Entry tags:
sure, why not
Euuhhh that meme is too complicated. Upshot is:
FIRST FIVE PEOPLE TO COMMENT GET DRABBLES
Pick your poison. Though I'd prefer a little more guidance than just a fandom or pairing -- 'Booth/Brennan, earrings' will make my life easier than 'Bones'.
Something for me to do when I finish typing up my lecture notes :)
FIRST FIVE PEOPLE TO COMMENT GET DRABBLES
Pick your poison. Though I'd prefer a little more guidance than just a fandom or pairing -- 'Booth/Brennan, earrings' will make my life easier than 'Bones'.
Something for me to do when I finish typing up my lecture notes :)
no subject
~
"I'd like to begin," the man says, voice creating a fortepiano as he leans in and then back from the microphone, "with an acknowledgement of country. We gather on the lands of --"
Alois hears a sharp burst of clapping off to his left and turns, as do a few other people, to see Myfanwy looking anxious. She stops clapping as soon as their eyes meet. He frowns and lifts a hand to wave, raises his eyebrows in a question. Strange how the sight of her freezes his lips; a comfortable paralysis.
"Sorry," Myf says to the last person she had to push aside to reach his line of vision, eliciting an odd look at her accent. She holds her palms upwards and wobbles her hands, then twirls a fist near her temple like a dizzy salute. His memory is scrambling but her mouth is moving too: Where's Mallory? The American M and the twirl for the girl's curly hair; he's hardly ever seen her give her daughter's sign name, as it's solely referential.
Alois shrugs and stands up, edges his way to the side of the marquee, apologising in dull whispers as he goes. When he reaches Myfanwy he digs in his pocket for his notepad, and has flipped to a new page before remembering that his pen's out of ink.
My pen's dead, he says, improvising vocab like mad, but he regrets the finger pulled across his own throat as soon as he does it. Myf stops watching his lips and blanches and he doesn't blame her: Mallory missing, today of all days.
Myfanwy's signing fast, forgetting herself in her panic, but he picks up a few words without any trouble -- cards, a few times, and their own sarcastic fluttering riff on angel. Her hands are dancing backwards from the present to the past, sketching out a dimension with two axes -- fuck, just what they need, another timeline to twist around and smash into theirs. But if Mallory's with Gabriel, all bets are off.
Alois steels himself to fight down his own thoughts, argue against the inner catastrophe: he's already picturing Mallory in ten different types of deadly trouble, and he knows himself a hairsbreadth from considering himself useless. Guilty. Responsible. He waits for the sluggish lead of despair, but it doesn't come.
Myf takes his arm and Alois follows, thinking: what a difference it makes when you have no choice.