Dec 19th: Beginnings, andy/quynh
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the_old_guardTitle: Beginnings
Pairing: Andy/Quynh
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 880 words
Warnings: post-canon, canon typical content
Summary: It isn't fair, Quynh thinks, as she looks at Andromache sitting across from her.
It isn't fair, Quynh thinks, as she looks at Andromache sitting across from her.
They're sitting at Booker's kitchen table in his shitty apartment with the broken lock. There are no curtains in the kitchen, so the orange light of the setting sun covers the counters and half the sink. Andromache's sitting with her back to the windows, and Quynh can't help but think that it's a pity she can't see what Andromache looks like bathed in sunlight.
On the floor behind Andromache's chair, there's shattered glass that crunches every time she moves her feet.
Quynh was the one who smashed the jar of water when Booker walked in, falling over himself, the handle of vodka held tight in his hand. She recognized him from the first dreams, the ones tinged in cold as she felt Booker choke to death. She thought in pieces back then, so she only remembered parts of him. She knew Booker's blond hair, the long curve of his nose, flashes of his eyes. But when she saw him the first time, she knew he was the one in her dreams. It was the way he held onto the door, that desperate madness to his eyes as he recognized Quynh. He knew her too, the way people who are drowning in despair can recognize it in each other.
He's the one who told Quynh that Andromache's mortal now, the one who called her over and then ran. He's a coward, but Quynh understands his brand of cowardice because she felt it, too, when she first woke to the pain of her unfurling lungs. She never thought air would hurt, that it'd burn down to her bones.
She feels it still, phantom aches with every inhale. It sits at the center of her chest, threatening to drown her as she looks at Andromache.
Mortal.
The word sounds dirty, a thing so reviled because Quynh wants it so much it pains her. She wishes she could sit like Andy does, sprawled out on Booker's kitchen chair, regret in her eyes. Andromache's not sorry though, not for the fact that she gets to die now and Quynh has to keep going. If she regrets anything, Quynh thinks that it might be that she stopped looking, that she replaced Quynh with a blond drunk and a heartbreakingly gentle woman with kind eyes.
"What are you going to do now?" Andromache asks.
They're the first words that she's said since she walked through the door and saw Quynh. Her voice is familiar, thick with emotion, the same as the last time she told Quynh she loved her.
What is Quynh going to do now?
She's awake, every bit of her burning with the need to live, to grab as much as she can as fast as she can. She wants to see everything, get as far from the ocean as she can. She'd follow the deserts until she couldn't find her way out, would take to cities and get lost in the masses, if only Andromache weren't mortal.
As they look at each other, the spreading darkness closing the distance between them, it all comes down to the fact that their time is finite.
It isn't fair.
Quynh is supposed to have time to be angry, to rage against everything that put her underwater for centuries. She's supposed to let her pain bleed her raw, let it poison her as she breaks everything her hands touch. It's not supposed to end this quickly, not with Andromache watching her across a dirty kitchen table.
But that was always their story, Quynh thinks, ended too soon. They're the stuff poems are made of, two intersecting lines that touch once and never again. She doesn't know if she has it in her to forgive Andromache for getting to die. She doesn't know if she can even finish this conversation, doesn't know if she wants Andromache to touch her, or if she wants to run.
"I'm leaving," Andromache says. "I don't know where yet, but I'm going. Come with me."
Come with me, like all those years ago when Quynh opened her eyes to Andromache's face above hers. She can almost feel the desert heat now, the sting of a split lip, the weight of Andromache's hand as she pulled Quynh to her feet.
"You told me, once," Quynh says now, thinking of the nights they kissed under the stars. "You said that you'd stay with me."
She looks up and Andromache's there to meet her gaze. It's easy to see the pain in her eyes, the way she inhales sharply as Quynh looks at her. She doesn't know how much Andromache remembers, whether she lies awake at night, thinking of who they were before the sting of saltwater overshadowed it all.
"I remember," Andromache says. "All of it."
And maybe that can be enough, that she remembers the promise she made Quynh the night she kissed her the first time. Maybe Quynh can let go of the anger that sits in her veins. For Andromache. For the person Quynh was all those nights ago, the one who believed that she'd find absolution in Andromache's embrace.
"Okay," she says, at last. "I'll come with you."
Anywhere.
For as long as they have left.
Pairing: Andy/Quynh
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 880 words
Warnings: post-canon, canon typical content
Summary: It isn't fair, Quynh thinks, as she looks at Andromache sitting across from her.
It isn't fair, Quynh thinks, as she looks at Andromache sitting across from her.
They're sitting at Booker's kitchen table in his shitty apartment with the broken lock. There are no curtains in the kitchen, so the orange light of the setting sun covers the counters and half the sink. Andromache's sitting with her back to the windows, and Quynh can't help but think that it's a pity she can't see what Andromache looks like bathed in sunlight.
On the floor behind Andromache's chair, there's shattered glass that crunches every time she moves her feet.
Quynh was the one who smashed the jar of water when Booker walked in, falling over himself, the handle of vodka held tight in his hand. She recognized him from the first dreams, the ones tinged in cold as she felt Booker choke to death. She thought in pieces back then, so she only remembered parts of him. She knew Booker's blond hair, the long curve of his nose, flashes of his eyes. But when she saw him the first time, she knew he was the one in her dreams. It was the way he held onto the door, that desperate madness to his eyes as he recognized Quynh. He knew her too, the way people who are drowning in despair can recognize it in each other.
He's the one who told Quynh that Andromache's mortal now, the one who called her over and then ran. He's a coward, but Quynh understands his brand of cowardice because she felt it, too, when she first woke to the pain of her unfurling lungs. She never thought air would hurt, that it'd burn down to her bones.
She feels it still, phantom aches with every inhale. It sits at the center of her chest, threatening to drown her as she looks at Andromache.
Mortal.
The word sounds dirty, a thing so reviled because Quynh wants it so much it pains her. She wishes she could sit like Andy does, sprawled out on Booker's kitchen chair, regret in her eyes. Andromache's not sorry though, not for the fact that she gets to die now and Quynh has to keep going. If she regrets anything, Quynh thinks that it might be that she stopped looking, that she replaced Quynh with a blond drunk and a heartbreakingly gentle woman with kind eyes.
"What are you going to do now?" Andromache asks.
They're the first words that she's said since she walked through the door and saw Quynh. Her voice is familiar, thick with emotion, the same as the last time she told Quynh she loved her.
What is Quynh going to do now?
She's awake, every bit of her burning with the need to live, to grab as much as she can as fast as she can. She wants to see everything, get as far from the ocean as she can. She'd follow the deserts until she couldn't find her way out, would take to cities and get lost in the masses, if only Andromache weren't mortal.
As they look at each other, the spreading darkness closing the distance between them, it all comes down to the fact that their time is finite.
It isn't fair.
Quynh is supposed to have time to be angry, to rage against everything that put her underwater for centuries. She's supposed to let her pain bleed her raw, let it poison her as she breaks everything her hands touch. It's not supposed to end this quickly, not with Andromache watching her across a dirty kitchen table.
But that was always their story, Quynh thinks, ended too soon. They're the stuff poems are made of, two intersecting lines that touch once and never again. She doesn't know if she has it in her to forgive Andromache for getting to die. She doesn't know if she can even finish this conversation, doesn't know if she wants Andromache to touch her, or if she wants to run.
"I'm leaving," Andromache says. "I don't know where yet, but I'm going. Come with me."
Come with me, like all those years ago when Quynh opened her eyes to Andromache's face above hers. She can almost feel the desert heat now, the sting of a split lip, the weight of Andromache's hand as she pulled Quynh to her feet.
"You told me, once," Quynh says now, thinking of the nights they kissed under the stars. "You said that you'd stay with me."
She looks up and Andromache's there to meet her gaze. It's easy to see the pain in her eyes, the way she inhales sharply as Quynh looks at her. She doesn't know how much Andromache remembers, whether she lies awake at night, thinking of who they were before the sting of saltwater overshadowed it all.
"I remember," Andromache says. "All of it."
And maybe that can be enough, that she remembers the promise she made Quynh the night she kissed her the first time. Maybe Quynh can let go of the anger that sits in her veins. For Andromache. For the person Quynh was all those nights ago, the one who believed that she'd find absolution in Andromache's embrace.
"Okay," she says, at last. "I'll come with you."
Anywhere.
For as long as they have left.
