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carlyinromeTITLE: And History Books Forgot About Us
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
PAIRING: Kennedy/Tara
SUMMARY: The girl comes to Kennedy in dreams.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: For
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femslash_minis round 55, per ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
frogfarm’s request. Title from Regina Spektor’s Samson. The girl comes to Kennedy in dreams. Moonlight-pale skin, luminous large eyes, golden hair hanging loose around her bare shoulders.
“Is this a Slayer dream?” Kennedy asks.
The girl’s hands fan over her white lace dress. “Does it feel like a Slayer dream?”
“I don’t know.”
The girl shrugs. “Well, you’re a Slayer. And it’s your dream.”
Kennedy can never get a straight answer here.
The kitchen is butter yellow and warm as a piece of toast. Kennedy’s bare feet pad across the linoleum, soundlessly.
The girl is at the stove, wearing an apron and red lipstick and looking like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Pots are bubbling; smells of spices perfume the air.
“You look thin,” the girl says. She doesn’t look up from the batter she’s stirring, the spoon moving deosil. Willow told Kennedy about that, something about stirring clockwise to stir the energy into the food.
“Because I am thin,” Kennedy says, and pulls herself up onto the counter. She swings her legs; the girl’s eyes glance off Kennedy’s boots, and she smiles.
“Skin and bones,” the girl murmurs, running her palm over her own ribs.
“And snakes and snails and puppy dog tails,” Kennedy adds.
The girl raises an eyebrow. “That’s what little boys are made of.”
Kennedy shrugs. “There’s no nursery rhyme for lesbians. I was practically a boy until I was twelve, anyway. Dirt and scraped knees and bugs and bullfrogs.”
The girl considers, her head bent in concentration, her gimlet eyes on her spoon whirling clockwise through the batter.
“‘Dirt and scraped knees and bugs and bullfrogs,’” she says finally, “I like that better than sugar and spice and everything nice.”
Kennedy grins. “Nice is overrated.” She twirls her forefinger in the girl’s batter, and then pops her finger into her mouth, up to the knuckle. It tastes sweet.
Kennedy picks thorns from the girl’s hair. Her fingers work through the fine, gold tresses, and the girl sits compliant beneath her touch.
“How did this happen?” Kennedy asks.
The girl’s legs are folded underneath her, and in this position and her pale silk chemise, she looks impossibly small and fragile, like those little sugar figurines Kennedy used to get in her Easter basket.
“Roses,” the girl says.
Kennedy frowns; she doesn’t know why she expected a straight answer. The thought takes precedence in her mind for a moment, and her careless fingers snag on a thorn. Kennedy exclaims, and brings the injured finger to her lips. The taste of copper floods her mouth.
“Poor thing,” the girl says. She takes Kennedy’s hand by the wrist, draws it toward her. She examines the cut for a moment and then presses her cotton-candy pink mouth, puckered in a kiss, to the bead of blood.
“All better,” she says. She lets Kennedy have her arm back.
“No,” Kennedy breathes. She takes a fistful of the girl’s hair and uses the hold to keep her in place while Kennedy leans in and kisses the girl properly.
She tastes sweet.
Kennedy paints her face with mud and pushes herself back into the thicket as far as she can go. She clutches the stake so hard her fingernails leave half-moons in the wood.
She has missed the hunt.
A whisper thrills through the leaves, and Kennedy crouches down to the soft, fragrant forest earth. It gives to her body, embracing her. Kennedy watches the blur of fast, slender legs, watches the heart-shaped hoof prints pressed into the earth.
Kennedy springs up, leaves and branches whipping against her skin. The hot, solid body of the animal, the timpani of its racing heart beating against Kennedy’s ribs. The wide eyes, wild with fear. Kennedy holds the deer by the neck as she drives the stake home, straight to the heart.
Gravity, suddenly, is pressing down on her, and Kennedy falls to the ground. The deer is gone; in its place, the girl, her dress stained with a pulpy, crushed strawberry of blood, her pale hair fanned out around her, twisted with leaves.
The girl takes a staccato breath. “There was a story—”
Kennedy drops her hands to her sides; the stake rolls away, silent on the plush of the forest floor.
“A girl and a deer,” Kennedy says. “I forgot—”
“You can only ever remember the very end,” the girl says, and closes her eyes.
The girl comes to Kennedy in dreams. But she can never stay.
“Is this a Slayer dream?” Kennedy asks.
The girl’s hands fan over her white lace dress. “Does it feel like a Slayer dream?”
“I don’t know.”
The girl shrugs. “Well, you’re a Slayer. And it’s your dream.”
Kennedy can never get a straight answer here.
The kitchen is butter yellow and warm as a piece of toast. Kennedy’s bare feet pad across the linoleum, soundlessly.
The girl is at the stove, wearing an apron and red lipstick and looking like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Pots are bubbling; smells of spices perfume the air.
“You look thin,” the girl says. She doesn’t look up from the batter she’s stirring, the spoon moving deosil. Willow told Kennedy about that, something about stirring clockwise to stir the energy into the food.
“Because I am thin,” Kennedy says, and pulls herself up onto the counter. She swings her legs; the girl’s eyes glance off Kennedy’s boots, and she smiles.
“Skin and bones,” the girl murmurs, running her palm over her own ribs.
“And snakes and snails and puppy dog tails,” Kennedy adds.
The girl raises an eyebrow. “That’s what little boys are made of.”
Kennedy shrugs. “There’s no nursery rhyme for lesbians. I was practically a boy until I was twelve, anyway. Dirt and scraped knees and bugs and bullfrogs.”
The girl considers, her head bent in concentration, her gimlet eyes on her spoon whirling clockwise through the batter.
“‘Dirt and scraped knees and bugs and bullfrogs,’” she says finally, “I like that better than sugar and spice and everything nice.”
Kennedy grins. “Nice is overrated.” She twirls her forefinger in the girl’s batter, and then pops her finger into her mouth, up to the knuckle. It tastes sweet.
Kennedy picks thorns from the girl’s hair. Her fingers work through the fine, gold tresses, and the girl sits compliant beneath her touch.
“How did this happen?” Kennedy asks.
The girl’s legs are folded underneath her, and in this position and her pale silk chemise, she looks impossibly small and fragile, like those little sugar figurines Kennedy used to get in her Easter basket.
“Roses,” the girl says.
Kennedy frowns; she doesn’t know why she expected a straight answer. The thought takes precedence in her mind for a moment, and her careless fingers snag on a thorn. Kennedy exclaims, and brings the injured finger to her lips. The taste of copper floods her mouth.
“Poor thing,” the girl says. She takes Kennedy’s hand by the wrist, draws it toward her. She examines the cut for a moment and then presses her cotton-candy pink mouth, puckered in a kiss, to the bead of blood.
“All better,” she says. She lets Kennedy have her arm back.
“No,” Kennedy breathes. She takes a fistful of the girl’s hair and uses the hold to keep her in place while Kennedy leans in and kisses the girl properly.
She tastes sweet.
Kennedy paints her face with mud and pushes herself back into the thicket as far as she can go. She clutches the stake so hard her fingernails leave half-moons in the wood.
She has missed the hunt.
A whisper thrills through the leaves, and Kennedy crouches down to the soft, fragrant forest earth. It gives to her body, embracing her. Kennedy watches the blur of fast, slender legs, watches the heart-shaped hoof prints pressed into the earth.
Kennedy springs up, leaves and branches whipping against her skin. The hot, solid body of the animal, the timpani of its racing heart beating against Kennedy’s ribs. The wide eyes, wild with fear. Kennedy holds the deer by the neck as she drives the stake home, straight to the heart.
Gravity, suddenly, is pressing down on her, and Kennedy falls to the ground. The deer is gone; in its place, the girl, her dress stained with a pulpy, crushed strawberry of blood, her pale hair fanned out around her, twisted with leaves.
The girl takes a staccato breath. “There was a story—”
Kennedy drops her hands to her sides; the stake rolls away, silent on the plush of the forest floor.
“A girl and a deer,” Kennedy says. “I forgot—”
“You can only ever remember the very end,” the girl says, and closes her eyes.
The girl comes to Kennedy in dreams. But she can never stay.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 07:28 pm (UTC)Each fragment perfectly formed, til you're admiring the rose and that last one turns and stabs you through the heart.
Thank you very much. I will return to this often as inspiration to improve my own writing.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 09:49 pm (UTC)Thanks very much! It was a tough prompt; I'm so glad I could do it justice for you.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-17 08:25 pm (UTC)Ow.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 09:52 pm (UTC)Thanks so much. It's nice to know I can still write for this fandom.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 02:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 09:55 pm (UTC)Hey stranger! Thanks; I'm glad you liked it. How have you been?
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 04:19 am (UTC)Gabrielle
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 09:56 pm (UTC)Thank you very much! I'm glad you liked it.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 04:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 09:58 pm (UTC)Thanks very much! I'm glad you liked it.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 03:13 am (UTC)Well done.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 07:48 pm (UTC)"And History Books Forgot About Us" (Your story)
Date: 2015-08-19 03:26 pm (UTC)Wonderful story, I was looking for it for quite a while, and just recently got up the courage to look it up and comment to you on it... Well Done and Nice Story!
Sincerely:
Vantiri.