![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Linda-centric drabble, no wai!
Yes wai! I'm surprised how productive I've been, ficwise, during this trip.
Title: Noel
Rating: G
Spoilers: For the whole series.
Words: 650ish
Summary: Linda still feels a bit of the thrill of defying authority when she draws them.
“Everyone I used to know is dead,” Linda sometimes says, and while it’s not strictly true, the one who isn’t is so far that the irony almost makes her laugh, or cry, or both at once.
Secrecy and stealth were drilled into them all from day one, so she still feels a bit of the thrill of defying authority when she draws them.
“They’re always with us, aren’t they?” Brie said once. “The beloved dead.”
Linda shows the sketches to Brie because she carries her own ghosts with her: a brother, her father, a lover lost to breast cancer.
She draws L, and nostalgia and affection make her soften the bags under his eyes to mere smudges, but she tries very hard to get the light in his eyes right—immediately-apparent intelligence, but more than that. The sense of someone in there who could see right through people, but never turned the sharp edge of it on anyone who couldn’t handle it.
Drawing Mello is easy, and hard. Easy to get the shape of those almost-perfect features; easy to catch the cockiness in his half-grin. Hard to see the end result, though, the child who never knew anything but motion and striving, headlong flight and passion. Sometimes Linda puts in a background of autumn trees, but they always seem to turn into flames, and she tears those pages up and tries not to think about them.
She remembers that Matt gave her her first kiss, and how it was so awkward and sloppy that they laughed about how horrible it was right away. She draws him without his goggles, because who else, she thinks, even knows that he had blue eyes, and that they were beautiful?
She draws Near with a dissatisfied little frown, because she doesn’t like to think how rare his smile was, or how much rarer it must be now. Maybe she misses him the most. She tried so hard to reach him, and he’s still out there somewhere, yes, but more unreachable than ever. If she had known she would only ever kiss one boy, she might have been brave enough for it to be him.
Christmas was when they were happiest, but it’s bittersweet for Linda now. She’s not unhappy, she just thinks of them the most this time of year.
She stands at the window and watches the snow. Brie comes up behind her and slips her arms about her. “How come you never draw them happy, Lin?”
“I—” she begins, but the image suddenly takes her over, and she rests a hand on her lover’s shoulder briefly before running for her sketchbook.
She lays down the bare bones of the common room: the fireplace, the suggestion of a Christmas tree. She imagines they’ve just come back from the sleigh ride, and she can almost hear the younger children babbling excitedly.
She draws Mr. Wammy, handing L his stocking to hang up, and L, with a candy cane in his mouth. She draws Matt wearing one of those silly mistletoe hats, leaning close to Mello, who’s drinking hot chocolate and pretending to be annoyed.
It’s done very quickly, one of those drawings that just flows out of her hand, so that all she really does is get out of its way and let it go through her to come into the world.
“Is it done?” Brie says. She might’ve been watching the whole time, for all Linda knows.
She looks at the sketch with a more critical eye. They do look happy. “Almost,” she says. She adds two more stockings on the mantel, one with an N on it, the other with an Art Deco-style L. “Now it is.” She’s not sure why, but there are tears in her eyes.
“When you need them,” Brie says, “they’ll be there.”
“I know. Happy Christmas, sweetie.”
“Happy Christmas, Lin.”
Title: Noel
Rating: G
Spoilers: For the whole series.
Words: 650ish
Summary: Linda still feels a bit of the thrill of defying authority when she draws them.
“Everyone I used to know is dead,” Linda sometimes says, and while it’s not strictly true, the one who isn’t is so far that the irony almost makes her laugh, or cry, or both at once.
Secrecy and stealth were drilled into them all from day one, so she still feels a bit of the thrill of defying authority when she draws them.
“They’re always with us, aren’t they?” Brie said once. “The beloved dead.”
Linda shows the sketches to Brie because she carries her own ghosts with her: a brother, her father, a lover lost to breast cancer.
She draws L, and nostalgia and affection make her soften the bags under his eyes to mere smudges, but she tries very hard to get the light in his eyes right—immediately-apparent intelligence, but more than that. The sense of someone in there who could see right through people, but never turned the sharp edge of it on anyone who couldn’t handle it.
Drawing Mello is easy, and hard. Easy to get the shape of those almost-perfect features; easy to catch the cockiness in his half-grin. Hard to see the end result, though, the child who never knew anything but motion and striving, headlong flight and passion. Sometimes Linda puts in a background of autumn trees, but they always seem to turn into flames, and she tears those pages up and tries not to think about them.
She remembers that Matt gave her her first kiss, and how it was so awkward and sloppy that they laughed about how horrible it was right away. She draws him without his goggles, because who else, she thinks, even knows that he had blue eyes, and that they were beautiful?
She draws Near with a dissatisfied little frown, because she doesn’t like to think how rare his smile was, or how much rarer it must be now. Maybe she misses him the most. She tried so hard to reach him, and he’s still out there somewhere, yes, but more unreachable than ever. If she had known she would only ever kiss one boy, she might have been brave enough for it to be him.
Christmas was when they were happiest, but it’s bittersweet for Linda now. She’s not unhappy, she just thinks of them the most this time of year.
She stands at the window and watches the snow. Brie comes up behind her and slips her arms about her. “How come you never draw them happy, Lin?”
“I—” she begins, but the image suddenly takes her over, and she rests a hand on her lover’s shoulder briefly before running for her sketchbook.
She lays down the bare bones of the common room: the fireplace, the suggestion of a Christmas tree. She imagines they’ve just come back from the sleigh ride, and she can almost hear the younger children babbling excitedly.
She draws Mr. Wammy, handing L his stocking to hang up, and L, with a candy cane in his mouth. She draws Matt wearing one of those silly mistletoe hats, leaning close to Mello, who’s drinking hot chocolate and pretending to be annoyed.
It’s done very quickly, one of those drawings that just flows out of her hand, so that all she really does is get out of its way and let it go through her to come into the world.
“Is it done?” Brie says. She might’ve been watching the whole time, for all Linda knows.
She looks at the sketch with a more critical eye. They do look happy. “Almost,” she says. She adds two more stockings on the mantel, one with an N on it, the other with an Art Deco-style L. “Now it is.” She’s not sure why, but there are tears in her eyes.
“When you need them,” Brie says, “they’ll be there.”
“I know. Happy Christmas, sweetie.”
“Happy Christmas, Lin.”