkspawn, either. We are all humans, and the only monsters among us spring from us.”
“No elves?” he asks, softly, surprised at this one thing, and nothing else, apparently.
I shake my head. “Most people who see your ears will assume you had them cut to be shaped that way.” I sigh again, and set down my empty mug. “We may as well begin.” I fetch my history books: world, and art; sitting down next to him, I show him, first, a map of the world. I explain about Italy, where he will need to claim he is from. I go over the major highlights of the last hundred years, things that define our paradigm. “In the absence of actual race differences, humans focus on things like skin colour and religion, instead. Seems we're wired for bigotry.” It takes me about three hours to take him through a crash-course. It helps that there are so many analogues, that Thedas is built on the bones of our world, to begin with.
At last, he sits back, stunned. I rise and put the kettle on, all talked out. I'm going to have to go into town for ice; it could be another day or two before I get my power back, and I know the fridge is warming up. I look at him speculatively. We've got maybe five hours of usable daylight left, assuming the storm doesn't swamp us again. “Feel like a little adventure?”
He looks at me, wary, and I smile. “What sort of adventure?”
“I have to go to the market. Do you wish to come? If you do, I can get you some clothing that will have you fit in here better.” I chew my lip. If I can sell the couch this month, I'll be fine until January. “I haven't got much time, love. We still have to check the beach.”
He is quiet for a time, and I fix us some chai; I sit next to him and hand him back his mug. I'll need to stock up. I'll hit up Fred's, I decide; food, clothing, and pharmacy in one. Much as I would love to just leave it to fate, taking a morning-after pill seems like a good plan, at least until he's got a better handle on what this world is like. I sigh and rest my head on his shoulder. Maybe I can get him on at the martial arts studio; if we can get him set up as a teacher there, he'll be raking it in. He puts his arm around me and I cuddle under his arm while I drink my tea, grateful for warmth against my sore vocal cords.
“All right. I will go with you; after all, the alternative is staying here without you, and I fear the idea of such a thing, when we have only just found each other,” he says. I giggle.
“We can buy you some clothes, then. Will you bank the fire, while I get ready?” He nods. I set down my empty mug and rise, hurry to the bedroom, and change into one of my garb dresses. I pull on my Fryes and grab my own heavy cloak. If we match, I can claim it was laundry day when the power went out. I grab my keys and tuck my license and debit card into my bra.
Coming back into the living room, I take his hand and kiss him ardently. He folds me in his arms, returning it. I lace my fingers between his, looking up at him. “Okay. Keep your wits, my love. This will be a lot of new things all at once. Don't get skittish; there's nothing we'll be about today that I don't do all the time. No matter how strange things seem, you're safe with me.” He laughs at this role-reversal, and I kiss him once more.
Title: Life Lessons (Chapter Two)
Rating: AO
Pairing: Lily/Zevran
Summary: He's still here. I'm not crazy... I think. Now... If I can just manage not to piss him off...
As requested: Mary-Sue reprised.
There is this horrible moment of panic, when I wake, and I am alone in my bed. I sit up abruptly, looking around. The grey light filtering in through the curtains casts the room in familiar NorthWest gloom, and I can hear the rain pelting down outside; the storm has not yet passed. I pass my hand over the pillow, where he lay last night, and a strand of yellow hair tangles through my fingers. I look down at it, stretch it between them. It is not my imagination, and my hair is dark brown. It's not even the right length for me to fool myself; far too short. Something painful clutches at my heart, and I think maybe I'm going to cry, but then I smell it: coffee.
I scramble from the bed and clutch my waist as I immediately break out in goosebumps. It is still frozen cold in the house, and I hurry to the dresser. I yank on some panties and fasten my bra with trembling fingers, then throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Over the t-shirt, I pile a flannel, and then a hoodie. I tuck my fingers into the sleeves and stuff my hands in my pockets as I make my way to the living room.
I find a pot by the fire that has the coffee in it. I pour myself a mug, and fetch my cigarettes from my coat. Stepping onto the front porch, I light one, and then jump, as Zev appears out of nowhere, knocking sand from his boots against the boards.
He is wearing one of my old cloaks; he must have found my garb trunk. As he turns, I can see that he's got dressed out of it, and I smile. Most of the clothes in there belonged to my ex, and I kept them out of spite, since I was the one who made all of them. It makes me happy to see them being put to better use, though my tailor's eye tells me that they need adjusting. Zev is broader of shoulder, but leaner. It will have to wait until the power comes back on.
I pause. Power. How am I going to explain electricity?
He looks up at me, and flashes me a grin. “You're still here!” I say, and dash over to him. I throw my arms around his neck and he catches me, laughing.
“Sì, cara, I am still here. It has been a most eventful morning,” he says, kissing the corner of my jaw. I smell wind, rain, and ocean on him; his hair, damp from the storm, sticks to my cheek, and I close my eyes, clinging to him. He's real. I feel the shift in him when he realizes I'm not just hugging him for a hug, and he wraps me in his arms, his hand sliding into my hair. “Shh... I am still here,” he whispers. He pulls back, after a moment, and takes my hand. “Come, you did not eat.”
“Uh... just let me finish my coffee,” I say, drawing back and taking another drag off my smoke.
He looks at it curiously, and I feel self-conscious. “What is this that you are smoking?”
“Uh... a cigarette? It's tobacco.” Shit. I didn't think about having to explain this to him.
He watches me take a drag off of it, then grabs it out of my hand and does so, himself. I am surprised that he knows how, knows what to do, and he hands it back, making a face. “It's foul,” he says, blowing the smoke out. “There are other things that taste sweeter. Does this have some effect on your perceptions?” he asks, wary. I shake my head in negation.
“It's not like it's opium or something,” I say, taken aback.
He narrows his eyes and looks at me speculatively. “It does nothing like that?” I shake my head again. “Then, why have it?” He picks up the pack, turning it around in his hands.
I shrug. “I've been smoking for fifteen years. It... relieves stress. Keeps me from eating too much. Gives me something to do with my hands, and an excuse to leave a crowded room when I need one. Lots of reasons,” I say, looking away.
“What is this, 'cancer'?” he asks, looking at the warning on the side.
I tense and look at my feet. “It... it's a... kind of... sickness,” I admit.
He grabs my chin, makes me look him in the eye. “You never could look me in the eye when you felt guilty about something,” he mutters darkly. Shit, I put so much of myself in my writing, he knows me too well for me to fool him. I stare at him as he searches my face, his eyes hardening. “This will cause you sickness?” He is not impressed. He is... getting irritated with me. I hang my head, pulling away.
“Uh... well, it can...”
He growls at me and grabs my shoulder, but I don't look up. “Speak the truth, cara. Is there poison in it?”
I bite my lip, but I can't lie to this man, not him. “It... Well... yes, basically,” I admit. He snatches the cigarette from my hand before I can even react, and disappears into the house with it and the pack in his hands.
“Hey!” I hasten after him, but he strides straight over to the hearth and throws them in. “That... that was my last pack,” I say, softly, despondently, watching them burn.
He folds his arms over his chest, his face set in hard lines. I cover my mouth with my hand. Oh my god, I pissed him off. I am shocked silent. “And glad I am to hear it. You will not harm yourself while I am with you,” he says, and his tone brooks no argument. My shoulders drop, and I nod.
“Right,” I sigh. “I'll quit.” I rub at my forehead. Cold turkey. Great.
He points to the chair next to the hearth that I had occupied last night. “Sit.” I sit, and he begins to pace, agitated. “There are other ways of relieving stress, other reasons to leave a room, other things you can do with your hands. Tch. And to stop yourself from eating?” He stops and looks down at me, his face dark as the sky outside, and I feel myself going pale. “Nulla! It is nonsense,” he says, his hand slashing through the air. I look at my hands, and he goes back outside. He is gone for a few minutes, just enough time for me to feel completely stupid and think about maybe having a cry. The door bangs shut behind him as he comes in again, and he presses my mug into my hands.
He crouches down by the hearth and begins to rummage in the pots and pans that stand there, covered; he hands me a bowl, at last, with eggs, roasted potatoes, and bacon. I can't remember the last time I didn't have to cook my own food without paying for it, and this touches my heart in an unexpected way. Now I feel like total shit for fucking things up this morning with my stupid cigarette habit. I try not to think about the fact that I'm so desperate to stay in his good graces. Silence reigns so long between us, I'm almost on the verge of tears anyway, when he finally speaks, as though nothing happened.
“You must show me this merchant who sells you your coffee.”
I blink. “What? Why?”
“It is terrible,” he says, making a face. “They have burned it. I hope you did not pay a great deal.” I cough. Hilarious. He doesn't like French roast. He frowns at me. “What is funny?”
I shake my head. “I didn't know you don't like dark coffee.”
He leans forward, opening the tin, and shows me the beans. “Look, they should not shed oil to your fingers,” he says, rubbing one and showing me the pad of his thumb. “Shiny, but not oily. Oil means it has been poorly done.” He replaces the lid and sits back, obviously certain of himself. I make a mental note to bring home some Italian roast. The idea that I'm automatically beginning to think of shopping lists in terms of his preferences terrifies me. I try not to think about what it means, that I am doing this.
“So noted,” I murmur. “Tell me about this eventful morning of yours?” I ask, trying to bring him back to what he had said before all the unpleasantness over my bad habits.
He nods, but I see that look in his eye; we're not done with the cigarette conversation, not by a long shot. I know it's going to come up again, right around the time I have a nic-fit, right around the time that my hands start shaking and I turn into super-cranky psycho-bitch. I shiver. He lets it go, for now, though. “As I was searching our house, I discovered a trunk with a man's clothing in it,” he begins, and I choke on my coffee. I cough and set the cup down, covering my mouth with my sleeve, then wiping my watering eyes. 'Our house', he said. Oh, gods.
“Sorry,” I rasp, picking up my mug again. I motion for him to continue.
“You're all right? Yes? Good. As I was saying, the trunk. Very little inside fit me, but I did find this, which will serve, but is obviously not... Made for me. I realize, such things are an expense... but, I wondered if you knew of someone who can do something about that.”
I nod. “Actually, I made everything in that trunk, so... I can make you anything you like.” His eyebrows raise, and I blush under his clear respect for my skill. I wave a hand and hide behind my mug. “We can get to that later, though... For now, I'm just glad you've found something to wear. What else?”
He regards me seriously, watching my face carefully as he tells me of the things he's discovered. “There are many things which confuse me. There are cabinets in the kitchen which are very strange: one of them is very cold; another holds a plate, and nothing else, but it has numbers on the side of it, like a safe, yet, it does not lock. I find lamps, but no oil or wicks. There is a box, with a window on it, but it is opaque. Outside, there is a cart, but no way to attach it to horses, and the wheels...” He shakes his head. “There is much I do not understand, many things which serve no purpose that I can see. But there is one thing I found that makes perfect sense.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What?”
“There,” he says, pointing toward the beach, “I found a workshop, filled to bursting with driftwood and things collected from the beach, and the most beautiful creations made from them. Furniture, artwork, carvings, and on every single piece, a little lily, carved somewhere out of the way.” He smiles at me, obviously proud of my work.
I blush and look down. He found my shed. I only have to sell one or two a month, depending on the size of them, in order to keep myself afloat, comfortably. If I cut the power completely and went to generator, it might be cheaper, but I don't like the idea of being responsible for the repairs when it goes out; the power company deals with outages, the way I'm set up now. It's hard enough just keeping my stupid truck going.
I don't know what to say. Uh... “I'm flattered that you approve.” I turn my mug in my hands as there is a pause in the conversation. “Since the storm has mostly passed, I'll need to go out and scour the beach for more materials today.”
He nods. “I will help you.” I smile. It will be so much easier with another pair of hands... fewer trips, bigger pieces that can be hauled back. A sudden glimmer of what a life like this could be like, stretching on toward the horizon, beckons me to think ahead, to plan, and I shut it out, quickly slamming the door, trying not to hang my hopes on someone who, by all rights, should not exist. I have a sudden yearning for things I never spared a second thought, before: marriage, children, family, growing old with someone and sharing grandchildren. My heart aches with it, and I don't want to cry; I'm already a little fragile from our earlier altercation. So I do what I do best: run from it; I change the subject.
“There are many things that will be difficult to explain,” I say, at last. “The first thing you should know, above all else, is that there is no magic here, of any kind. This makes our world much more perilous than the one you've left, because there is no such thing as healing. Everything has to be done the hard way. All we have are science and alchemy; however, with just these two tools at our disposal, we have made wonders such as your world has never known.”
He looks at me over the rim of his mug, and I take a deep breath. Now I'm thinking about things like passports, birth certificates, social security numbers, fingerprints, driver's licensing; doctors, dentists, hospitals and everything else. Shit. One thing at a time. I take another breath.
“A lot of what you see can be explained by electricity. We've harnessed the power of lightning, bent it to our wills, and created things that use it in order to work. Sometimes, out here on the coast, when there is a bad storm, I lose my connection to it, and have to use candles, oil lamps, and the fire place, but this is not how I live, usually. Eventually, the power company will turn the lights back on, and then you will see. As for the rest... well, with electricity at our disposal, we have been able to bend just about everything else in the world to our will, as well. You will discover more and more of these things, as we go along. You must not openly express surprise, nor startle; I'm sure you can understand how it might be dangerous to do so, but it's even worse than you might imagine.” I sigh.
“I have many books; we can begin your education today. There is much you need to know, and not a lot of time to teach it to you. Thedas is much like our history of five hundred years ago... with two exceptions: one, there has never been magic here, and two, there have never been elves, dwarves, dragons, or darkspawn, either. We are all humans, and the only monsters among us spring from us.”
“No elves?” he asks, softly, surprised at this one thing, and nothing else, apparently.
I shake my head. “Most people who see your ears will assume you had them cut to be shaped that way.” I sigh again, and set down my empty mug. “We may as well begin.” I fetch my history books: world, and art; sitting down next to him, I show him, first, a map of the world. I explain about Italy, where he will need to claim he is from. I go over the major highlights of the last hundred years, things that define our paradigm. “In the absence of actual race differences, humans focus on things like skin colour and religion, instead. Seems we're wired for bigotry.” It takes me about three hours to take him through a crash-course. It helps that there are so many analogues, that Thedas is built on the bones of our world, to begin with.
At last, he sits back, stunned. I rise and put the kettle on, all talked out. I'm going to have to go into town for ice; it could be another day or two before I get my power back, and I know the fridge is warming up. I look at him speculatively. We've got maybe five hours of usable daylight left, assuming the storm doesn't swamp us again. “Feel like a little adventure?”
He looks at me, wary, and I smile. “What sort of adventure?”
“I have to go to the market. Do you wish to come? If you do, I can get you some clothing that will have you fit in here better.” I chew my lip. If I can sell the couch this month, I'll be fine until January. “I haven't got much time, love. We still have to check the beach.”
He is quiet for a time, and I fix us some chai; I sit next to him and hand him back his mug. I'll need to stock up. I'll hit up Fred's, I decide; food, clothing, and pharmacy in one. Much as I would love to just leave it to fate, taking a morning-after pill seems like a good plan, at least until he's got a better handle on what this world is like. I sigh and rest my head on his shoulder. Maybe I can get him on at the martial arts studio; if we can get him set up as a teacher there, he'll be raking it in. He puts his arm around me and I cuddle under his arm while I drink my tea, grateful for warmth against my sore vocal cords.
“All right. I will go with you; after all, the alternative is staying here without you, and I fear the idea of such a thing, when we have only just found each other,” he says. I giggle.
“We can buy you some clothes, then. Will you bank the fire, while I get ready?” He nods. I set down my empty mug and rise, hurry to the bedroom, and change into one of my garb dresses. I pull on my Fryes and grab my own heavy cloak. If we match, I can claim it was laundry day when the power went out. I grab my keys and tuck my license and debit card into my bra.
Coming back into the living room, I take his hand and kiss him ardently. He folds me in his arms, returning it. I lace my fingers between his, looking up at him. “Okay. Keep your wits, my love. This will be a lot of new things all at once. Don't get skittish; there's nothing we'll be about today that I don't do all the time. No matter how strange things seem, you're safe with me.” He laughs at this role-reversal, and I kiss him once more.
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It's no wonder this is ending up so long - there's so many 'ordinary' details to cover, I'm surprised you're keeping it as succinct as you are.
You make period costume? Me too!
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though, my bodices leave much to be desired. >.> it's hard to fit one on yourself!
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i was up all night; it's thanksgiving, and i'm cooking like a fiend. i've had two hours of sleep. \o/
entirely cogent is not me.
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i'll post the second half on monday. ;)
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thank you! gosh, everyone's got such high hopes, i hope i don't disappoint!
don't forget: lily took him through a crash-course in history. there's not much that will come as a total shock, and he's not the kind to get overtly skittish, even if he is freaking out.
however, it's the sheer volume of comments like this that make me think maybe i need to expand the 'outing' section like, threefold. >.>
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Well, allow me to throw my vote in for threefold, or tenfold for the more of the story! :D My overactive fantasy imagination is at work, don't mind me.
I'm so exited now!
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it feels like journal entries. >.< i can't take much more of this. one more, posted monday, and then i'm done. i have to be.
i'm convinced... now i just have to convince him.
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And you know I'll just rp him until you give in >:D
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>.>
shit.
well. this fic proves it, right?
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You nailed it perfectly.