o_chibi_chan

I am awful and never post in my livejournal XD.

My yuletide is done! I am waiting on final beta to upload XD.

I thought I should post now so that people who eventually come looking at this journal aren't all "WAIT THESE ARE NOTES FOR HER YULETIDE LAST YEAR," and become confused.

But it's all cool and we're all cool honeybunny.

I sizzle with anticipation!

Title: The Shape of His Heart
Chapter: 9 (Technically this is really chapter eight XD There is a prologue.)
Chapter Title: Chapter Eight: Killing The Chernobyl Cowboy
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: PG, give or take. Sometimes Auron swears!
Summary: When Rikku loses a little more than she intended on a hand of poker and jaunts off in an attempt to prove herself, the cause of her troubles is sent to fetch her back. Little do either suspect what they're getting into . . .

Read the Chapter Here!

As always, review, or I will punch you. In this chapter, Rikku is naked some more and then dies. No, really!

Cross posted to DBF and my own LJ.

There is not much more of this story left! IT WILL BE FINISHED.

As has now been revealed, I wrote Blue Velvet to Moon River, the gratuitously Audrey/Cooper Twin Peaks story for prozacpark for this year's Yuletide challenge. When I was first assigned the the list of possibilities I did something I had never done before, which was go to her livejournal and poke about a little bit to see exactly what her interest in Twin Peaks was. And then I saw a really piteous little plea for Audrey/Cooper and my heart went out. Although I almost don't write fandom stories any more, I have done in the past, and I know how excruciating it can be when you can't find anything that you want that's good, or there's only one good story that suits you in the fandom, and possibly you wrote it (hip hip for the fandom of one). I love Twin Peaks and I love Audrey Horne particularly and the rich stilted imagery of the show certainly.

So the first thing I did was I went back and started watching my favorite season one episodes and reading the script notes for them. When I got to the four-five episode break (when Cooper comes back from visiting Jaques's cabin to the delightful sounds of the Icelandic junket roaring at their big shindig and finds Audrey in his bed) I discovered that this scene was originally intended to be left extremely ambiguous. The next episode was to start them at breakfast and give no clue to the happenings of the night before except for looks of adoration from Audrey.

Diane, I said to myself, This is a song I can dance to. So I ordered another cup of coffee and a piece of pie, watched four more episodes of Twin Peaks, and then sat down to write Blue Velvet to Moon River. I should also say, I took a bullet for you, because I spoiled myself on who killed Laura Palmer and much of the second season so I could give you a story you deserved. I had managed to avoid this information MIRACULOUSLY for fifteen years XD. But it's all right. It was worth it as I had a great time writing the story, and an even greater time giving it to you and seeing other people enjoy it.

For people who are interested:

Blue Velvet to Moon River Cliff Notes

The song the Icelandic Junket is singing is Olafur og Alfamaer or, rather, Olaf and the Elf-Maiden. It's about a man who gets bewitched by a fairy girl and has a rather abrupt and unsatisfying ending. I know you're impressed. Apropos.

The inset lyrics to the song Audrey sings are Blue Velvet, of course, while her last line to Cooper is from the theme of Breakfast at Tiffany's, about another, slim witchy little brunette. This would be Moon River, also mentioned in the title.

End Cliff Notes

The best rec that I got was from someone adorable who asked if I were actually David Lynch. The answer is no, although I feel like him sometimes! Anyone can tell you if there is a mood to be conjured, I can conjure it. I am good at driving the last nail in the coffin of setting.

That being said, I do wish Cooper said a little more. If I had it all to do over again their conversation would be longer and have more weight to it, and I wouldn't short change Cooper so much on the dialogue. I feel like he got a raw deal in the story, and for that I am not so much impressed with myself.

Still, I had a wonderful time writing it, and I am so glad it was well loved by the recipient that I could do a little jig. I also adored the story I got, which was Little Men: The Grand Tour by the wonderful and talented elynross. She deserves ten cakes.

I had a smashing Yuletide experience this year and I really can't wait to do it again next year. Thanks to everyone involved.

-

And yeah, I read Slave Bear before it was even finished XD. I was laboring over my non-laundry list sex scene and looking up Icelandic folk songs and then pawning mine off on Tami going "IS THIS BAD?" while at the same time she was giving me terrifically horrible Care Bear porn and going "I KNOW THIS IS BAD." My favorite scene (other than the one with Love-a-lot and the magazine, since Love-a-lot is my bear) is the one with Dark Heart in his horrible red track suit. Oh Tams. Only you.

This is brutally unedited, so you will have to deal with my creative spellings of certain things. It is also unfinished, but long enough to warrant posting if I don't think I'll be finishing it any time soon. The JP release of KH II is almost here, and you can bet I'm breathing hard for it.

( Post - Chapter One: Letters that you never thought you'd send )

Thoughts are certainly appreciated. And yes, this is totally a car jacking of But That Was In Another Country. Props to Tami. She did it first. I don't write fanfiction much any more, but sometimes I get a bee in my bonnet.

#34 - Not Enough

"This is a nice Christmas, don't you think?" chirped Mihr as she thoughtfully tied a waistband of gold lame thread on a square of black felt carefully chosen for Samael.

"Nice because you haven't turned over the Christmas tree, maybe," answered Shemiel as she flipped through holiday records, being of the opinion that there can be no substitute for good, worn vinyl. She seemed to consider her previous statement for a moment, and then added, "Yet."

"Papa, is it really true that I've turned over the Christmas tree every single year since I was born?" asked the little red haired mädchen, looking more excited than distressed at the prospect, as if every annual tree-tipping was a new adventure in good holiday spirit.

"It is impossibly true, ma fillette," answered her father, who was just returning from a hall closet with further supplies for the holiday decorating, "When you were just six months old we put you under the tree to take your picture, and you liked the lights so much that you pulled it down on top of yourself. It gave your mother and I a terrible fright, as you might imagine, but it didn't hurt you in the slightest. Every year since then like clockwork you have taken the tree down at least once ahead of schedule."

"When Mee was three it happened seven times," remembered Shemiel aloud, rolling her eyes as if her younger sister was a considerable trial to bear, "I thought it would save time just to leave it lying on the ground that year."

"That's a fire hazard, Shemmie -- " answered her father, but he was immediately cut off by another red head which had poked itself into the room and spied what was going on at the children's craft table in the corner.

"Father, that's indecent."

"What?" Alexei asked, arms full of the rainy day craft box, bits of yarn and pipe cleaner all flyaway. He was used to his eldest informing him that things he had heretofore considered quite harmless were in fact moral crises waiting to befall the hapless, but he had not expected it over a holiday craft project. "How, exactly, Miniel?"

The teenaged boy turned mauve, as if he loathed speaking unwholesome words where anyone, even his mother might hear them, but apparently came to the conclusion that without the identification of sin there can be no correction and leaned close to his father to whisper his denouncement, which could be heard clearly even down at the hardwood table where the youngest Berzukovs were already busy maiming handkerchiefs and clothespins with proper yuletide spirit.

"You can't hang them on the tree that way. They aren't wearing any trousers," he explained emphatically, his fingers twitching as if he wanted already to gather up all the proto christmas decorations and lock them all away in a box, where the could not tempt the innocent and unsuspecting.

Of course. No trousers. He might have predicted.

"They are wearing dresses," he attempted to reason with his agitated son, and it was true across the board. Every man Jack was in a hanky dress, in addition to every lady. Alexei Berzukov was possibly the greatest composer of his century. He was not a fashion designer. And honestly, trousers for all these tiny little wood and linen angels were quite beyond him. Squares of felt and handkerchiefs for their dresses he could manage, but he'd never proven particularly adept at sewing, needles and sensitive fingertips rarely being bosom companions. Trousers for the small army of clothespin angels he smallest daughters were producing seemed an unconquerable obstacle, and he wondered dolefully if he would have to confine all the new christmas ornaments to the bottom of a box to keep the family peace. Miniel was obviously deeply upset. This was very clear. Too much of the whites of his eyes were showing every time he rolled them terribly down to the worktable to look at the scandalous production line.

"But you're going to hang them on the tree," Miniel fretted, "Up high on on the tree, some of them, and when you walk by, all you'll have to do is look up and, there, right up their skirts with nothing underneath -- " He looked faint.

"Miniel, couldn't you imagine they were wearing underthings?" began his father, and even as he said it, he realized his mistake.

"Should I also imagine that Shemmie's still got all her pyjamas on when she goes wandering down the hall to the bathroom at night without her pants on? Should I imagine business suits on all the women in British Harmony when Jack Naaktgeboren sneaks in issues to school and hides them in his desk? Maybe I should just imagine away Professor Delaney's class entirely. This seems like a really practical solution, father. Now why didn't I think of it before?"

"Minnie," Aniel noted very seriously as she looked up from gluing gold yarn to the top of what was presumably Sahaqiel's head, "Sarcasm is very unbecoming."

"I know it's unbecoming," Miniel looked strained, "I'm sorry father, Annie, I'm just so overwrought. Last night I happened to walk by when Shemmie was watching the Meaning of Life in the living room and I've been on edge ever since." He took several deep breaths and then seemed to collect himself. "Still, you can't just put little undergarmentless angels on the tree. Not when they look like people we know."

Mihr kicked back from her chair suddenly and fluttered her hands in the air the way she did when she felt she had something very exciting to say (which was about every three minutes).

"I think Minnie is right! Besides, otherwise their legs might get cold and fall off and then we'd have Christmas angels with no legs," she added insurmountably. Just when as a man and a father Alexei was about to despair at ever getting this surprise ready in time for wife's return from holiday shopping, Mihr added brightly, "But it's okay. I know just what to do!"

She dashed off in the direction of the kitchen, where her arrival was sounded as the thunder of the hanging rack of saucepans overturned and several drawers opened and then courteously slammed. When she came back she was bearing a box of the paper hats meant for the ends of chicken legs and the tips of crown roast. To these she applied some tape and the creative use of safety scissors and shortly produced a fine pair of white pantaloons just the right size for a clothespin angel. Aniel handed over her Sahaqiel, who had been judiciously rolled in blue glitter, and Mihr bravely flipped up her dress and aquainted her with her new undergarments. Miniel chose to look away, and had to be assured that the operation was a great success, since he had no desire to turn up the skirt of the former captain of the tower guard.

Alexei was relieved. A box of paper meat crowns was a small price to pay for peace in the drawing room during the Christmas holiday. Mihr hopped up and strained to hang the newest of the little angels as high as she could reach.

"Won't Mama be horribly surprised?" she asked, standing on her tip toes and using a convenient bough to balance herself.

"Let's hope she isn't horribly surprised -- " Alexei began, slightly distracted by the prospect, but then had the presence of mind to seize her by the arm and drag her out of the way just as the tree came crashing down.

"Twelve years in a row!" cried Mihr, astonished, presumably because knocking the tree over had not been one of her intentions. She looked so flushed and excited she might have just come from an Olympic laurel crowning ceremony.

Shemiel didn't look up from where she'd settled on the far side of the table to cut up paper for the bright construction paper garland that would deck the halls of the Berzukov dwelling, but she did laugh.

"It just isn't Christmas until Mee has knocked over the tree."

*

Notes: There's no place like home for the holidays.

Well, I finished FFVII last week or something like that, and I have to say, that having played it all start to finish, I do most certainly have an affection for it. I think the story isn't unified very well at all, and for two thirds of the second disc it basically seemed like the entire party forgot the plot of the game XD. I was most lost and aggravated probably after Aeris's death, where you immediately have to learn to snowboard WHICH TO ME DID NOT SEEM HUGELY APPROPRIATE XD. The story needs serious unification, which I think it really doesn't have. It could be two different games which magically got stuck in the same package.

Anyway, I played the first half of Disc 1 with Cloud, Tifa, and Aerith, then when I got past the Mithril Cave I switched Yuffie into the party. I kept Aeris as my primary magic user until, well, she carks it, and then I switched Vincent in, and played with Yuffie and Vincent as my two additionals for the rest of the game.

Some further notes about what I really enjoyed about FFVII!

I loved Aeris's limit breaks, particularly Great Gospel. I love healing limit breaks to begin with, and wish there were more FF games that embraced this idea (for instance, Eiko's Doublewhite in FF9. Rinoa has several Angelo healing limits, but they all happen at intervals and I find them too hard to control to rely on). I was sorely distressed to give up Aeris in the first place, she's such a strong character (in addition to emotional attachments!) but I'm sure that's part of the idea. Great Gospel is so awesome it's almost like cheating XD. I also love Aeris's final weapon, the Princess Guard. I think it bears not simply a passing resemblance to Yuna's ultimate weapon, Nirvana, and I'm going to try and dig out screencaps of both to do a side by side comparison.

When I wasn't using Conformer in the later part of the game on Yuffie, I was using Oritsuru, and man was that great when she was getting double cut hits for 9999 with a little paper crane XD. Conformer I decided looked rather like a doily, so I referred to it as the Death Doily. While All Creation is a fun limit, I totally preferred 'Doom of the Living,' her jillion hit combo. Bryan said it was appropriately named, because Yuffie is totally the "Doom of the Living." He has since started calling me "Doom of the Living" as an affectionate term. Also Godo is hilarious AND ALSO CRAZY. Tami is right. His brain is totally shrinking.

Vincent became my dedicated magic user and healer after the mandatory party reassignment. Because he was loaded down with materia, he was totally something of a girl's blouse and couldn't take the hits at all, so Bryan and I started calling him "Yuffie's Girlfriend." I put cover on Yuffie and she took most of the hits for him, which made his lifespan considerably longer XD. I never made enough kills to make Death Penalty useful at all (besides which, the battle sprite depiction of it makes it look more silly than menacing XD) so I ended up keeping Vincent on one of his weapons with Materia growth. While fun at the outset, I really didn't find too many uses for Vincent's limits, although they're a really neat idea.

And man, is he or is he not the whiniest bitch in the world? XD I love him, but he is so emo depressed and self important. I love his little Turk self, and I might eventually draw a picture of Turk Vincent and Blade Kisaragi XD. Also, what was Lucreia on? Stupid hoho. Professor Lifeform is mostly fucking nuts and also icky, not so much super hot. Oh Vincent, that was totally Not the Right Girl to Fall For. Vincent, you need to see a therapist XD.

LIKE CLOUD. Wow, he is charmingly around the bend. I ended up really liking Cloud as kind of a total mental case. He very desperately wants to be more than he is for a very long time, but can't do it. I think he only finds his own inner strength (and his true strength) when he gives up trying to be something he's not and just embraces being himself, and being the best he can be as Cloud Strife, not as Soldier First Class.

"I want to meet the real you." I think Cloud wants to meet the real Cloud too, and I think he finally does.

( Don't click on this part if you're a Cloud/Tifa shipper, as I do not want to offend <3 )

I enjoyed the ending very much, except for the part where I felt it JUST STOPPED XD. I loved her hand reaching out for Cloud, and I loved what I felt was the clear implication that Aeris had ended up being what Sephiroth had so wanted. She is Queene Lifestream. Bryan was always saying this of Aeris: "If you strike me down I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine," and I wholly agree.

Also, in case you're wondering, I totally did not steal any of the ideas of the Green and lifeweaving from FFVII XD. I stole them from the same place Square and George Lucas stole them from: Shinto thought, which George Lucas set me on in the first place XD. If you'll recall, all three of us identify the essence of life as being Green :3.

So I totally did enjoy FFVII, but I did think it was problematic in a lot of places.

KH II TRAILER SPOILERS FOLLOW

So if you're in total blackout, don't read this next bit <3.

As for the ol' KH II, I can't wait, or at least I can barely wait. I am very looking forward to playing, am totally intrigued by the presence of Advent Children Cloud and FF8 Squall, which lead me to believe they're from different worlds than KH Cloud and KH Leon. Fuujin is very cute, and hello Tami, but there is VIVI. I would prefer summoner Yuna to gunslinger Yuna, but really I guess we'd have to expect FF X-2 Yuna since that was the latest game in the timeline, and if I want Summoner Yuna I can always go back and play FFX again (similarly, I think FFX Rikku's design is way cuter, but that doesn't keep me from liking FFX-2). It looks like what I was hoping for desperately (FFIV characters) was a pipe dream, which I was pretty sure it was to begin with.

I can't wait to dive into the story <3. Also, Passion sounds totally beautiful and also totally bizarre.

END SPOILERS.

P.S. I love Barret. I love him desperately. Also, I seem to like Reeve obsessively, so I think he may be for real my FFVII boyfriend. I should play the game again, only with Barret and Cait Sith XD.

I've been thinking about a lot of things recently, and it has occurred to me that some people may not understand my situation and are too shy to ask about it, worried it might be some kind of taboo topic, or something you just don't talk about, like Uncle Ernest in the special hospital in upstate New York. I think some people feel that I must be embarrassed about certain things, but for the record I am completely not, and I have never been happier in my entire life than I am right now.

I am a writer. That's my career choice right there, and I make good on it just about every day of my life. Sometimes I have a hard time saying it to people when they ask, because everybody in LA has got a screenplay and most twelve year olds have written 'novels' (two chapters of some huge epic they have planned spanning half a dozen books at least) and lots of people are fond of telling you 'I always wanted to be a writer.' Stephen King said it best when he said "Everybody who truly wants to be a writer is a writer. There are no special requirements. All it takes is your time and your effort." So I give my time and I give my effort and I can honestly say that I work much harder at my choice occupation than a lot of people do.

The reason I'm shy about advertising the fact that I write as my livelihood is that no one ever respects you at all. I suppose everyone and their sister has met "writers" before, but if you know me you know I'm not one of those people. I don't want anyone to give me a standing ovation, but a lot of people seem to equate writing with something lower on the rung than a gigolo cabana boy.

I measure my life in creation and production. I am not fulfilled unless I am making something, whether it be writing a story or producing a little bit of mediocre art (no, I will never be a mentionable artist, by I enjoy drawing and often it helps me think about what I'm working on). I am entirely a producer and not a consumer, and I only consume in order to augment my production. If I haven't spent my time making something original and new every single day I walk and breathe, then I'm not satisfied.

I am, in fact, in print, but I'm not telling you where. Anyone who has read my stuff and then read the wallpaper drivel on most of the shelves of the chain bookstores knows that I am certainly more than good enough to be in print. I write on a professional level and have been doing so for at least a year. I am an excellent style mimic, I am preternaturally empathetic, and I am very detail savvy. I am largely self-educated, as I have ever been. I am fascinated with linguistics, the early days of the Catholic church, Islamic mysticism, and a whole slew of other topics. I read and distill from primary source documents almost entirely.

I had six years at the university and nearly had two separate major degrees (BA and BFA thank you) when I stopped going because it was making me miserable. I love education, but a lot of what I was forced into at the university was not education, so I made a choice to stop going. It was a hard choice, mainly because of what a lot of people assume about me because I don't have an undergraduate degree. Frankly, I don't really care what they think about me. I'm doing what I think is right with my life. I have stopped wasting my time on pointless activities. I don't sit around all day eating cheetos and watching television. I write and I write and I write and I write and I write.

I don't write throwaway garbage either. On the rare occasion that I do still write fanfiction, I do it as an outlet because I have some particular idea that I want to express, but I work almost entirely on my original fiction. I have a lot to say about fanfiction as metafiction and the importance of fanfiction as literature in the nature of semiotics, but that's not what this post is about. It's enough to say in this post that my primary body of work is my body of original fiction, and I work on that constantly.

Please, never ever imply to me that you think I'm wasting my time on my original work. If you condescend to me over it, or if you feel the need to tell me that the things I'm doing are not worthwhile for whatever reason, I will very adroitly take you off of my Christmas card list. I'm not trying to be superior to anyone who goes out into the big wide world to be a secretary or a doctor or a computer tech or a sales rep or my favorite accountant. I respect you all immensely. All I want is the gentle head nod of recognition that I too am employed.

Bryan tells me that I do the most important and worthwhile work of anyone he knows. He likes to remind me that I am a practitioner of the world's third oldest profession. Of course, he's sort of required to be supportive of me, but he's also very honest. If he thought I was writing Nicholas Sparks, he would tell me.

So. I am not a housewife. To begin with, I am not a wife and I do not live in a house, but more practically, if you know a housewife who writes as much as I do, then she is not a housewife either. (And I totally mean no disrespect to anyone who does homemake. Anyone who has tried it even in a offhand way knows it is hard fucking business and it will eat all your time like nothing else).

Sometimes I have to do without trendy new clothes or all of the new toys that we all want whenever we go out to the stores, but I'm happy to do without because I would much rather wear old clothes and play old toys and be able to write and write and spend all my times writing if I choose to than have all the fine new things in the world. In the end, I think that's what Stephen King was getting at. If you want to write, you can. No one is stopping you. All it takes is your time, but you have to make time for it. In the end, you will spend as much time as you really and truly want writing, and as much time as you really and truly want doing other things.

I think by this point you can guess my priority list.

Peace out,
Gabi

#79 - When

Raphael was enroute from an inspection of the outer walls to speaking with a group of injured soldiers when he was waylaid by Gabriel, who looked as if she had been running around outside in the rain with no umbrella.

She tackled him without any sort of explanation, getting him rather muddy and sodden in the process as she threw her arms around him and squeezed him as hard as she could before planting an affectionate kiss on his chin, which is as high as she could reach in bare feet.

"I'm getting married!" she announced, delighted, still hanging onto the Archangel of the South like he was a cherished teddy bear. Raphael could hear Savuriel snickering behind him but graciously ignored it, being quite occupied with the Archangel of the West, who was now dancing happily in place, not minding that as she danced she was splashing cold, dirty water up his calves because she had unfortunately come upon him in the middle of a very large puddle, "And I want you to be the godfather of all my children because I'm sure you would be wonderful at that, being godfather and all, don't you think so?"

"Felicitations," he laughed, because Gabriel had dragged the absurd into his lap and was now dancing in it. What an awful day to get engaged, "And who exactly are you marrying?"

"Oh, Duriel of course," she said, as if this ought to be very plain despite the number of suitors who had declared their undying affection for her. Of course, that would explain why he looked so smug.

"Then I must offer you my deepest congratulations," he said cordially, patting Gabriel's damp head, "When is the happy event?" he asked mildly, then paused as he considered the woman he was talking to and the social uproar she might be prepared to innocently cause, "Not today, I hope -- "

Gabriel started at once and reeled on her heel to look at her affianced, slinging her tail of hair in a wide arc behind her as she turned and spraying Raphael indelicately with a condensed array of raindrops. Savuriel snickered again.

"Oh Duriel, when are we getting married? Can we get married today? Wouldn't that be nice?" she asked, delightedly clapping her hands and Raphael almost slapped himself in the forehead for giving her ideas.

"Gabriel," began Duriel warily, "I am not sure that's the best course of action -- "

"Haste to the wedding and repent at leisure, I think is the saying," agreed Raphael, attempting to put his collar to rights.

"Oh, but it's not haste," disagreed Gabriel very emphatically, "I've been waiting ever so long, Raphael, and I think it's a very nice day to get married, and I'm sure Duriel won't mind!"

"Gabriel," Duriel tried again, but Gabriel did not appear to be listening.

"And it will be very nice and I'm sure everyone will be very happy!"

"NO."

That he and Duriel had both taken deep breaths and bellowed at the Archangel of the West at the same time in an attempt to reach her was testament to a synergy that Raphael had never before suspected. She looked bewildered, but fortunately not unhappy.

"How did you do that? Had you been rehearsing that? Could you do something like that again? My, it made the little hairs on my back all stand up -- "

"Gabriel," interrupted Raphael, before she got herself going again, "Don't you think it would be better to have a rather longer engagement so you can announce and arrange your wedding properly? People will want to come and may not be able to on such," he paused and tried to find the words that were the most gentle, "short notice."

She apparently had not considered this.

"Oh, I don't want to inconvenience anyone and I do want everyone to come and be happy because I'm so happy and we'll all be happy together and won't that be wonderful. Oh Raphael, you have the very best ideas."

Here she happily congratulated him on his brilliance with another kiss.

One disaster abated, Raphael took a deep breath and again straightened his collar where she had pulled it all crooked a second time.

"So when will you set the date then? Standard engagement periods are usual around seven -- " he began, but she had apparently already made her decision because she gave him another spleen mashing hug as she announced her plans delightedly.

"Next month!"

#49 - Club

That something unusual went on at Heatherbluff involving the Eisenreichs and only their closest kin was a fact that could not be denied. This phenomenon was first observed in spring of 2028 and while most noticeably active in the summer months, traces of the strange activities were occasionally apparent at all times of the year, although caution was kept in maintaining this mystery religion as just that: a mystery. Those intimately involved with the matter had a way of communicating their thoughts without words, or with a few very cryptic ones punctuated by rye and knowing smiles and the infrequent rueful rubbing of elbows and the backs of heads. Those cordially invited as guests of these strange affairs knew very well the level of privacy accorded the events and wisely kept their tongues, perhaps for fear that the entire clan would descend on them mercilessly if they turned, as Rachel was apt to put it, stoolie.

The one who commanded these activities and kept them in order was none other than the head of the household himself: Dr. Matthias Eisenreich; Duriel, angel of clemency and one time captain of the Malake Habbalah. That he was also the one time Lord of Pain their more polite angelic acquaintences chose not to comment upon, although certain members of the family did frequently enough behind doors at least provisionally closed.

Wringing conversation from Duriel was quite akin to bleeding a turnip for medicinal purposes: a ridiculously improbable endeavor, even in the best of circumstances. Regarding this particular leisure activity he was quite closed-mouthed. He was also equipped with a killing stare than had slain lesser men for their insessant prying, and was quite possibly the largest reason why the ladies and gentlemen of the press had no greater success at unravelling their mysteries than did nosy neighbors.

When asked for comment, Duriel only provided the eloquent, " . . . . "

Rachel, who was given to talking a great deal (and quite loudly) at times when a still tongue would have presented a much more terrifying air, did not give anything away himself, but in conversation about the subject always seemed on the edge of accidentally imparting such great revelations that he was a favorite for the braver of the curious to pester. Upon recognizing his closeness to letting something slip he would immediately swear a blue Christmas and then refuse to comment any further on the subject, even when badgered and assailed with soulful feminine eyes and wiles.

His sister was the member of the assembly who most delighted in offering cryptic comments to the truthseeker: bits of ancient speech or veiled allusions that even the best linguist and library hound had difficulty in placing in context. She had solemn eyes and a killing Mona Lisa smile that often found its way faintly across her face when she spoke with unusual and merciful plainess.

"In pace, ut sapiens, aptarit idonea bello."

Zadkiel was less talkative than his father, if such a thing be possible, for it was from the elder that the younger had learned it. He gave no tells, and even his loquacious younger brother only owned that it was, "family business, rightly."

Not even the tiniest of the Eisenreichs could be plied for their knowledge, little girls innocently at work in the sandbox who obviously had their own sanctified roles to play in the spectacle.

"The first rule about fight club is that you don't talk about fight club," parroted Elijah, very seriously, while her blonde fairy cousin was quick to add:

"Two men enter, one man leaves."

Azrael, who had been minding the little girls, arrived on the scene shortly thereafter, before any more damaging information was brought to light, and gently persuaded the inquisitor to leave.

When the matter was finally brought to Gabriel herself by parties concerned there were unwholesome forces at work, she only laughed drolly and assured that the proceedings were only to the effect of building capable young persons, properly adjusted and having the strongest of moral characters. It was a simpler truth, even than that.

They once were warriors, and they did not forget.

#27 - Parents

Something was edging around the muzzy, fuzzy confines of her brain, insistent and obnoxious, like ants inside her petticoats when she fell asleep outside in the grass as a little girl. Perhaps this was what a hangover felt like. Teddy was largely unaquainted with the Chablis flu mainly because she was rarely sober long enough for such a dreadful state to set in. That was it. She needed a drink. Few problems could not be solved by some liberal fingers of whiskey in a properly attractive glass.

So she eased out of bed, bare bottom backwards and fanned by a comfortable-rumpled shirt tail. There was the decanter on the chest near a string of charms from the West Indies and some pocket change from Burma. She poured herself a very healthy breakfast of bourbon and this cleared her head enough for her to remember what it was exactly that was bothering her.

"Deus," she asked puzzledly, "Where's the baby?"

He had already sought shelter under a heavy pillow when he'd felt her wriggling out of the bed at the obscene hour of nine o'clock in the morning, but apparently he felt chivalrous this morning because after a moment she had his muffled reply.

"What baby?"

She took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey before answering, "What do you mean 'what baby?' Our baby of course, you silly ass. Whose other baby would we have?"

"Some little darkie baby you picked up for ritual sacrifice, or maybe a little Chinaman's baby you begged me to have to train as an acrobat," he answered crossly, for he had not yet had his morning burbon. "How am I supposed to know this blasted early in the morning?"

"Well," she said slowly, owning to herself that both of those were indeed a possibility after one of their cosmopolitan frolics, "So you know, I did mean our baby. Caine, you know, little fellow that can't hold his gin yet and has your lovely brandy colored hair besides."

"And my delightful interest in mammary glands," Deus answered, begrudgingly sitting up and scratching his head idly, "Yes, I remember the chap now." He seemed to consider getting out of bed for a full seven seconds before giving this prospect up as a dangerous and uneeded risk and flopping bonelessly over on his side as he eyed the liquor imploringly, as if it might sprout legs and come to him, as opposed to vice-versa. He noticed that Teddy was still fretting, so he shrugged manfully and attempted to put her at ease, "Look, pigeon, I am sure that he is safe with Nurse."

Teddy did not bother with trousers or a skirt and instead marched promptly over to the adjoining suite and rapped sharply. The door was answered after a moment by a woman who seemed much too ancient to be a wetnurse. They shared a thoughtfuly conference for some moments which Deus did not care to overhear, and then the servant withdrew, leaving Teddy to set herself mournfully down on the bed.

"So what's the news, kitten?" asked Deus, because while he was not particularly worried over the fruit of his loins, it was really very upsetting to see Teddy looking so ghastly guilty.

"Nurse says she gave the baby to us last night," Teddy answered glumly.

"Why the devil would she do a thing like that?" stormed Deus indignantly, for this he felt was both a preposterous thing to do with a child and also an unnacceptable endangerment of the heir to Tinnesfield.

"Because we asked for him," Teddy explained despairingly, and then could not keep herself together any longer and disolved into noisy, drunken sobs, "I lost our baby, Deus. I'm a terrible mother."

"There, there, pet," he consoled awkwardly, petting her head as she threw her arms sloppily around him, nearly upsetting the remains of her breakfast whiskey. He relieved her of it and swallowed it like a true gentleman. "Don't be so upset. I'm sure things like this happen to everyone. My mother must have lost me half a dozen times. Besides, if we can't find him, we can always have another!" he added brightly, for this seemed to him the most practical solution.

"I don't want another," she wailed piteously, "I liked that one. Oh, Deus, I'm a failure at all womanly duties and virtues."

"Don't be silly, Teddy. I am very fond of many of your womanly virtues," he comforted, but it was to no avail as she kept weeping hysterically, occasionally punctuating her despair by bouts of pitiful self-denouncement.

To see her in such a state distressed him greatly, and he resolved that she needed a gin and tonic to steady her nerves. Unfortunately he was fairly certain that they had finished the on-hand supply of gin the night before. The only thing to do was to go down to the concierge and order another bottle of gin. Heroically, he got up to find his trousers.

When he opened the laundry basket he was greeted with a happy gurgle. He blinked at the contents of the basket once and then covered it again.

"Teddy, pet. Come and see what a state you've left the laundry basket in," he called, and she wailed something unintelligible that he could only guess had something to do with the laundry, but she came obediently just the same and he gestured to the lid of the basket like a showman.

She sniffled and then lifted the lid, whereupon several things happened. First, Caine's face dimpled as he beheld his two most adored people. Second, Teddy nearly fell into the laundry basket stumbling over herself to get him out of it and cover him with the requisite number of sloppy maternal kisses.

"Oh, I'm so very glad we found him," said Teddy, much cheered.

"Me too, pigeon," agreed her husband, who was not at all jealous, except murderously. "Now give him back to Nurse so we will know where he is properly, next time. And tell her never to give him to us again before he can get himself out of the laundry basket if he is stowed there."

Caine gurgled again and Teddy looked sweetly maudlin over her baby, "But Deus, I do feel terribly for having left him in a hamper all night."

"Teddy," he plied, mildly off-put, "Go and give that baby back to Nurse and come and shower me with your charming sentimentality."

And, reflecting that she could always shower her baby in sentimentality later, that is exactly what she did.

*

Notes: Teddy and Deus are not only criminally neglectful parents, they are also dreadfully politically incorrect!

#03 - Ends

It was the last dance. It was the last three-step waltz to end all things. The world had come, had spun up out of nothing. The world had lived, fresh and lovely and dark and ugly and horrific and wonderful all at once. The world had died, as for all things there is a time and place where they too must go to ground. It was the last three step dance. Birth, life, and death. It was the only three step dance left. Creation, being, apocalypse; Genesis-to-Revelation. It was the last three step dance, and they had finished the quadrille.

She stood barefoot in the snow-white ash, her hair a loose spill of mahogany to the backs of her knees, pearls still laced through it, half a hundred indigo ribbons a stain against the bone-white corpse of the world, and she was the powdery peace of Mercy in Repose. All things meant to come to pass had come to pass; they lived in the best of all possible worlds.

It was done, this thing they had made with their hands. The time had come. The time had passed, and in passing could not come again.

The trumpet had been hers: the last mercy offered to a dying star, a clarion call across the endless night -- taps played for the hollow carcass of a world, dead as dust and ash.

In sudore vultus tui vesceris pane donec revertaris in terram de qua sumptus es quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris.

She looked over her shoulder, looked at Him, as He stood, cinnamon dark hair half coming out of His braid, His eyes closed, His arms folded, the last winds whipping around them both, picking up the loose trail of His jacket and spreading it like a drab banner. It was like some strange kind of hunting marker, a flag planted for claimed territory.

This land is mine, for I have killed it. The Gospel of Jibreel. Thanks be to God.

They would have made a pretty picture, had anyone been left to paint it. She was dove white, swan cygnet, two sets of elliptical wings folded behind her, one set crowning her head, a wash of white and a rain of indigo, her baton dripping pearls from her hand where it hung, idle and useless. He was oil black, drab, a shining starling rainbow mess in the light from her burn, bent chrome and the very edges of His leading feathers charred from folding her up while Ragnarok rained.

"Is our hour together ended then?" she asked curiously, leaving rounded hollows in the fine powder as she circled Him, basking in the dying glow of the final burn, "I think my vows said 'until the last star falls.' The stars have fallen now, El Elyon. Are we done with one another?"

He turned His head to follow her as she circled, opening His eyes the barest fraction to look at her, spaniel black through His lashes, "They said 'until the last star falls,' Columba," he raised one hand idly to gesture past her. She turned to look and saw her son -- saw the Unnamed -- his ascension already burned out around him, standing with his arms folded behind his back and looking at the only thing that marred the fields of ash -- a little bit of green. Azrael laughed very softly, "There is one star still left. You and I will never be done with one another, Jibreel."

The time had come. The time had passed, and in passing laid the path so that all could be walked again.

He did not turn his head again to follow her, only extended one hand behind Him to beckon. She came as if called -- no bells to ring on an invisible collar, but pearls enough fallen to mark her path. His hands were at her back, tugging all those ribbons loose, and then very unashamedly pulling at the bell of her skirt even as she cursed repeatedly in several languages over the sheer number of His belts.

"I don't suppose people are meant to make love ascended, te Deum," she observed lightly as He took her down into the ash.

"I don't suppose," He said as they burned out the last high, the final spark forever burned into their corneas -- Roche lobe; supernova; flare and collapse. "That I care."

And it was beautiful, the last waltz. Three steps to a fourth. Birth, life, death, reincarnation. Creation, being, apocalypse, covenenant.

"Dum spiro, spero, Azrael. El Elyon. El Shaddai. Dominum Deum amo te super omnia ex tota anima mea, ex toto corde meo, ex totis viribus meis."

"Pace," He said.

And she was.

*

Notes: I could think of nothing else that would suit #03 as well. Whew. I think I need to take a short vacation from doing these so they don't all start turning retarded and crappy.

#77 - What??

To be fair and honorable, it is best to say that Rachel Serraffield Eisenreich was hoodwinked. Although not in the habit of being a complete sucker, Rachel suffered from delusions that would plague him for the balance of his considerable life. One of these delusions was the quiet and earnst devotion to the protection and aid of the fairer sex, which gave a usually suspiscious teenager a blind spot a mile wide which practically begged please kick me here. Mia Naaktgeboren liked to tell herself that she was never one to deny Rachel anything for very long, provided he asked for it nicely.

So after the affair of the cola-everclear-rohypnol cocktail and the extensive photographic evidence Shaktiel was likely to produce at any given moment from the confines of her bra, Rachel decided that having been taken advantage of in a most embarassing manner, the only right and correct thing to do would be to take responsibility for the violence of her deflowerment like a man and live with the consequences. Exactly why he was responsible for the indelicate breaking of her hymen outside the glorious institution of wedlock when he had been entirely unconscious at the time Rachel did not even attempt to explain to himself, but it probably had something to do with the fact that his grandfather was the angel of forebearance and that he had been raised Catholic. He went to confession and was absolved, but he still felt somehow related to the bacteria living inside public toilet bowls. This was augmented by the fact that while he had all the guilt and responsibility, he did not have even a fleeting spasm of pride over the experience, being that he did not remember any of it at all.

It was bad enough that he had banged a girl he had known since she was in daipers. It somehow made it extra worse that he couldn't even congratulate himself on her being satisfied.

This, he decided, was very unmanly and very highly embarassing.

So when Easter holidays came and the hedgerow went to Heatherbluff and Shaktiel was often to be seen spinning around on the hardwood of the ballroom as she kept herself in proper condition for the dancing of Giselle, a preformance rapidly approaching, Rachel spent equal shares of time staring at her from the corridor and putting forth the public impression that he would rather have his kidneys removed through a straw than be forced into her company.

In the end it is perhaps not surprising that they ended up together in the attic as Shaktiel crowed and danced about, hopping from foot in her supreme and brain-jellying triumph until he got fed up with listening to her and they actually got to business. It was a great deal of awkward bumping and scraping as he dragged her out of her leotard and she unkindly broke two of her nails on his belt, and then it was his mouth and his hands and both of them fell on a threadbare divan with an unpoetic thump which caused it to belch forth an unwholesome cloud of dust. There was a great deal of scrabbling and wiggling, and at one point she kneed him very impolitely in the solar plexus, although she claimed that this was an accident. Although it was hardly the time or the place he was strangely fascinated with her feet and gave her ankle a very premeditated kiss before they both dissolved into a hot, hormonal mess, where Rachel did the least amount of clear thinking he had ever done in his life, especially when she caught up all at once and made a strangled sound like someone had run over her toes with a loaded wheelbarrow. At the time he thought he had accidentally banged her head against the hardwood arm rest, which he didn't feel too badly about, considering the knee he'd taken to the gut. It was only afterwards that he began to think of things, when the sweat was cooling on his shoulders and he actually had the presence of mind to notice the spotty stain on the ancient divan, that he began to realize things were not entirely as they seemed.

Unsurprisingly, he swore. First in German, then in Norwegian, of all things.

"I'd ask 'Who do you kiss with that mouth, Cloud?' but I guess I already know, don't I?" she laughed madly and probably a little too loudly with a drunken high that could not be entirely in appreciation of her own cleverness, squirming to collect her leotard so that they could claim some sort of innocent occupation should they be discovered.

With a charming level of subtlety he pulled on his trousers and then pointed deliberately at the spotty stain. "Mia. What. is. that."

She looked at it critically for a moment and he could watch her heart beat so hard that the hair that hung against her chest tremored with it as she formulated her lie.

"It must be spleen juice, from my spleen. I guess you were too rough!"

"Shaktiel."

She sighed, resigned that the proverbial jig was up and struck what she felt was a very winsome and fetching post, pillowing her cheek against her folded hands.

"Well, what do you think it is Macguyver?"

He put his shirt back on and ran his hand through his hair, tugging on it hard before cracking his knuckles and then flopping bonelessly back on the divan.

"All right. Start explaining."

"What, you slept through all of Prof Delaney's important lectures? Even the ones with the pictures? Okay, I'll start: kids, we all know what it's like to feel ashamed about having certain kinds of feelings -- "

"Shaktiel."

She leaned on her hand a little disillusioned, "I somehow feel cheated that you've done most of your name yelling after you were done fondling my incredibly hot, naked body." She stretched her legs and wriggled her toes in the air experimentally. "You see, puppet, it's like this. I must appologize because I wasn't really totally honest with you when I told you the poignant story of your deflowerment at my capable hands!"

"Keep going," he said, fearing and dreading any of the possible explanations that would soon spout jubuliantly from her lips.

"Well, that beautiful story I told you I was forced to make up entirely myself!" she did not seem particularly upset, more satisfied, like an obese cat who has eaten an entire pork roast. "Maybe I should write totally hot novels."

"The pictures," he sputtered, and she shrugged.

"Oh, I still had you down for the count, Seabiscuit. Only, well, rohypnol is really only useful as a daterape drug on like, little spindly girls. You have to weigh more than a pile of bowling balls -- I am speaking from experience here not only because I had to drag your drunken carcass into the house but also because you were just on top of me!" she reminded contentedly. He groaned and she grinned, insufferably pleased with herself, "You are totally the biggest dope ever. All I did was get you out of your clothes and take some instructive pictures. You mostly drooled on the bed. I had to wash all my sheets! It was so gross." She was unable to contain herself any further and again lost herself laughing half-crazily against her fist. "My favorite part of this heart-warming story is that maybe you could have figured this mystery out if you had actually, you know, looked rohypnol up in a book or something. You are so gullible." She finished, and punched him in what she felt was a very affectionate way, "So how does it feel to be a consenting adult?!"

"It sucks," he said.

But maybe that wasn't totally honest, either.

*

#72 - Fixed - Angels Short

"So, my goslings," began Demeter Serraffield, a lap full of Baby, who had fallen asleep in the third act and was now curled soundly against her bosom, "What did you think of Peter Pan?"

"The novel is much more interesting," Jibreel said at once, her prim little feet in rolled down socks dangling over the edge of the car seat, "I found the language much more idiosyncratic than in the play, although they have the same author. Of course, Nabakov is more to my taste."

Her elder brother crossed his arms and scowled, "I think Jibs is right."

This caused Demi to giggle into the back of her hand and exchange looks with her husband, because there was little chance that their eight-year-old firstborn had any idea what the actual definition of idiosyncratic was, and would not have used it in conversation even if he had, likely finding the word "too frilly," nor had he the slightest idea of who Nabakov was, and probably thought him the artist of Peanuts.

"Oh?" she asked politely.

He was eager to elaborate on his unhappiness with the stage preformance. "Peter Pan a great big girl."

"Of course he was. Her name was Susan Post. Here you can see it on my program," his sister said officiously, unfolding her pristine personal copy of that object. Rachel waved his hands at her in childish disgust.

"I know it was a real girl playing him, goofus. I just mean that when mum and you read Peter and Wendy aloud, well, he was meaner and sterner and lots more cool. He fought pirates and Indians and stuff, and cut of a guy's hand and fed it to a crocodile," he said admiringly, then continued, obviously scandalized, "Not a little ponce in green tights with ruffles around his neck. And not, you know, a lady."

"It wasn't a very convincing or accurate portrayal of skeleton leaves," agreed his younger sister matter-of-factly, "One expects them to be less leafy and more skeletony."

"They are rubber tree leaves, darling," corrected their mother gently, lest they began to have images of graveyard trees budding forth skeleton leaves in the winter time. "They are called so because they are quite nearly transparent and the veins that run through are very clearly defined, rather like the spine and ribs. Hevea brasiliensis, my poppet."

"I stand corrected," Jibreel said, perhaps a bit sullenly, being seven and clearly accustomed to being the consulted expert on everything.

"Tights," Rachel repeated disgustedly, and then shook his head.

"The only guy who can wear tights and still be cool is Batman," agreed Konrad Decker, who sat across from Rachel, his arms crossed and his hair falling rebelliously into his face. At the moment, Demi knew, as mothers do, that Rachel and Amatiel had already agreed that when they grew up, they would both be Batman.

Zadkiel considered this statement for a moment, then seriously offered his own, "It is silly to want to stay twelve forever."

Demi laughed, and shifting Samand'riel to her other hip, loosed one hand to gently ruffle his hair, "Of course not, poppet. It is not in you to wish to be forever twelve. That is not your place. You are meant to grow up."

"I have never grown up," observed Jibreel solemnly, and for a moment an awkward silence pervaded the compartment of the hired car. Again Demi exchanged looks with her husband and then gave a brilliant if slightly insincere smile.

"You will this time, my darling duck, so don't worry about rushing things."

"I am tired of being seven," she said crossly, for it was past her bedtime, "I have done it too many times already. I should like to be nine for once."

Rachel handled this situation with the delicacy it merited, his being her only elder brother. "Shove off, Jibs."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"I think it would be absoltutely splendorous to not grow up," observed Melly, kicking her feet, "Then you could never grow out of your favorite clothes and no one would ever have to let them down and spoil the hems. Of course I wouldn't want to be seen in that dreadful nightgown that Wendy wears. It is hidetontous. I would have a sweet little chemise in pale yellow, with ribbons as the trim. Geisswein, I should say."

"You would look lovely in Geisswein, my precious," agreed Demi, resolving to give just such a nightgown to the little girl as an early Christmas present.

"Being a little girl is silly," announced Jibs, petulant that the conversation had drifted away from her.

"Being a little girl is wonderful," disagreed her mother in a way that was not particularly disagreeable, "And it is very rare and amazing, because once you are done with being a little girl you can never be one again."

Jibreel was not entirely convinced. "I think you're just saying that because you're still a little girl."

"I think," Demi laughed, "That you are at least partially correct."

*

Notes: I have the dentist this morning, so I will be absoltutely useless for the rest of the day, so the offering is early.

#33 - Too Much

She had said: someday you will want to take some lovely girl out on the floor, and then all the combat training you have had will amount to a sweet nothing, for there are other things besides maiming blows and killing throws that every man ought to know.

So Zadkiel had agreed to it, although Duriel privately thought this was because he seemed unable to deny his tiny wife anything she asked. At ten-thirty, instead of on the practice ground they met in the auxillary ballroom where today's lesson was to be taught by his master's fairy wife, who had declared that if a boy were ready to be trained on an undulled weapon he was more than ready enough to learn a mazurka and a landler. Their inagural lesson went as so:

"The first thing you must remember," Jabriel said, merry and low, "Is that the dance is nothing more than moving in a particular way -- and not a very complicated way at that."

Despite his belief that she would never willingly lead him astray, Duriel was skeptical.

"It's all steps."

She shook her head, "You musn't think of it as separate steps. You must think of it as a few simple movements. Here, I'll show you," she looked searchingly over her shoulder and then smiled. "Zadkiel, you will give us a tune, won't you?"

Zadkiel gave her a long, silent answer, and then lifted his viola to his shoulder. Gabriel, who sat at his feet, began to squeal happily when she realized her father was to play. This quite interrupted the tempo of the music and Jabriel giggled helplessly until Zadkiel fixed a solemn eye on his daughter. She stilled almost immediately.

"VERY QUIET," she announced in a rather unquiet fashion, and then lapsed into polite silence, fixing her round eyes on her mother.

"Of course, first the gentleman bows and the lady curtsies, unless this is a festival dance, where you shouldn't worry overly much about formalities," she began, falling into a light, short curtsey. Samand'riel bowed smartly in turn, rising on his toes as he did so.

"Thas because," he offered conspiratorily, "A body is usually dead drunk and so rare remembers to do anything so grand."

Duriel raised an unsurprised eyebrow and Jabriel giggled again, mad and giddy as a gentle soul can be, and then she and Samand'riel situated themselves for the beginning of the waltz.

"The gentleman puts one hand on the back like so, and then the lady puts one hand on the shoulder as you see, and the other two are here," she explained, lacing her fingers through Samand'riel's square ended ones, "The gentleman always leads the dance and the lady follows," she added, nodding down at her feet, trim ankles exposed in a pair of fine red dancing shoes, "The feet begin as so, with the gentleman's between the lady's right here. This is to make his first step easy, so he can lead the lady along."

"And the step comes on the beat," observed Duriel, arms folded over his narrow chest as he watched the entire affair closely.

"Precisely," answered Jabriel. "Six beats in the quick waltz, but you must think of it as only three repeated twice, as that is easier to manage," she nodded and then Samand'riel took his first step on the beat, and the rest followed briskly and breathlessly as she was swept about the floor. After a few turns of the hardwood, Samand'riel brought them both to a rest before the uncertain pupil. She clasped his shoulder supportively and then patted him on the back, "Don't worry. We'll go through again more slowly so that you can see the steps and understand the movement before we try it ourselves."

The viola music did not miss a beat, but over it came Zadkiel's abrupt veto. "He has been trained to analyze movement patterns. If he cannot do it on the hardwood then his life is forfeit on the battlefield."

Duriel ran his hand through his hair distractedly, but did not turn to look over his shoulder at his master, "Just the once through then?"

"That should be more than sufficient," answered Zadkiel, his attention again on his viola.

"Don't think about the turn," advised Jabriel gently as Samand'riel bent down to scoop up his daughter and Duriel took his place a little awkwardly in front of her, "Because it happens naturally. That's where you lead to the beat. And don't concentrate on just your feet. A dance is danced with the whole body." Duriel put one of his hands on her back where it tremored once and was still. She took his hand and settled her other palm light against his shoulder.

"Um. Duriel," said Zadkiel shortly, and his apprentice looked up sharply as if he'd gotten caught with his hand down her dress. However, his master only said mildly, "Don't step on her feet."

With that, he struck up the waltz again, and after a steeling breath, Duriel swept her off, stepped to the right, then toe to heel, the shift of weight, the square and then the forward step, toe to heel again and then the turn true. The turn did happen naturally, as she had said it would, and then it was around again and again, the spill of the skirt as it frothed around her shins, ankles flashing like white pearls. It was almost too soon when they were back before the other three. It was so fast, like the run of his heartbeat, that although he was accostomed to far harder exercise he was almost breathless -- although this was also possibly because of the soft, full brush of Jabriel as she leaned forward and laughed sweetly, her forehead on his shoulder.

"Splendid, Duriel," she said, when she had finally managed her breath again, "You are very good to have understood the steps so quickly," and here her mouth trembled until she lost herself in soft giggles again. "But perhaps next time we will try a bit harder to remember an important facet of dancing."

"What's that?" he asked, mildly embarassed from both the praise and the implication that he had not quite gotten everything right the very first time.

Jabriel stood on her toes to ruffle his hair affectionately.

"In the future we will strive to remember the beat."

#42 - Triangle - Angels Short

Her heart always skipped when she heard the quiet rattle of the service door, even sitting at the top of the stairs with a forgotten book absently open on her lap. She took more time and care going down the stairs now than she'd done even as little as a month ago because she could already feel the weight building around her middle, and it was plain to anyone who looked that she was in a delicate condition. It wouldn't do to dash herself down the stairs and have the baby come out brain-addled -- and then she'd only have herself to blame.

She was some time going down the dark, narrow stairs, so that when she finally reached the small door set into the wall she met Duriel as he was coming in, all black cloak over cardinal, a wide arc splatter of gore on his clothes and in his hair as usual. She stood on her toes to kiss him as was the usual play of these events, but he gave her a steady look as he shrugged out of his cloak and made space in the passageway and Samael came in behind him, grinning with all teeth, a soft glow in the dim light.

He was plastered, as if he'd been dunked in sticky, red-brown paint and there were bits all over him that she could identify only because of inherent knowledge of body systems: lung and intestine and a fine bit of spine, muscle tissue and soft pebbly brain, bits of flayed skin. His hair was slicked back, murder brown against his head, and his cloak hung in heavy, stiff planes of dried plasma and bile. He looked supernally pleased with himself as Duriel pulled the door closed behind him and locked and bolted it. Gabriel could think of nothing to say, and then finally managed:

"Raspberries, Sams. You look as if you rolled in it."

Duriel turned back with one impassive eyebrow raised and answered before his student could quip, "He did roll in it."

She sighed and dumped an armful of Duriel's cloak on the stairwell and then fussed over dragging Samael out of the sticky mess of his own. The honestly red-headed stepchild 'assisted' by wiggling and waggling around as she dragged it off.

"You are so kinky boss," he said helpfully as she finally managed to yank the last clasp off, "Standing here and watching your preggers wife sexily and caressingly undress me right in front of you. What I'm really wondering is which of us you want to call out your name throatily in the night."

"Samael," said Duriel darkly, "I suggest you go and wash while you still have things left to wash."

The boy in question elbowed Gabriel gently, leaving a dark cherry print across one shoulder, "See, he's so hot for me. Threatening me is the only way he can release his sexual frustration!"

"Samael."

He grinned again, all teeth, and then locked himself in the cramped half bath that stood at the left of the stairs, the one that had been put in some years ago as a convenience for the bodyguard quartered nearby and now dutifully served as the primary bath used by Kezef, captain of the Malake Habbalah. Gabriel and Duriel, who stood in the narrow hallway that connected the bodyguard's quarter's with the small bath were treated to moving strains of maudlin love songs as Samael belted them from his belly while he properly scrubbed himself.

Duriel did not allow himself the luxury of a disgruntled sigh, "I thought it best to bring him here, rather than let him track all that gore through civilian quarters and up to Shateiel's. Less mess means fewer questions, and here we could travel mostly over grass which won't hold the trail in the dew."

Gabriel shrugged blissfully as she began the tedious process of bundling the two dark cloaks together, "You needn't ever make an excuse for bringing him home, Duriel," she smiled fondly, "I know he seems to be the worst sort of trouble sometimes, but he does have a good heart, and even if he didn't -- well, he's my Samael and it has been my sworn duty to look after him since he was twelve. He needs it, being born unfortunately and rather desperately unclever," she laughed, "And if I didn't do it I can't possibly imagine who would."

"I know," Duriel answered shortly, and seated himself on the low stone steps to unbuckle his boots as Gabriel continued to wrestle with the two enormous cloaks.

"We're his family," she added gently.

This time his answer was some time coming, but finally he ran his fingers through his dark hair, sticky and clumping from the synpathetic blood and answered.

"I know."

Freshly scrubbed and laundered and resembling something like a damp version of his Samael-while-not-Kushiel self, Samael reappeared some few minutes later and Duriel pressed past him for the overdue luxury of the shower. Gabriel forced both the black cloaks into a large tub kept under the stairwell for just this purpose and pushed them under several times with a long stick, the routine of the Habbalah having already become seamlessly woven into the routine of her life. Duriel had left a stain on the stone which Samael was kicked back by, as if it were an artistic masterpiece. She considered it thoughtfully and then experimentally bent just slightly but then grimaced and then straightened.

Samael clapped her on the butt sympathetically, "It's all right, Julie of the Hippos. I'll do it for you."

He found a mop in an alcove, and dampened in the water of the cloak-tub, this succeded in thinning the stain pink enough so that it would no longer be noticable. Satisfied, Gabriel squeezed his arm.

"Come on. Let's go make coffee."

The understood 'us' of the previous statement in the end boiled down to Gabriel bustling about and setting the pot on to percolate while Samael sat in one of the chairs by the bar and offered what he felt were very thoughtful observations about her pregnancy and the identity of her yet unborn child.

"I bet it comes out all sulky and quiet like Big Red and you gotta shake it when you want it to make noise." Then he leaned back in his chair, "Or maybe you'll be blessed by heaven and it'll come out totally like me."

She rolled her eyes devestatingly as she set down three cups and the cream and sugar, "I know I'll only be so lucky if I accidentally drop the baby on her head a few times before her skull fully forms."

Samael made a moronically adolescent kissy face at her, "Hey, hey, still sharp even though you're roly-poly. Uncle Sams feels your pain, flutterbrain. I was pregnant once!" he remembered aloud nostalgically.

"You weren't really pregnant," she reminded exasperatedly, mixing his cream and sugar together carefully and depositing the fine china cup in front of him with a delicate tinkle, "Stuffing a pillow down your front does not count, even if you persist in doing it for a week, and even if you continually claim that Raguel got you up the duff."

"He would never own up to the positive miracle of being a father. It is why I terminated the pregnancy," Samael reflected wistfully.

"I can't imagine why," and that was Duriel from the doorway as Gabriel fluttered over to him and offered his own cup and saucer before sitting at the bar with hers.

"Some men just ain't cut out for paternal responsibilities," Samael answered amiably, as if he were an expert on the subject of fatherhood, "Not like you, Ol' Yeller. You were born old as dirt. Took museli in your bottle and wanted old man rub for your nappy rash. I heard it from a very reliable confidential source named Shateiel," he added, as if this were not an obvious lie and such corroboration made it the honest truth.

"That sounds like her," remarked Duriel blandly over the rim of his coffee cup, and Gabriel giggled, cheeky and uncorrected.

"I, of course," Samael offered unsolicited, "Have never told a lie in my entire life."

"Of course not," was the rumble from the doorway, and Gabriel giggled again as she drained the last of her coffee.

"Just so we're all clear and hunky-dory and on the same page there, bossman."

"I think I understand the situation."

Collecting her own cup and saucer and putting them neatly away in the sink, Gabriel fluffed at her now stained and limp dress ineffectually and sighed.

"While the conversation is riveting, I now smell faintly as if I were the one who rolled in -- " here she paused and seemed quite at a loss, "Whatever or whoever it was that you rolled in. I've got to have a bath," she turned back to look over her shoulder in the doorway and smiled tiredly at the both of them, "Be good to one another while I'm gone."

Thirty seconds passed uneventfully as Duriel finished his coffee, and Samael was about to cheerfully introduce a new topic of conversation to the floor with a healthy you know boss, Gabs is still pretty hot even when she's preggo when Duriel matter-of-factly sat his cup and saucer down on the corner of the bar and the two of them shared a profound moment of understanding. For Samael, the moment of understanding went something like this: I am going to have passionate sex with my glowing wife in the master bathroom. Please excuse me. Duriel left the room, and Samael consoled himself by eating a tea biscuit and imagining Duriel wearing grossly embarassing outfits, usually trimmed by lace or fringe. This did not help immensely, but it did help a little, and he ate most of a plate of biscuits this way, feeling raw and bony and very sixteen. Eventually he tired of eating biscuits and pillowed his sharp chin on his folded hands and waited impassively in the empty kitchen.

Gabriel reappeared some time later, looking calm and warm and radiant in a robe and bare feet, damp hair a tangle over one shoulder, ageless, pregnant, and not quite seventeen.

"It's very late," she said, "And it's chilly out. Rather than have to walk across the common, Duriel thought you might like to sleep here."

He looked up sharply, and for a moment it seemed as if the thought didn't quite parsed right in his brain, so Gabriel squeezed his shoulder playfully.

"The bodyguard's quarters are still in good order. It's maybe not the highest of luxury, seeing as how it was fitted to Duriel's tastes, but it is comfortable enough, and I can promise Peter won't disturb you."

Samael was uncharateristically silent, and Gabriel began to feel unsure of herself, "Of course, if you'd rather go back -- "

"No, I'll stay," he said abruptly, and stood up, all long legs and arms: a muscled scarecrow with a belly full of biscuits. She looped her arm affectionately around his waist once and started for the narrow stairs.

In the room she fussed around until she found something comfortable to wear -- a pair of old, loose pants that Duriel had left behind, and he didn't even make any questionable comments as she dropped them into his waiting arms. She turned her back and winsomely closed her eyes as he rustled into his borrowed pyjamas -- although goodness knows he had few secrets to hide from her as she had seen all his treasures numerous times before and often in public.

The blankets on the bed were thin so she found a heavier one in the linen closet and brought it back to properly tuck him in. He looked mildly unsettled.

"You sure you and the boss don't come down here to have torrid roleplaying sessions and these sheets aren't all filmy with your mingled sweat?"

She laughed, "They're clean."

He wrinkled his nose, "That didn't exactly answer my question -- "

"Breakfast is at seven sharp and will be pancakes and bacon. Sorry it seems a bit early, but tomorrow is a council session and bound to be a long day. If you're not at the table by seven, I'll send Peter to wake you."

"You make the sexiest threats when they involve flamingly sparkley fairies."

She brushed the hair out of his eyes and then leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. She smelled of milk and cinnamon and roses and he closed his eyes and waited.

"Be a good boy now, and try and get some sleep." That was her from the doorway, standing with the lamp. He didn't answer, so she turned to go and leave him to the quiet darkness. She was caught suddenly by his half-frantic voice splitting the air.

"You know, don't you?" he asked, unsure but so needful, "You know. You know why I rolled in it. You do, don't you, Gabs? You know."

She smiled, warm and secret and gentle, and he caught it in the flicker of the lamp, "I can't help but know, Sams. We're the same kind." She hooded the lamp, "It's all right, Sams-baby. Just relax and go to sleep. You can't change who you are, and nobody wants you to. We'll be here in the morning."

"So long as you are, it's all right," he said finally, setting back into the bed.

"I know," she said, and then was gone.

*

Notes: Apparently I was really desperate to do the shape themed ones first. For Tams with affections. Hopes this makes the trials a little easier <3.

Should go watch Cake Dance.

http://www.sambakza.net/

Click 'english' at the bottom, obviously, then amalloc. I BELIEVE IN THE STORY OF ONE TRUE LOVE.

And if you know me, you know what I'm thinking about.

#92 - Christmas

After all of it they were both quiet, her head bowed slightly so that her rosewood dark hair hung into her face and she lay still, listening to his breathing. The sweat still stood between them, one of his hands in the small of her back, one of her knees pressed softly against the rise of his rib cage. His other hand was in her hair, absently tangling it into snarly knots with long fingers. A clock chimed thoughtfully in the halflit shadows near the Roccoco settee and she made a surprised little noise almost lost against his chest and then was scrambling up and half over him in attempt to read the elegantly Swiss milled dial.

"Oh," she said at once, a shy smile and tilted head so that a loose trail of curls spilled across his chest, "Oh, I completely forgot. Merry Christmas, Nathan."

"It's Christmas," he answered, his eyes on the line of her throat as if he'd forgotten the date entirely, had never considered it in the first place, and had only been lately reminded.

"Christmas Day," she confirmed as she lay back down, her ear against his shoulder, "And is has been for hours now, I guess almost since we left the Hot Box after the last show. I guess I can't be that good at keeping the time."

"Adelaide," he started at once, the sound deep in the back of his throat, "I have to appologize to you. I didn't know -- " and that was perhaps a lie, because if he hadn't know it was because he had read the signs wrong and purposefully probably, had ignored what his gut told him about her and her china blue eyes and little green skirts and flats and her one-way ticket from Coal Black, Kentucky and her mother, god-rest-her-soul. He had ignored them because he had wanted to ignore them, and it had been easy to, to pretend that she was a different kind of woman meant for different kinds of things. She was a dancer at a nightclub. Such dolls had been places and seen things. Such dolls were old hands and knew the cleared equations for minks and pearls and dinners at the Empire Room. But such dolls had not graduated from the Consolidated County High School with good marks in plant science and such dolls did not leave blood on the sheet.

He was a grade A heel and he knew it, and he had really known it going into the thing, but such things are easy to ignore when it's silk and soft, warm flesh in a guest suite at the Waldorf-Astoria. It was easy to ignore when it was her, and he'd never wanted another woman in the same way as round-eyed and simple, gentle, honest Adelaide. He had told her when they first met two months previous that he rarely had dealings with dolls such as herself, and that much had been true and honest when he said it. She wasn't a pool hall moll and she wasn't a glittering gold digger with diamonds in her eyes and heels to pierce a man's heart. She liked waffles and jazz and Bing Crosby, she said, and wanted to grow a rose tree. She wasn't a piece that fit right into his world, but there she was: looking small and perfect with skin white like milk and eyes blue like the bay at midnight.

She was beautiful -- but then lots of dolls he had met were beautiful -- and would skin any cat who messed with them to boot. Dolls were expected to be beautiful. It was one of the requirements for being born a doll, he had decided, and not just a woman. But besides all that, she was also good in a way that he hadn't really ever thought the word existed. She was silly and simple and darling and sweet and gentle and caring and a hundred other words that meant where she really belonged was a Norman Rockwell painting, dandling a handsome firstborn son on her knee. She was church socials and PTA meetings and holidays with mother, not craps and card games and liquor before nine in the morning. She belonged in Coal Black and not in his borrowed bed, a nicer town for a nicer woman. Sure the Astoria was fine for tonight, for right now, for today, for this moment, but he was a man who could guarantee nothing and she was a doll who deserved a guarantee. She needed a nice double bed from the Sears-Roebuck catalog, not whorled Eurpoean four poster that rented two-sixty a night. At home he slept on an iron frame with a shabby single mattress thrown on it. His place wasn't her place. She deserved better, like her Dr. Tanner and maybe a house on the hill in a one-horse town.

"Don't say you're sorry," she said very seriously, "I'm not sorry."

"You still had -- " he started and then shook his head and wanted to swear long and loud at himself, Yiddish to Italian to German to English, "I ruined you, Adelaide -- "

She trembled once, and her voice was quiet, "I knew what was going to happen, Nathan," she always lingered over his name, like that was her favorite part of any sentence she spun out, "I wanted it to be you." She lowered her head again and closed her eyes, "I know what some people say about you, but I think you're a very good man. I think you're kind, and I respect you. And of course I think you're handsome and smart and wonderful, because you are." She lay her cheek smooth against his chest and her eyelashes fluttered, "And I know what people might say about me now, but I don't care. I know who you are, Nathan Detroit, and I wanted to be with you."

He didn't know what to say to that, but she took a deep breath and continued.

"I want to be with you, still, but I understand that that's not usually how things like this work out, and that's all right with me. I would never, ever want to make you unhappy, Nathan. You see, it would have been easy to stay in Coal Black and marry a nice man and have a bunch of nice kids and do nice things, but just because things are nice doesn't mean they're good. I wanted to come to the City, from the moment I was born maybe. I wanted to come to the City and I wanted to meet you. And I have, so now that's so much of my life now that's good and full. And I know that must sound so silly." She laughed, uncertain and unsteady, and when she looked up again she was smiling, but there were tears standing at the corners of her eyes, "But it's because I love you, Nathan Detroit."

To that, from a woman like Adelaide, there could be only one response.

"Marry me."

"Nathan."

"Adelaide. Marry me."

"But Nathan, you wouldn't want -- "

"Would it make you happy?" he asked, easily seizing her wrist and pulling it away from her face so he could look at her, "Would it make you happy to be with me, knowing that it's me and not Perry Como or Jimmy Cagney or anybody else fancy, just Nathan Detroit?"

She lay her head against her shoulder, a spill of mahogany over the pillow, and she looked like a child who could not find her way, "Of course it would."

"Then it would make me happy, Adelaide," he said, and discovered that surprisingly this was true. He had never been a selfless man, but then again, maybe the promise of having her with him permanently was not so much a selfless decision. She was not a piece meant to fit into his world, but now she was there and he didn't think he could manage it if he lost her: loving, forgiving Adelaide who wanted him over anyone else probably because she'd been dropped on her head too many times as a baby, "Say you'll marry me, and in the morning I'll go out and buy you a ring."

"All right," she said, laughing light and long until she was breathless, in a way that would have been strange coming from any other woman in any similar situation, "I'll marry you."

"Then," he said, much more at peace, "Merry Christmas."

*

Notes: Wow, two in short succession. I have wanted to write this one for a long time.

#44 - Circle

This is a story about fathers and sons.

When he was twelve years old, Zadkiel pressed a hardwood pole into hands and said, "From today, I will teach you the lance. There are easier weapons and there are flashier weapons, but this lance is the weapon of a sentinel. You will respect it because you were born a soldier, and that weapon is your life. Here commences your education."

The throw wasn't one of the opening moves he was taught. In fact, he wasn't really taught many opening moves in the first weeks, as if Zadkiel wanted him to learn exactly what dirt and sawdust tasted like. Duriel had never been a scrawny, thin-armed target like his closest friend, but learning the lance had torn the still-building muscles of his arms apart and knit them back together again into something wholly different. In the first weeks he learned exactly how many ways you could fell a person without killing them, courtesy of the lance. It was only a long time after this that Zadkiel began teaching him the throw, when the lance had become not only his life but his honor. This was before he'd decided that the world no longer had room for any honor.

The lance was an unusual weapon for close combat, and being the sole practicioner, Zadkiel had largely invented all the standard moves and postures for lance combat -- invented them or adapted them from other places. It was a patchwork where Zadkiel was the only master and Duriel the only student. There were no other sources to consult. It was only the two of them, cardinal and grey-blue in the circle. Duriel was his inheritor, and that right had been bought and paid for with a thousand busted knuckles and healing bruises, furrows ploughed into the ground from the shock of their exchanges.

The throw itself was simple enough in concept. The lance to the middle torso could sink deep into flesh and catch right below the ribcage. It was a simple machine: lever and pivot, and then the target could be thrown over the shoulder like pitched hay. The throw was prefaced with two clearing sweeps ahead that would throw a threshed swath around the lancer. Zadkiel's lance was heavy, and even a glancing blow told sharply, as Duriel could attest. The move was clean and elegant if preformed correctly, and the most critical movement was the first strike. If the lance did not pierce the chest at the proper place, then it would get jammed between the ribs and leave the flank wide open for a few seconds -- more than enough to get a man killed as he wrenched his lance out of thrashing demon flesh.

No, to master the throw required a keen eye. It required practice and accuracy. The summer of his fourteenth year, Duriel spent his days learning to split bluebottles with throwing knives, after which his strike and pitch was much improved.

From Zadkiel he had learned the strike and pitch, but it was only after he was put in the ground that Duriel fully understood that he had learned Zadkiel's lance, and that to progress he had to learn the intricacies of Duriel's lance. His strengths were not Zadkiel's strengths: heavy of bone and capable of killing blows from the sheer force behind them. His advantage was height and his advantage was speed, and the times he lived in were not Zadkiel's times, as the Habbalah had never been Zadkiel's calling. And so Duriel's lance was not a maiming lance, but a killing lance, and because he could not put the ploughing shoulder behind the first strike to drive it through far enough for a confirmed kill and then wrench it out far enough for a successful pitch, Duriel adapted the throw. After the first sharp strike they weren't pitched so much as levered up into the air and then brought down hard on their necks, the crunch of bone the tell of the efficiency in the move. A boot set to the shoulder blade and the lance could be pulled out cleanly even as the lancer turned to acquire a new target.

Duriel taught Samael the lance, but Samael learned the scythe and the throw changed again owing to the differences in hardware. As a student, Samael was brilliant, intuitive, and unorthodox, and his kills would have probably chilled any man but a father. When he threw he did not pitch at all, but rather slung wildly in a gruesome arc that send spongy ribmass and bauble bubble grape sized bits of lungs, gills, and labyrinths splattering like thick paint. It was when Samael began hunting with him that things truly began to get messy, because a scythe was not a weapon meant for bloodless kills, nor was the angel of death himself.

Samael's throw started with the cursory double mansplitting sweeps, and then he did a dainty hand-over-hand twirl of his scythe, a crossover, as if he was playing the piano. This left the scythe blade like a fish hook under the ribs, clean to lever him up, over the shoulder and fling him off to the side. Of course, the ribcages usually didn't last long enough for a proper pitch, not against the keeness of Tall Slaughter's hungry edge. So there were always vascular tissues and marrow flying like spotty rain as Samael tipped them to the side, blade sliding out slick and easy as they were slung off dead. It was meaty, brilliant, and disgusting. It was Samael.

With Rachel's polearm-scalpel-glaive the blade was not long or curved enough on its own to bury itself hard enough in flesh to provide with a proper pitch, so Rachel developed an unconscious habit of adding a wrenching twist as he buried the blade in flesh, driving it in like a corkscrew. It came out of undead flesh easily enough, and the only things likely to rain out of the chests of his victims were fat corpse maggots. Because the dead were likely to stubbornly rise again even after being put down, he usually tried to sling them into trees and buildings and walls or even the ground, where they made sick wet sounds, like tissue paper used too often. And more than any of the others he learned to fight one-handed, the other always ready to draw or reload a revolver. He was his father's son in a new age.

And then.

When he was eight years old, Duriel pressed a hardwood pole into his hands and said, "From today, I will teach you the lance."

And Zadkiel took it.

#43 - Square

There were few things that Cheshire Finnegan respected in this world, and a man's wholesome good night's sleep after a brutal workday was obviously not one of them. Fucking up his life had to be one of her glorious natural endowments. She somehow always knew just which nerve to touch and which support to shatter to drive him to near self mutilation or homicide. He found her in the floor of the front room, sitting cross-legged with a sheetcake pan on the floor in front of her. She was beating the sheetcake pan with what he recognized as one of his work hammers -- dusty red over the head -- like she was John Henry on the railroad. The first thing he thought of is one knock to the base of her skull will solve all my Finnegan dilemmas. The second thing he thought was that's what she wants, so he didn't brain her out of the goodness of his heart, and also spite.

He listed behind her because he hadn't entirely gotten past the euphoric idea of snuffing her when she took a nail out of her mouth and drove it through the tin (and probably into the floor underneath) with one sharp strike.

The light from the narrow slotted window burned his head, so he covered his eyes and whimpered, "The fuck you think you're doing, Chess?"

She arched her back and stretched her paper-white anemic arms over her head, "Morning, sunshine of my life. I have decided today to become a fine artist. Seems it pays better than poetry and autobiography. Who would have guessed?"

He ground the back of his hand over his eyes and sat down forlornly in his ripped armchair. She had the decency not to start pounding on her anvil while he was prostrate.

"You gonna tell me how beating on a tin pie plate's gonna make your fortune, or do I have to guess?"

She rapped on the pan sharply and then waved the hammer at him instructively. "Don't call it a pie plate. Call it 'Inhumanity.' It's a work that I think wholly explores my incoherent rage involving destiny, gender roles, poverty, and my goddamned dumbass fallen husband."

He found a half empty beer from the night before and thoughtfully tossed back some hair-of-the-dog before summarizing his thoughts on her artistic masterwork.

"That's a fucking cake pan."

Her spidery little hand was up in the air, finger under his nose before he could even put the can down, "It's high art, you bastard. It was a cake pan. But then I beat on it with a hammer and drove some rusty nails through it. Now it is found art. Assemblage. Shit like this sells for a mint at a gallery uptown. Some fucking wallstreet joker wants this shit to put in his office to prove to other shits that he has culture." She stopped to consider him for a moment, and then turned her attention back to the cake pan, "Man, for somebody with your classy education you sometimes sure as hell seem like you're from the Kitchen." Her voice grated suddenly nasal in a fine New York drawl, "I'm a New England blueblood born and raised in the Bowry." She snorted and started to pound again.

"When I learned art, I learned real art. Art from Europe," he grunted, defensively his eyes shut against the dented metal of the can, "Da Vinci and Van Eyck and all those other people. People with history."

She laughed, shrill and climbing into octaves rarely traversed by the sane and then her lip curled into the snarly little smile that got stuck on her face sometimes and seemed damn near impossible to wash off.

"Well, if anybody's got fucking history, then it's me. I tell you what. Tomorrow, I'll bring home part of a toilet seat and you can beat the hell out of that and that can be your high art."

He was still unconvinced.

"A mangled toilet seat ain't art, Chess, and the Met ain't gonna buy that shit."

"You know, Raphael," she observed philosophically, pushing herself back so she could stand on long, stemmy legs and collect her statement, "Sometimes I doubt your commitment to the revolution."

He laughed this time, tired and bitter.

"Join the club."

*

Notes: For Katie. I hope you like it despite its lack of DRAMA <3.