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hso2012_r3s4Summary:
Characters: John Egbert, Rose Lalonde, Dave Strider, Roxy Lalonde, Dad Egbert
Ships: John<3Rose
Category One:
Tags Present: Body horror (extensive burn scarring)
Tags Not Used: none
No other Cat.1 tags apply.
Category Two:
Tags Present: Character death (canon, mentioned)
Tags Not Used: none
No other Cat.2 tags apply.
Category Three:
Tags Present: none
Additional Tags: Scar examination, grieving process
[“-ttle
-nsters”
“DUH”
“LAME KID”
“I’m proud of you!”
“whatever dad!”
“DAD...”]
6.37 AM
He isn't sure
when he woke up. Just that he's been staring out
at the quiet grey sky,
maybe for hours.
A clock ticks somewhere. He guesses the imps never got to it.
It annoys him after a while;
he shifts and rolls over, just to do something.
Watching her sleep still feels a little
voyeuristic?
after all this time,
even under the circumstances.
Her hair is mussed
and her eyeliner is smudged
and deep purple shadows weigh down her eyes.
He imagines kissing her awake,
but, ah, not a fairytale he'd live twice
assured happy ends or no
instead he kicks off the sheets (carefully) and leaves the room.
His bedroom door is wide open. He turns his head,
keeping the hemorrhage red and sick green and furious purple
out of sight where they stay powerless;
he puts a hand beside one eye,
just to be safe.
8.15 AM
She comes downstairs
to find him pacing the kitchen floor,
staring through his sludge-stained slippers.
A dictionary blanked of "bomb" and "cataclysm" and "death"
should be very near full, still,
but she fails to find words
as she tiptoes the line to normalcy
She tries, "Good morning,"
He startles,
looks up in a way that wonders,
"good?"
but smiles.
Which isn't much, but it's a start.
8.29 AM
He doesn't remember her ever
draining an entire pot of coffee
within a half-hour,
and she doesn't remember
the tight set of his jaw
or the clench of his fingers.
He wouldn't have liked the meteor much, she supposes; it wasn't
the tidiest of places, plus
he can't hide the anxious glances he casts
at things he tried to salvage
and rearrange
but knows he did it all wrong.
10.46 AM
He sprawls on his stomach beside her, typing layers of code.
(That's what they're called.
The language is baking-themed, of all things.
She won't pretend to understand him anymore.)
She thinks he might like the order.
Everything left undestroyed in his room
is painstakingly organized,
but his reasoning escapes her.
He doesn't alphabetize.
He doesn't sort by colour.
But wherever something is Supposed To Go, it goes,
or else it bothers him and he won't stop seething,
tossed glares and ground teeth,
probably wishing she wouldn’t watch him, too.
She's learned to avert her gaze.
He sighs and closes his laptop.
She counts another stitch, aware
the clicking of needles and keys
fail to steady her hands,
itching to pull secrets from the air.
2.51 PM
He looks up
and realizes
he doesn’t know where she’s gone.
On the way upstairs,
a painting hangs askew.
He lets it be.
2.55 PM
She's sprawled on his bed.
Sunlight spills through the window
across her thin frame as she breathes soft,
breathes slow.
The light draws out
the scars another world's sun left on her
and makes them shine.
They remind him of lightning-struck skin.
They're carnation red against her paleness,
covering her from crown to toe,
blooming on her face
and snaking tendrils down her legs,
branching like flowers’ veins.
He reaches out and touches them before he realizes what he’s done.
Her eyes fly open wide,
and he flinches away - “I’m sorry!”
but she wordlessly takes his hand
and guides it back, gently,
lets him run his fingers over her healed wounds,
and it’s new from her, but he can learn.
4.13 PM
When the sun lolls lower and cooler
and wind gilds the shadows
they venture out again;
a seam lines the earth where his house was repaired
and some houses outside are too tall
or too small
and the hills in the distance aren't
quite
right
but all they do for now
is lean into each other and know
that things could be so much worse
and they're not.
6.12 PM
He carries a sloshing bucket of water
through the door
up the stairs
into his battered bedroom
and they begin.
Together they wash away
the leering faces
and foul words,
scrub away his nightmare scrawlings;
bubbles float everywhere, on his elbows, on her hands.
He swabs them to her chin, to his, proclaiming:
"Ha! His and hers wizard beards!
The witch's brew edition."
and as if that weren't strange and silly enough,
he pulls her tight to his side
and presses a lopsided kiss
to the tip of her nose.
She thinks at first
to spin conjecture as to why,
aloud or privately;
but keeps it a thought,
Seer hands clean and sworn off fortune
tinged of motive askance his benefit.
She won't pretend to understand him anymore.
Characters: John Egbert, Rose Lalonde, Dave Strider, Roxy Lalonde, Dad Egbert
Ships: John<3Rose
Category One:
Tags Present: Body horror (extensive burn scarring)
Tags Not Used: none
No other Cat.1 tags apply.
Category Two:
Tags Present: Character death (canon, mentioned)
Tags Not Used: none
No other Cat.2 tags apply.
Category Three:
Tags Present: none
Additional Tags: Scar examination, grieving process
[“-ttle
-nsters”
“DUH”
“LAME KID”
“I’m proud of you!”
“whatever dad!”
“DAD...”]
6.37 AM
He isn't sure
when he woke up. Just that he's been staring out
at the quiet grey sky,
maybe for hours.
A clock ticks somewhere. He guesses the imps never got to it.
It annoys him after a while;
he shifts and rolls over, just to do something.
Watching her sleep still feels a little
voyeuristic?
after all this time,
even under the circumstances.
Her hair is mussed
and her eyeliner is smudged
and deep purple shadows weigh down her eyes.
He imagines kissing her awake,
but, ah, not a fairytale he'd live twice
assured happy ends or no
instead he kicks off the sheets (carefully) and leaves the room.
His bedroom door is wide open. He turns his head,
keeping the hemorrhage red and sick green and furious purple
out of sight where they stay powerless;
he puts a hand beside one eye,
just to be safe.
8.15 AM
She comes downstairs
to find him pacing the kitchen floor,
staring through his sludge-stained slippers.
A dictionary blanked of "bomb" and "cataclysm" and "death"
should be very near full, still,
but she fails to find words
as she tiptoes the line to normalcy
She tries, "Good morning,"
He startles,
looks up in a way that wonders,
"good?"
but smiles.
Which isn't much, but it's a start.
8.29 AM
He doesn't remember her ever
draining an entire pot of coffee
within a half-hour,
and she doesn't remember
the tight set of his jaw
or the clench of his fingers.
He wouldn't have liked the meteor much, she supposes; it wasn't
the tidiest of places, plus
he can't hide the anxious glances he casts
at things he tried to salvage
and rearrange
but knows he did it all wrong.
10.46 AM
He sprawls on his stomach beside her, typing layers of code.
(That's what they're called.
The language is baking-themed, of all things.
She won't pretend to understand him anymore.)
She thinks he might like the order.
Everything left undestroyed in his room
is painstakingly organized,
but his reasoning escapes her.
He doesn't alphabetize.
He doesn't sort by colour.
But wherever something is Supposed To Go, it goes,
or else it bothers him and he won't stop seething,
tossed glares and ground teeth,
probably wishing she wouldn’t watch him, too.
She's learned to avert her gaze.
He sighs and closes his laptop.
She counts another stitch, aware
the clicking of needles and keys
fail to steady her hands,
itching to pull secrets from the air.
2.51 PM
He looks up
and realizes
he doesn’t know where she’s gone.
On the way upstairs,
a painting hangs askew.
He lets it be.
2.55 PM
She's sprawled on his bed.
Sunlight spills through the window
across her thin frame as she breathes soft,
breathes slow.
The light draws out
the scars another world's sun left on her
and makes them shine.
They remind him of lightning-struck skin.
They're carnation red against her paleness,
covering her from crown to toe,
blooming on her face
and snaking tendrils down her legs,
branching like flowers’ veins.
He reaches out and touches them before he realizes what he’s done.
Her eyes fly open wide,
and he flinches away - “I’m sorry!”
but she wordlessly takes his hand
and guides it back, gently,
lets him run his fingers over her healed wounds,
and it’s new from her, but he can learn.
4.13 PM
When the sun lolls lower and cooler
and wind gilds the shadows
they venture out again;
a seam lines the earth where his house was repaired
and some houses outside are too tall
or too small
and the hills in the distance aren't
quite
right
but all they do for now
is lean into each other and know
that things could be so much worse
and they're not.
6.12 PM
He carries a sloshing bucket of water
through the door
up the stairs
into his battered bedroom
and they begin.
Together they wash away
the leering faces
and foul words,
scrub away his nightmare scrawlings;
bubbles float everywhere, on his elbows, on her hands.
He swabs them to her chin, to his, proclaiming:
"Ha! His and hers wizard beards!
The witch's brew edition."
and as if that weren't strange and silly enough,
he pulls her tight to his side
and presses a lopsided kiss
to the tip of her nose.
She thinks at first
to spin conjecture as to why,
aloud or privately;
but keeps it a thought,
Seer hands clean and sworn off fortune
tinged of motive askance his benefit.
She won't pretend to understand him anymore.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-26 03:53 pm (UTC)And the poem is all kinds of wonderful, too. You've got me sittin' here in a stew of feelings. Equal parts sad and sweet and all together lovely.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-28 02:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-28 02:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-02 08:05 am (UTC)is lean into each other and know
that things could be so much worse
and they're not.
Augh, yes, this is like a one-sentence summation of every situation in which I ship them. The distance from Rose's mind to John's, and from John's to Rose's. The scars are such a strange and beautiful detail.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-12 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-14 04:27 pm (UTC)should be very near full, still,
but she fails to find words
as she tiptoes the line to normalcy
Beautiful.