Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fridgetothefire) wrote2015-03-24 12:00 am
fridgetothefire) wrote2015-03-24 12:00 am
068 ☣ cindery, nonexistent, radiant
[Video]
[She's posting from the floor of the maintenance office, where she is on a tarp in the middle of a mess, boxes and sponges and bits of felt and ash and mutilated pens scattered all around her. She has smears of blue and black ink on her face and hands and bathrobe she's wearing - which, when she turns, is open in a deep V-wedge to keep her mostly decent without touching the red, fist-sized external heart now clutching steadily in the center of her chest. She tries to brush her hair out of her face, and adds to the ink smudges.]
If you're fighting the parasites, or demons, or whatever they are, come by the office. I made stamps with the anti-possession sigil on them. They're a little haphazard, but they'll work. Once you clear someone, stamp them. I don't want anyone getting reinfected.
[Open Spam, wibbly time through through the general throwdown arc]
[Anya is also running around exorcising people herself, knocking on doors, poking anyone she finds to see if they'll snarl or flinch. She's weary and bloody and bruised, after the first one or two, and she could probably use some backup to help fight the monsters once she forces them to manifest with the rituals Dean taught her.]
[Spam for Ben, backdated a wee bit to before the sha throwdown kicked into high gear]
[With Dean shuffled off to the kitchens, Andrew gone, and Stephen and Tig in comas, no is left in maintenance to notice Anya not turning up to work but Peter, and he won't hassle her about it. So when she wakes up to find a fresh heart tucked between and a little below her breasts, arteries and veins sliding back under the skin, the raw muscle wet and twitch, rabbit-fast with her shock, she decides that today is a good day to hide in her room and eat jerky and crackers and do nothing and see no one.
Until, of course, he comes to check on her, and her door opens for him, just like it always does.]
[She's posting from the floor of the maintenance office, where she is on a tarp in the middle of a mess, boxes and sponges and bits of felt and ash and mutilated pens scattered all around her. She has smears of blue and black ink on her face and hands and bathrobe she's wearing - which, when she turns, is open in a deep V-wedge to keep her mostly decent without touching the red, fist-sized external heart now clutching steadily in the center of her chest. She tries to brush her hair out of her face, and adds to the ink smudges.]
If you're fighting the parasites, or demons, or whatever they are, come by the office. I made stamps with the anti-possession sigil on them. They're a little haphazard, but they'll work. Once you clear someone, stamp them. I don't want anyone getting reinfected.
[Open Spam, wibbly time through through the general throwdown arc]
[Anya is also running around exorcising people herself, knocking on doors, poking anyone she finds to see if they'll snarl or flinch. She's weary and bloody and bruised, after the first one or two, and she could probably use some backup to help fight the monsters once she forces them to manifest with the rituals Dean taught her.]
[Spam for Ben, backdated a wee bit to before the sha throwdown kicked into high gear]
[With Dean shuffled off to the kitchens, Andrew gone, and Stephen and Tig in comas, no is left in maintenance to notice Anya not turning up to work but Peter, and he won't hassle her about it. So when she wakes up to find a fresh heart tucked between and a little below her breasts, arteries and veins sliding back under the skin, the raw muscle wet and twitch, rabbit-fast with her shock, she decides that today is a good day to hide in her room and eat jerky and crackers and do nothing and see no one.
Until, of course, he comes to check on her, and her door opens for him, just like it always does.]
no subject
She misses her mother, and he misses his unit. It's distinct, for once, from missing Manticore: he knew each of them by the way they moved, their smell, the sound of their breathing. He would have been able to pick his brothers and sisters out of a lineup of their twinned clones, he is sure of it. And he will never see them again, by his own choice.
His fingers are twisted into the fabric of her robe by the time the tears finally stop, by the time he's breathing in and out without the suffocating weight of tears, by the time he's relaxing again. He feels tired, still, but in a better way. As if pressure has been relieved, somehow, as if when the thick feeling in his throat recedes he will be able to breathe again.
If it were anyone else he might feel embarrassed, or shamed; but it is Anya. He shifts a little to be able to take her weight a bit more onto him if necessary, to take his weight back a little, but makes no move to get up or to pull away. He does not lift his head from her shoulder.]
I love you. [It's quiet, and simple, and warm; he is a man that tries to take very little for granted. He says it now and remembers a time when he wouldn't have said it at all, and savors that security. Savors that he not only gets to know it for truth, but that he gets to say it, and he gets to be heard. For now, it is enough.]
no subject
Hers are settled into a slow tandem now, the same weary peace.]
I love you.
[There is no variation that would make it more accurate or more poignant. She imagines cupfuls of light being passed back and forth between their palms, and instead of trickling away like water, it wells up, spills over, increases with the giving as love does. Something shared to see by.]