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speaksoftlylove2014-03-10 03:44 pm
dalicious) wrote in speaksoftlylove2014-03-10 03:44 pm
FIC - Frequencies
fullmetal alchemist/where on earth is carmen sandiego
kimblee + carmen, route cr/au
1500 words
She learns early into the trip that he sleeps on command.
It's unsettling to watch, really, and disturbingly easy. She tells him that he should probably rest, that he's been up for over 24 hours and nothing particularly interesting is happening anyway, and he's been letting her get naps off and on (and that's been awkward in and of itself since that first time she'd awakened to him kneeling over her, one hand planted down on his Altaria's back to ensure that he'll keep his balance, and while he's not exactly touching her and it's obviously for the sake of keeping her from rolling off, it's an intimate enough position to ensure that she tries not to dwell on it too much). He hesitates for a moment before complying, and when he does so there's a strange mechanical quality to his movements; he lies down on his back, hands folded just below his chest like he's dressed for burial, and what unnerves her is how she can see it happen - the tension leaves him in stages, various thoughts and mental functions being forcibly shut down one by one, and he's solidly unconscious so quickly that she has to resist shaking him just to see if he's messing with her.
She's fully aware that he's not, somehow, and she wonders if that's what it's like to see him take orders - if he goes quiet and mechanical like that, if he just does things simply because he's been told to do them by someone with enough authority. He'd told her once that she wouldn't like it if she were in a position to give him orders, and even if this isn't it - even if this turns out to be something completely different somehow, even if this is just something he does - it's bizarre enough to make her agree with that assessment.
It's also possible that she's overthinking; she lets him sleep until they're almost to Cherrygrove.
The ferry from New Bark requires names; "Maes and Gracia Hughes" slips out of his mouth so easily that she knows it's a set of people he's familiar with, and he doesn't miss the pointed look she shoots him on the way to their cabin.
"I knew Hughes back in Ishval," he says, the words easy despite how exhausted he's trying not to look, and he manages to not drop the key while slotting it into the door to get it open. "Gracia was his girlfriend at the time; apparently now that the war's over, they're quite the - "
The cabin only has one bed.
"...happily married couple," he finishes, after the sort of pause that indicates that he hadn't considered this sort of outcome, though his tone implies he's amused at it anyway. "Well."
She sighs a bit, and there's a comment in there somewhere about how he's spent half the trip on top of her anyway so it's not as though she shouldn't have expected this, but frankly she's too tired to make it. She kicks off her shoes and slides into bed in her clothes, and she's not too tired to make the invitation to join her just come-hither enough to let him know she's not annoyed, but it's not a genuine invitation either.
She wakes up before he does, lying there for a long moment in silence and letting her eyes adjust to the shifted light in the room - the sun has long since gone down by now - before she turns a bit to get a look at him; something warm floods through her system at the realization that his position is curled-up and natural and decidedly less dead-looking, his hair disheveled and falling loose from where he hasn't bothered to untie it.
He seems peaceful for once, and it makes her smile.
It isn't something she really thinks about doing, but she soon finds her fingertips trailing softly through that long ponytail of his; the strands of it are incredibly fine, and it occurs to her idly that that particular texture is both why it's so sleek-looking when pulled back and the entire reason he keeps it pulled back to begin with. He shifts a bit at the contact but doesn't wake; she's long since left the cabin by the time he does.
He's looking rested and presentable again when she finds him on the deck later that day; he's leaning so far over the railing that if he were anyone else she'd be concerned that he was about to fall in. But as it stands, he's looking at the fish and his balance seems steady enough for her to have no qualms about joining him; it would still be amazingly easy to shove him, if she were that sort of person, but they both know she's not and so it's a bit of a moot point, anyway.
Either way, she's glad that she's got those burns wrapped; the salt air would be stinging something fierce otherwise.
They talk about the ocean, and she tells him what it looks like in different parts of her world - about storms over the Mediterranean and the bright tides of the Caribbean, how it looks like the sun sinks straight into the Pacific Ocean in the evenings - and for the first time in a while, she finds herself thinking about Maelstrom.
And for the first time in a while, she's tempted to bring up a comparison, to talk about that psychopath back home that she's mentioned to Nietzsche so many times before, and for the first time in general, it strikes her that it would be cruel to make a comparison like that, particularly now. And as soon as the urge hit her it's gone, not in a jarring or disturbing way, but rather in a way that feels natural - the sort of feeling one gets when they find that they've known something for a while, they just didn't realize they knew it.
She wonders if that's what it was like in the Kimono Girls' dance theatre, the second time Seth was there; she folds her arms, propping them up against the railing, and even if the burns ache they're more than worth it.
She tries not to think that he's doing better over the next several weeks, because if this is "better" then "better" is defined as "less like Nietzsche," and she wouldn't wish change like that on him unless he wanted it. But the next several weeks are filled with early mornings and work at a job that's delightfully mundane, and he comes back smelling like flowers and freshly-cut plants, and in the evenings there are almost always dates - he'll take her to dinner, and sometimes to the movies if he's so inclined (and they can agree on what they're going to see in the first place, as their taste is hilariously incompatible), and on the last night of whatever this game they're playing is, he takes her dancing.
It's on that night that she realizes there's a difference between Nietzsche trying to teach her to dance and Nietzsche actually taking her dancing. He's good at it, in a way that tires her out and energizes her at the same time; he's incredibly physical in his movements, but he does smile a bit, in that odd, empty way he has, and he leans in to tell her to relax and lean back a bit and let him support her a bit more - after all, he's aware of his role here, and that role is to make his partner look lovely. She finds quickly that there's a difference between being seen and being shown off; she thrives off the former, but the latter brings a heady rush with it, along with the sort of warmth that comes with being invited to someone's favorite city to pass time when one needs it most.
Something changes in him that night; it takes her a while to pinpoint what it is, but after a while she works out that it's likely something to do with the radio that's locked in his head with him. She doesn't know what he's hearing, but she can tell it's not the soft, flowing pieces that have been keeping him calm for the last several weeks; it's still pleasing to him, but it's different.
She wonders if he hears explosions.
It would be insulting, she knows, to think of it like she's losing him - because she never had him to begin with, and because if anything this is like finding him again after weeks of living with a stranger. So she smiles at him, and she presses up against him to lean her head on his shoulder when the music slows, and even if he's been living as one for weeks she understands what he means when he says that he isn't human.
And for a brief moment, she thinks she understands why he says he wouldn't want to be.
kimblee + carmen, route cr/au
1500 words
She learns early into the trip that he sleeps on command.
It's unsettling to watch, really, and disturbingly easy. She tells him that he should probably rest, that he's been up for over 24 hours and nothing particularly interesting is happening anyway, and he's been letting her get naps off and on (and that's been awkward in and of itself since that first time she'd awakened to him kneeling over her, one hand planted down on his Altaria's back to ensure that he'll keep his balance, and while he's not exactly touching her and it's obviously for the sake of keeping her from rolling off, it's an intimate enough position to ensure that she tries not to dwell on it too much). He hesitates for a moment before complying, and when he does so there's a strange mechanical quality to his movements; he lies down on his back, hands folded just below his chest like he's dressed for burial, and what unnerves her is how she can see it happen - the tension leaves him in stages, various thoughts and mental functions being forcibly shut down one by one, and he's solidly unconscious so quickly that she has to resist shaking him just to see if he's messing with her.
She's fully aware that he's not, somehow, and she wonders if that's what it's like to see him take orders - if he goes quiet and mechanical like that, if he just does things simply because he's been told to do them by someone with enough authority. He'd told her once that she wouldn't like it if she were in a position to give him orders, and even if this isn't it - even if this turns out to be something completely different somehow, even if this is just something he does - it's bizarre enough to make her agree with that assessment.
It's also possible that she's overthinking; she lets him sleep until they're almost to Cherrygrove.
The ferry from New Bark requires names; "Maes and Gracia Hughes" slips out of his mouth so easily that she knows it's a set of people he's familiar with, and he doesn't miss the pointed look she shoots him on the way to their cabin.
"I knew Hughes back in Ishval," he says, the words easy despite how exhausted he's trying not to look, and he manages to not drop the key while slotting it into the door to get it open. "Gracia was his girlfriend at the time; apparently now that the war's over, they're quite the - "
The cabin only has one bed.
"...happily married couple," he finishes, after the sort of pause that indicates that he hadn't considered this sort of outcome, though his tone implies he's amused at it anyway. "Well."
She sighs a bit, and there's a comment in there somewhere about how he's spent half the trip on top of her anyway so it's not as though she shouldn't have expected this, but frankly she's too tired to make it. She kicks off her shoes and slides into bed in her clothes, and she's not too tired to make the invitation to join her just come-hither enough to let him know she's not annoyed, but it's not a genuine invitation either.
She wakes up before he does, lying there for a long moment in silence and letting her eyes adjust to the shifted light in the room - the sun has long since gone down by now - before she turns a bit to get a look at him; something warm floods through her system at the realization that his position is curled-up and natural and decidedly less dead-looking, his hair disheveled and falling loose from where he hasn't bothered to untie it.
He seems peaceful for once, and it makes her smile.
It isn't something she really thinks about doing, but she soon finds her fingertips trailing softly through that long ponytail of his; the strands of it are incredibly fine, and it occurs to her idly that that particular texture is both why it's so sleek-looking when pulled back and the entire reason he keeps it pulled back to begin with. He shifts a bit at the contact but doesn't wake; she's long since left the cabin by the time he does.
He's looking rested and presentable again when she finds him on the deck later that day; he's leaning so far over the railing that if he were anyone else she'd be concerned that he was about to fall in. But as it stands, he's looking at the fish and his balance seems steady enough for her to have no qualms about joining him; it would still be amazingly easy to shove him, if she were that sort of person, but they both know she's not and so it's a bit of a moot point, anyway.
Either way, she's glad that she's got those burns wrapped; the salt air would be stinging something fierce otherwise.
They talk about the ocean, and she tells him what it looks like in different parts of her world - about storms over the Mediterranean and the bright tides of the Caribbean, how it looks like the sun sinks straight into the Pacific Ocean in the evenings - and for the first time in a while, she finds herself thinking about Maelstrom.
And for the first time in a while, she's tempted to bring up a comparison, to talk about that psychopath back home that she's mentioned to Nietzsche so many times before, and for the first time in general, it strikes her that it would be cruel to make a comparison like that, particularly now. And as soon as the urge hit her it's gone, not in a jarring or disturbing way, but rather in a way that feels natural - the sort of feeling one gets when they find that they've known something for a while, they just didn't realize they knew it.
She wonders if that's what it was like in the Kimono Girls' dance theatre, the second time Seth was there; she folds her arms, propping them up against the railing, and even if the burns ache they're more than worth it.
She tries not to think that he's doing better over the next several weeks, because if this is "better" then "better" is defined as "less like Nietzsche," and she wouldn't wish change like that on him unless he wanted it. But the next several weeks are filled with early mornings and work at a job that's delightfully mundane, and he comes back smelling like flowers and freshly-cut plants, and in the evenings there are almost always dates - he'll take her to dinner, and sometimes to the movies if he's so inclined (and they can agree on what they're going to see in the first place, as their taste is hilariously incompatible), and on the last night of whatever this game they're playing is, he takes her dancing.
It's on that night that she realizes there's a difference between Nietzsche trying to teach her to dance and Nietzsche actually taking her dancing. He's good at it, in a way that tires her out and energizes her at the same time; he's incredibly physical in his movements, but he does smile a bit, in that odd, empty way he has, and he leans in to tell her to relax and lean back a bit and let him support her a bit more - after all, he's aware of his role here, and that role is to make his partner look lovely. She finds quickly that there's a difference between being seen and being shown off; she thrives off the former, but the latter brings a heady rush with it, along with the sort of warmth that comes with being invited to someone's favorite city to pass time when one needs it most.
Something changes in him that night; it takes her a while to pinpoint what it is, but after a while she works out that it's likely something to do with the radio that's locked in his head with him. She doesn't know what he's hearing, but she can tell it's not the soft, flowing pieces that have been keeping him calm for the last several weeks; it's still pleasing to him, but it's different.
She wonders if he hears explosions.
It would be insulting, she knows, to think of it like she's losing him - because she never had him to begin with, and because if anything this is like finding him again after weeks of living with a stranger. So she smiles at him, and she presses up against him to lean her head on his shoulder when the music slows, and even if he's been living as one for weeks she understands what he means when he says that he isn't human.
And for a brief moment, she thinks she understands why he says he wouldn't want to be.