tinpra

"Daddy. What's that?"

"What's what, Adam?"

"Outside. Come look!"

"Describe it to me. I want to make sure the table is ready in time for lunch."

"Um..." Underneath the table, Michael paused as his son considered whatever unfamiliar sight had attracted his attention. "Well, it looks like that thing you use to put oil in the car?"

Michael frowned. "A bottle? Adam, you've seen--"

"Not the bottle. The white thing. That's bigger at one end and smaller at the other."

"A funnel? It looks like a--" Michael swore. He swore again as he hit his head on the table as he slid out.

Adam was frowning. "Mommy didn't like it when you would say those words."

But Michael heard him only distantly. Outside the big living room windows was the porch. And beyond the porch was a tornado. What they called a twister in this part of the United States. He grabbed his son's hand. "Come Adam. We have to go."

I don't know that you'll be interested if you've never seen Tin Man, but it took so much work to get this future-scene out that I need to post.

( for the tin of heart )

Where did betrayal start? In the head or in the heart? That was a line from something, he knew. Something his sister would know – real and fabricated. Simone would have been amused to know that he’d transformed her into his sister upon her death. She would have smirked and shook her head: “Sometimes, Michael, I wonder exactly how you climbed that ladder so fast when I know the only person you’ve been sleeping with is me.” Then she’d cup his big face in her narrow hand and kiss him, soft, sweet, a nip on the end: “Or at least you had better.”

Or she’d pinch him like they were grade-schoolers who didn’t yet know how to express affection: “Cool is not just work related, Michael. Cool is seven days, twenty-four hours, always on the job unflappable. Sister. Birkoff could’ve done better.”

He could have. But Elena had believed him – had let him get away with a piss poor lie, more likely. She had been there

Current Location: deskage
Current Music: telescope eyes; eisley

from, what i hope will be, the next part of my Little Wing story. i managed to finish a scene i had been working on for ages, due in part to some "Hey, I like this!" from friend-matt but...the muse left me. i know exactly where this story is going but it's how to get there. anywho, the beginning of the next chapter? maybe?

Frustrated, Remy rested his forehead in ball of his right hand. His fingers pushed smoothly into hair that was getting a bit too long for the role he was playing. Or maybe not, all things considered.

His fingers had memories of their own, of lushly thick hair: straight as pin, twisting and turning like a rollercoaster ride, waves that seemed to pulse as his hand moved through it.

One of his memories came and sat herself on his lap. She positioned herself so that if he opened his eyes he would be staring into hers. “Don’t worry,” she said, in that new voice that fit her body but not her. “He’s coming.” It was the timbre. “It will work out.” It was all wrong.

She slipped off his lap, sliding along his body. He heard her step into her shoes and pick up the trailing end of a dress that, even hemmed, was too long. He thought he knew where she was going – to admire the displayed loaned Faberge collection – but wouldn’t take his head out of his hand to make sure.

He shouldn’t have dragged her into this. But how else would it have got done? he asked himself. Again. Yet when he looked at her, at what a month’s worth of his training and attention had wrought, he wondered if he wasn’t better than the man they were trying to ensnare.

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