Archiving older fic: Bittersweet
Jun. 23rd, 2002 06:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eve11Bittersweet, by Eve11
Summary: Response to cofax's 250 word food challenge
Author Notes: For Cofax's 250 word food challenge; I'll squeak this one out before the season 4 premiere. It's unbetaed and newly finished, but what the hey.
Story Notes: Timeline: Somewhere during DWTB, I guess.
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The globbing mixture takes her by surprise, heating too quickly and launching itself out of the pot with a liquid 'pop'. Not pleasant, no indeed, and now it is on the ceiling and the high shelves. She will have to climb to reach it.
She scrabbles atop the counter, ignoring the twinge from her left leg and the shaky support of her biceps. This withered body is not what she remembers; it has atrophied in the space of a prison cell. So many cycles. She spits on her shirt and stands tippy-toe, all the while thinking she is too old to be wiping away chowder with her sleeve, but to frell with it and who cares. She will be a wizened child if she wants. Afterward, she doffs the soup-covered shirt and with a surreptitious glance about, tosses it back into the pot. Youth and truth and a smattering of witchcraft.
Later, the Dominar discovers her topless, perched on the counter and humming to herself.
"What the yotz is going on?"
She thumps gracelessly to the ground, curses groaning joints and sad, sagging bodies. "A recipe ruined, I'm afraid," she says amidst the clatter of pots. "I-it doesn't look it and tastes worse, but you recognize the smell, yes?"
He inhales deeply and smiles, child-comfort chasing age from his features. For a microt.
"Kevva. I haven't had that in . . . "
"I know." So many cycles, and they should both be so young. "And I haven't had any since yesterday."
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Summary: Response to cofax's 250 word food challenge
Author Notes: For Cofax's 250 word food challenge; I'll squeak this one out before the season 4 premiere. It's unbetaed and newly finished, but what the hey.
Story Notes: Timeline: Somewhere during DWTB, I guess.
------------------------------
The globbing mixture takes her by surprise, heating too quickly and launching itself out of the pot with a liquid 'pop'. Not pleasant, no indeed, and now it is on the ceiling and the high shelves. She will have to climb to reach it.
She scrabbles atop the counter, ignoring the twinge from her left leg and the shaky support of her biceps. This withered body is not what she remembers; it has atrophied in the space of a prison cell. So many cycles. She spits on her shirt and stands tippy-toe, all the while thinking she is too old to be wiping away chowder with her sleeve, but to frell with it and who cares. She will be a wizened child if she wants. Afterward, she doffs the soup-covered shirt and with a surreptitious glance about, tosses it back into the pot. Youth and truth and a smattering of witchcraft.
Later, the Dominar discovers her topless, perched on the counter and humming to herself.
"What the yotz is going on?"
She thumps gracelessly to the ground, curses groaning joints and sad, sagging bodies. "A recipe ruined, I'm afraid," she says amidst the clatter of pots. "I-it doesn't look it and tastes worse, but you recognize the smell, yes?"
He inhales deeply and smiles, child-comfort chasing age from his features. For a microt.
"Kevva. I haven't had that in . . . "
"I know." So many cycles, and they should both be so young. "And I haven't had any since yesterday."
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