![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dollsomeBecause after spending 2839572398753 hours making icons, I feel like I might as well do something literary in an attempt to make up for it.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thepodsquad's fic request meme -- #4, Lark.
Outside, it rains. She sits in the passenger's seat and, with routine precision, picks the petals off each of the dozen roses Michael had left for her this morning. He is in Prague -- with Sydney, though he hadn't disclosed that particular bit of information. She knows very well that it's the case, however. There wouldn't be roses, otherwise.
Right now, she thinks she may almost pity her husband.
The car is new and smells odd and too-sharp; the mingling scent of the roses does nothing to help it. She sighs and checks her watch. She has always hated waiting, and he's nearly a half an hour late. She doesn't take kindly to being abandoned, and maybe she'll remind him of this upon his return.
Idly, for a moment, she wonders what Michael is doing.
Staring at Sydney, perhaps. Admiring the way her hair catches the light, or remembering what it had been like to kiss her. It's a tragic tale indeed that they've woven between them; perfectly star-crossed, shamelessly bittersweet. She's the obstacle, and usually enjoys this fact more than she does right now.
She wonders if her husband has ever kissed her without thinking of Sydney.
The rain falls lightly against the roof.
Another fifteen minutes passes. By the time he has returned, she's torn each of the rose petals, methodically, into fourths.
"I see you've been busy," he says with a smirk as he places the key in the ignition.
"You're late," she returns evenly.
"Yes, well." He turns to face her. "It turns out that the situation required additional unforeseen negotiatons."
She says nothing. Sometimes, she feels as though this life is starving her.
"If the occasion ever arises in which flowers may be required, I'll keep in mind that yellow roses perhaps aren't the best selection," he presses. She knows that her silence unsettles him, and likes the idea.
The rain seems very loud.
"Have I done something to upset you?" he inquires with polite concern, the parody of a perfect gentleman. "Because I assure you, Ms. Reed--" his hand makes its way across the seat and comes to rest on her thigh, and this is why he is no white knight, "--that has never been my intention."
"My husband is with Sydney in Prague," she responds, if only because it may make things more interesting.
He pulls his hand away. She's come to observe that it bothers him to hear her talk about Michael. Perhaps he's jealous. Perhaps she actually means something to someone, and it's an intriguing notion.
"Ah," he says. There is a pause that seems almost delicate. She glances over at him; he meets her gaze, and any hint of insecurity is immediately shattered. "With all due respect, darling," as though nothing could ever shake him, "I don't see where, precisely, you garner the right to fret over your husband's infidelity. After all, you're hardly faithful, are you?"
"It's different," she counters.
"Is it?"
"He loves her," she says, as though this is a ridiculous and foreign concept. (Surely the sort of thing that is meaningless to her.)
He arches an eyebrow. "And is that really so important?" And, though she knows it is unintended, there is a spark of something almost genuine in his tone.
It catches her off-guard, a bit. She is out of practice regarding anything genuine, and knows that if they continue in this vein, it may bring around something she'll regret.
So instead, she smiles and responds, quite the coquette, "What do you think?"
He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, carefully, as he replies. "I'm not sure." And for a moment, his eyes seem almost dark.
She silently damns him, and her husband, and Sydney, for good measure; she isn't an idiot, after all. Love, whatever it is, holds no place in her life, and this will not change.
If only he would stop looking at her like that.
Pressing one hand firmly to the back of his neck, she leans in to kiss him. A smile twists around the corners of his mouth as he closes his eyes.
The rain continues to pour.
For
thepodsquad's fic request meme -- #4, Lark.Outside, it rains. She sits in the passenger's seat and, with routine precision, picks the petals off each of the dozen roses Michael had left for her this morning. He is in Prague -- with Sydney, though he hadn't disclosed that particular bit of information. She knows very well that it's the case, however. There wouldn't be roses, otherwise.
Right now, she thinks she may almost pity her husband.
The car is new and smells odd and too-sharp; the mingling scent of the roses does nothing to help it. She sighs and checks her watch. She has always hated waiting, and he's nearly a half an hour late. She doesn't take kindly to being abandoned, and maybe she'll remind him of this upon his return.
Idly, for a moment, she wonders what Michael is doing.
Staring at Sydney, perhaps. Admiring the way her hair catches the light, or remembering what it had been like to kiss her. It's a tragic tale indeed that they've woven between them; perfectly star-crossed, shamelessly bittersweet. She's the obstacle, and usually enjoys this fact more than she does right now.
She wonders if her husband has ever kissed her without thinking of Sydney.
The rain falls lightly against the roof.
Another fifteen minutes passes. By the time he has returned, she's torn each of the rose petals, methodically, into fourths.
"I see you've been busy," he says with a smirk as he places the key in the ignition.
"You're late," she returns evenly.
"Yes, well." He turns to face her. "It turns out that the situation required additional unforeseen negotiatons."
She says nothing. Sometimes, she feels as though this life is starving her.
"If the occasion ever arises in which flowers may be required, I'll keep in mind that yellow roses perhaps aren't the best selection," he presses. She knows that her silence unsettles him, and likes the idea.
The rain seems very loud.
"Have I done something to upset you?" he inquires with polite concern, the parody of a perfect gentleman. "Because I assure you, Ms. Reed--" his hand makes its way across the seat and comes to rest on her thigh, and this is why he is no white knight, "--that has never been my intention."
"My husband is with Sydney in Prague," she responds, if only because it may make things more interesting.
He pulls his hand away. She's come to observe that it bothers him to hear her talk about Michael. Perhaps he's jealous. Perhaps she actually means something to someone, and it's an intriguing notion.
"Ah," he says. There is a pause that seems almost delicate. She glances over at him; he meets her gaze, and any hint of insecurity is immediately shattered. "With all due respect, darling," as though nothing could ever shake him, "I don't see where, precisely, you garner the right to fret over your husband's infidelity. After all, you're hardly faithful, are you?"
"It's different," she counters.
"Is it?"
"He loves her," she says, as though this is a ridiculous and foreign concept. (Surely the sort of thing that is meaningless to her.)
He arches an eyebrow. "And is that really so important?" And, though she knows it is unintended, there is a spark of something almost genuine in his tone.
It catches her off-guard, a bit. She is out of practice regarding anything genuine, and knows that if they continue in this vein, it may bring around something she'll regret.
So instead, she smiles and responds, quite the coquette, "What do you think?"
He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, carefully, as he replies. "I'm not sure." And for a moment, his eyes seem almost dark.
She silently damns him, and her husband, and Sydney, for good measure; she isn't an idiot, after all. Love, whatever it is, holds no place in her life, and this will not change.
If only he would stop looking at her like that.
Pressing one hand firmly to the back of his neck, she leans in to kiss him. A smile twists around the corners of his mouth as he closes his eyes.
The rain continues to pour.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-03-13 05:33 pm (UTC)But AWESOME WORK! :D