a la belle étoile; pg-13; fiction
Sep. 23rd, 2010 12:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dextrocardiactitle: a la belle étoile
author:cridcoeur/dextrocardiac
prompt: beyond our understanding for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
parthenon
pairing: chiela/terasu
rating: pg-13
word count: 1674
summary: amnesia and saints and lesbians, oh my.
Chiela wakes to weak grey morning light, feeling sluggish and groggy, one arm wrapped around Terasu’s waist and the other tucked awkwardly beneath her own body - which is the problem with sleeping with another person: one of your limbs always ends up going dead. Still there are a lot worse ways to wake up, and Chiela takes advantage of her position to nose at the nape of Terasu’s neck. Terasu who probably wouldn’t appreciate being woken, unless morning sex immediately followed, and, unfortunately, Chiela just doesn’t have the time, today. She’s got an appointment at 8; Nevaeh - whose name isn’t the result of poor parenting, but is, instead, the result of poor later-in-life choices - swears it’s an emergency, although Nevaeh also swears that watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek is an emergency, so Chiela’s a little skeptical.
Reluctantly, Chiela lets go of Terasu, sighs, and turns to lay on her back. And, hey, look, there’s her ceiling! What a way to get the day started, staring at a light fixture she’s pretty sure the manager’s never going to see to fixing. Kind of like their balcony door, the one that doesn’t really shut, the one that lets in the cold during the winter and the fucking oppressive heat in the summer. Most days she doesn’t remember why she stayed in Florida, with its truly heinous summers and all the old people who love to drive nice and slow on the highways. And the Republicans. Don’t forget about all the Republicans,. Although at least she didn’t live in, like, Texas. You probably couldn’t walk down the street there without tripping over one.
Of course, she wonders why she stays and then she looks at Terasu and thinks, oh, yeah, that’s why.
Sometimes love sucks, but Chiela figures it’s mostly alright. Except on those days when Terasu wants to watch, like, America’s Next Top Model and Chiela wants to watch hockey. Then it just sucks.
Groaning, Chiela pushes herself up onto her elbows and swings her feet over the side of the bed. She goes from staring at the ceiling to staring at the mirror mounted on the wall and, wow, hey, that’s some really attractive bed head, there. She tries brushing her hands through her hair, and that’s totally successful except for how it isn’t at all. Whatever, she doesn’t care, and the only person that sees her in the flat is Terasu, who also doesn’t care, as long as Chiela doesn’t wake her up early. Then, of course, there's Lucia, who's standing next to the mirror, her eyes held on the offering plate before her, as usual, and watching Chiela with her head cocked to one side, cowl drawn around her face. Chiela’s not sure how long she’s been there. Possibly all night. That’s totally not creepy, right? Chiela thinks it’s a little creepy.
“So,” Chiela says, because any awkward silence gets to her, “totally hopeless?” and runs one hand through her hair, again. That’s sort of better, right? Lucia just smiles at her, pressing one hand over her mouth, and walks into the living room.
Well, okay, then.
Chiela stands up off of the bed, stretching, popping a few vertebrae - which is actually pretty gross, but whatever - and walks into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Terasu shuffles in while Chiela’s fiddling with the toaster - the toaster which she totally has a handle on now, no manual necessary, with Lucia watching it cock-eyed beside her, as if she expects something to go terribly wrong again and for her to have to drag Chiela out of the building. Chiela still holds that toaster company’s shouldn’t put that high a setting on a toaster if the toaster’s not meant to be set that high. The resulting fire was completely and totally not her fault. Anyways it wasn’t that bad of a fire; the fire fighters totally made a bigger deal out of it than they needed to. The wall was only a little scorched and nobody got hurt. Mrs. Plamen’s cat stopped trying to push through their balcony door afterwards, but Chiela figures that’s just a positive. That cat’s mean. Also, shit, she did wake Terasu, who’s looking at her like she’s thinking of where she could stash her body. Whatever, she’d only kill someone if she could get Chiela to help her lug the body around afterwards, and Chiela can’t do that if she’s dead.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” she says, and Terasu just grunts at her while she makes her way over to the coffee maker, a grunt that Chiela figures would probably be a fuck you if Terasu was more awake. Chiela’s not exactly phased. She gets that every time Terasu has to get up before noon.
After the coffee maker’s stopped burbling and Terasu has her first cup in hand - and seriously, the pleasure she derives from it is practically sexual; Chiela’s a big enough person to admit she’s a little jealous - not sipping daintily at it, like you might think she would if you saw Terasu in her flowing dresses and heels and misunderstood her completely, but gulping it down as if that won’t burn her mouth - of course, this is the same girl who heats her soup to the nth fucking degree; Chiela knows, she’s burned her mouth on it more times than she can count because, apparently, she never learns - anyways, after that, Terasu looks up at her and says, “What the hell are you doing up this early?”
“Emergency at work,” Chiela says as she hooks one foot around the under-stove cabinets only to remember that, hey, that’s right, she didn’t do the dishes so they have no frying pans. She kicks the cabinet shut and turns and opens the dishwasher to rifle inside it instead. She pulls out the pan she used yesterday to make french toast, and, seriously, it can’t be that bad to use a frying pan twice can it? The pan doesn’t look dirty, and anyways, it can’t be any worse than the time Terasu undercooked the chicken and gave them both Salmonella poisoning.
Terasu gives her a sort of what the fuck look over her coffee cup - she’s really good at that look - and, “Since when do fake psychics have emergencies?” she says. Chiela doesn’t even bother protesting that she’s a real psychic because Terasu doesn’t believe in real psychics.
“Since Nevaeh called and told me there was one,” she says, and Terasu snorts.
“What do you want to bet it’s some old lady who wants to talk to her dead cat,” she says, and Chiela winces because, yeah, that’s happened before, and she’s not convinced that Neaveh wouldn’t consider that an emergency. She took three personal days after something went wrong with her fancy-ass fish tank and three moray eels ended up dying. A day for each eel, she’d said, like that was something people did.
Chiela shakes her head. She hates dead-cat days. Not a single good day has started with dead cats. Not once.
“If it is,” Chiela says, as she sets the frying pan on the stove and goes poking into the fridge for some eggs. “I’m walking out. Nevaeh can tell her that her cat’s having a great time, like, feasting on fish in the great beyond.” Nobody ever wants to hear about it when their cat isn’t having a great time. Usually that’s when Chiela starts lying. Like, hey, yeah, Spunky’s taking cat naps in eternal sunshine, instead of, so, yeah, cats don’t really go anywhere. At least not as far as Chiela can tell. If they do, Chiela’d like to think it involves cat naps in eternal sunshine, which is why she’d picked that one. Hopefully these old ladies don’t talk to each other. She’ll be totally busted when they do.
She manages not to totally burn the eggs this time; they’re a little crisp but, whatever, they’re still completely edible, no matter what Terasu says. She stacks the dishes in the sink - she’ll do them later, she swears - and heads back into their bedroom to make herself something like presentable.
The nice thing about being a fake psychic - and damn, it Terasu, she is a real psychic - is that no one, disregarding those people who expect you to be draped in gaudy frabrics with a million big-ass rings and crystal pendants, expects you to dress up, so she can get away with jeans and one of her ratty t-shirts. What, her clothes all came to her second-hand, she’s totally allowed. She puts on her scapular first - Help of the Sick - and touches one hand to the square hanging against her chest, as if expecting a miracle this time. Whatever, Sister Mary tells her miracles happen to people all the time so why not her? When she doesn’t immediately remember what happened to her - and believe her she’d really like to know - she drops her hand, then pulls her t-shirt over her head, some band t-shirt for a band that she and probably no one but the original wearer recognizes. She hesitates before she picks up the rosary Sister Mary gave her - bone, which is a little creepy, honestly, but she deals - and tucks it into the loose pocket of her jeans, clenching her hand around it before letting go. She can practically see Terasu’s what the fuck face in her head because Terasu may tolerate Sister Mary, but she’s definitely doesn’t tolerate the rest, and she doesn’t get why Chiela does.
Chiela makes a face at herself in the mirror, then switches to watching Lucia, who’s kneeling next to the bed behind her, her offering plate set before her and her hands folded, which makes Chiela feel a little guilty for not doing the same, but it’s not like she can’t do it later, once she doesn’t have to get to work. Still, she crosses herself because it can’t hurt, then runs her hands half-hazardly through her hand and makes for the door.
author:
cridcoeur/dextrocardiacprompt: beyond our understanding for
parthenonpairing: chiela/terasu
rating: pg-13
word count: 1674
summary: amnesia and saints and lesbians, oh my.
Chiela wakes to weak grey morning light, feeling sluggish and groggy, one arm wrapped around Terasu’s waist and the other tucked awkwardly beneath her own body - which is the problem with sleeping with another person: one of your limbs always ends up going dead. Still there are a lot worse ways to wake up, and Chiela takes advantage of her position to nose at the nape of Terasu’s neck. Terasu who probably wouldn’t appreciate being woken, unless morning sex immediately followed, and, unfortunately, Chiela just doesn’t have the time, today. She’s got an appointment at 8; Nevaeh - whose name isn’t the result of poor parenting, but is, instead, the result of poor later-in-life choices - swears it’s an emergency, although Nevaeh also swears that watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek is an emergency, so Chiela’s a little skeptical.
Reluctantly, Chiela lets go of Terasu, sighs, and turns to lay on her back. And, hey, look, there’s her ceiling! What a way to get the day started, staring at a light fixture she’s pretty sure the manager’s never going to see to fixing. Kind of like their balcony door, the one that doesn’t really shut, the one that lets in the cold during the winter and the fucking oppressive heat in the summer. Most days she doesn’t remember why she stayed in Florida, with its truly heinous summers and all the old people who love to drive nice and slow on the highways. And the Republicans. Don’t forget about all the Republicans,. Although at least she didn’t live in, like, Texas. You probably couldn’t walk down the street there without tripping over one.
Of course, she wonders why she stays and then she looks at Terasu and thinks, oh, yeah, that’s why.
Sometimes love sucks, but Chiela figures it’s mostly alright. Except on those days when Terasu wants to watch, like, America’s Next Top Model and Chiela wants to watch hockey. Then it just sucks.
Groaning, Chiela pushes herself up onto her elbows and swings her feet over the side of the bed. She goes from staring at the ceiling to staring at the mirror mounted on the wall and, wow, hey, that’s some really attractive bed head, there. She tries brushing her hands through her hair, and that’s totally successful except for how it isn’t at all. Whatever, she doesn’t care, and the only person that sees her in the flat is Terasu, who also doesn’t care, as long as Chiela doesn’t wake her up early. Then, of course, there's Lucia, who's standing next to the mirror, her eyes held on the offering plate before her, as usual, and watching Chiela with her head cocked to one side, cowl drawn around her face. Chiela’s not sure how long she’s been there. Possibly all night. That’s totally not creepy, right? Chiela thinks it’s a little creepy.
“So,” Chiela says, because any awkward silence gets to her, “totally hopeless?” and runs one hand through her hair, again. That’s sort of better, right? Lucia just smiles at her, pressing one hand over her mouth, and walks into the living room.
Well, okay, then.
Chiela stands up off of the bed, stretching, popping a few vertebrae - which is actually pretty gross, but whatever - and walks into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Terasu shuffles in while Chiela’s fiddling with the toaster - the toaster which she totally has a handle on now, no manual necessary, with Lucia watching it cock-eyed beside her, as if she expects something to go terribly wrong again and for her to have to drag Chiela out of the building. Chiela still holds that toaster company’s shouldn’t put that high a setting on a toaster if the toaster’s not meant to be set that high. The resulting fire was completely and totally not her fault. Anyways it wasn’t that bad of a fire; the fire fighters totally made a bigger deal out of it than they needed to. The wall was only a little scorched and nobody got hurt. Mrs. Plamen’s cat stopped trying to push through their balcony door afterwards, but Chiela figures that’s just a positive. That cat’s mean. Also, shit, she did wake Terasu, who’s looking at her like she’s thinking of where she could stash her body. Whatever, she’d only kill someone if she could get Chiela to help her lug the body around afterwards, and Chiela can’t do that if she’s dead.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” she says, and Terasu just grunts at her while she makes her way over to the coffee maker, a grunt that Chiela figures would probably be a fuck you if Terasu was more awake. Chiela’s not exactly phased. She gets that every time Terasu has to get up before noon.
After the coffee maker’s stopped burbling and Terasu has her first cup in hand - and seriously, the pleasure she derives from it is practically sexual; Chiela’s a big enough person to admit she’s a little jealous - not sipping daintily at it, like you might think she would if you saw Terasu in her flowing dresses and heels and misunderstood her completely, but gulping it down as if that won’t burn her mouth - of course, this is the same girl who heats her soup to the nth fucking degree; Chiela knows, she’s burned her mouth on it more times than she can count because, apparently, she never learns - anyways, after that, Terasu looks up at her and says, “What the hell are you doing up this early?”
“Emergency at work,” Chiela says as she hooks one foot around the under-stove cabinets only to remember that, hey, that’s right, she didn’t do the dishes so they have no frying pans. She kicks the cabinet shut and turns and opens the dishwasher to rifle inside it instead. She pulls out the pan she used yesterday to make french toast, and, seriously, it can’t be that bad to use a frying pan twice can it? The pan doesn’t look dirty, and anyways, it can’t be any worse than the time Terasu undercooked the chicken and gave them both Salmonella poisoning.
Terasu gives her a sort of what the fuck look over her coffee cup - she’s really good at that look - and, “Since when do fake psychics have emergencies?” she says. Chiela doesn’t even bother protesting that she’s a real psychic because Terasu doesn’t believe in real psychics.
“Since Nevaeh called and told me there was one,” she says, and Terasu snorts.
“What do you want to bet it’s some old lady who wants to talk to her dead cat,” she says, and Chiela winces because, yeah, that’s happened before, and she’s not convinced that Neaveh wouldn’t consider that an emergency. She took three personal days after something went wrong with her fancy-ass fish tank and three moray eels ended up dying. A day for each eel, she’d said, like that was something people did.
Chiela shakes her head. She hates dead-cat days. Not a single good day has started with dead cats. Not once.
“If it is,” Chiela says, as she sets the frying pan on the stove and goes poking into the fridge for some eggs. “I’m walking out. Nevaeh can tell her that her cat’s having a great time, like, feasting on fish in the great beyond.” Nobody ever wants to hear about it when their cat isn’t having a great time. Usually that’s when Chiela starts lying. Like, hey, yeah, Spunky’s taking cat naps in eternal sunshine, instead of, so, yeah, cats don’t really go anywhere. At least not as far as Chiela can tell. If they do, Chiela’d like to think it involves cat naps in eternal sunshine, which is why she’d picked that one. Hopefully these old ladies don’t talk to each other. She’ll be totally busted when they do.
She manages not to totally burn the eggs this time; they’re a little crisp but, whatever, they’re still completely edible, no matter what Terasu says. She stacks the dishes in the sink - she’ll do them later, she swears - and heads back into their bedroom to make herself something like presentable.
The nice thing about being a fake psychic - and damn, it Terasu, she is a real psychic - is that no one, disregarding those people who expect you to be draped in gaudy frabrics with a million big-ass rings and crystal pendants, expects you to dress up, so she can get away with jeans and one of her ratty t-shirts. What, her clothes all came to her second-hand, she’s totally allowed. She puts on her scapular first - Help of the Sick - and touches one hand to the square hanging against her chest, as if expecting a miracle this time. Whatever, Sister Mary tells her miracles happen to people all the time so why not her? When she doesn’t immediately remember what happened to her - and believe her she’d really like to know - she drops her hand, then pulls her t-shirt over her head, some band t-shirt for a band that she and probably no one but the original wearer recognizes. She hesitates before she picks up the rosary Sister Mary gave her - bone, which is a little creepy, honestly, but she deals - and tucks it into the loose pocket of her jeans, clenching her hand around it before letting go. She can practically see Terasu’s what the fuck face in her head because Terasu may tolerate Sister Mary, but she’s definitely doesn’t tolerate the rest, and she doesn’t get why Chiela does.
Chiela makes a face at herself in the mirror, then switches to watching Lucia, who’s kneeling next to the bed behind her, her offering plate set before her and her hands folded, which makes Chiela feel a little guilty for not doing the same, but it’s not like she can’t do it later, once she doesn’t have to get to work. Still, she crosses herself because it can’t hurt, then runs her hands half-hazardly through her hand and makes for the door.
