|
|
Fireflies
by Lar
EMAIL: obsessed@obsessedmuch.net
RATING: PG
SHIP: Lindsey (Lindsey/Darla in a way. Sort of)
DISCLAIMER: Oh! so pretty and oh! so not mine.
SUMMARY: Christmas eve, somewhere east of LA.
IMPROV: roll -- cracker -- stupefy -- chunk
NOTES: Unbeta'd improv. I know, holy hell, Lar did an improv!
DEDICATION: To Sam, for the lesson in crackers and other fine things (ISAL).
-------------
Last Christmas had been spent with the Manners Family, Lindsey remembers now. They'd been entertaining a Vreeloth, a demon raised in London, used to blending in with British society, so Holland had found it amusing to prepare a traditional English holiday meal for the meeting. Right down to the Christmas pudding and the damn crackers, which he'd been forced to pull with Lilah, of all people. She got the short end and sulked throughout the rest of the evening. As if the trinkets inside and the paper crown were worth something. As if she'd set her sights on every single event being a contest that she had to win. Granted these were Godiva chocolates and 14 karat lighters and little golden charm bracelets that spilled out when they snapped, but still. It wasn't as if it had meant anything.
Holland had worn his silly crown all evening. The Vreeloth had been most amused. They'd won the case, and the amount of rare crystals as payment had been doubled. He'd lost his hand 5 months later.
Lindsey shakes himself out of the reverie, wipes sweat from his face with the back of his forearm. He's built up the fire in the stone fireplace a little too high, the heat baking into him, stupefying in the tiny room. It's December 24th, it's a year later and he's gained a hand back, lost a job. Gained a little bit of his self esteem, lost a little of his hope on ever being right again. Still dreams of Darla when he sleeps, dreams of her as a human, when she was vulnerable. When she would roll her head on her neck and let him rub her shoulders, skin so thin and warm and normal under his touch. One hand, so it had taken him twice as long to do it, but he never minded. Never minded the time spent learning the curve of her spine, the tilt of her head, the pattern of pale freckles on shoulders which hadn't seen the sun in 400 years.
Clock on the mantle chimes, slow and steady. //Eleven o'clock and all is well// he thinks idly, convincing himself that it is indeed fine and well to be sitting here on a little chunk of land that he's bought and paid for in cash. Small house, old truck, tumble-down barn and it's all his. Alone on Christmas, and that's all his too. He sits in his chair, watches the fire burn, not moving at all, even as the wood glows red and crumbles, shooting sparks like fireflies into the screen. He's made it so big that there's no chance of it burning out before morning, won't go into the bedroom with it still alive. Created his own reason to watch the moon travel across the sky tonight, framed in the big front window and moving from one corner to the next as the hours pass.
The heat is still intense, and he's sweating through the plaid shirt he wears, but he makes no move to remove it, to sit in the cotton undershirt he wears beneath. He doesn't mind, really. The bed will be empty and cold when he finally goes there, and when she comes to him in the dreams, her eyes will be the same.
-end.
|
