FICTION: iconic conetl, teresa (au)

[xihe]

(writing theoretical character interactions)
 

 

 

 One moment, you’re spinning her around to face Bonnie, a hand on her waist and one on her wrist. “Look what I’ve found,” you’d declared, raising your eyebrows. “An old friend, back when I was bright-eyed and collared! And let me just say, I do mean old, bluebonnet. Positively ancient! Old as my enclade, bless her rotting little blister, and twice as stingy –”

She’s rigid in your grip. Shock, probably! You hadn’t expected to see a face so familiar in a station like this: the last time you’d seen Teresa, she’d been so very official, wearing the dignity of her office like a cloak. The dignity’s still there, but it’s worn. But whereas her eyes had gone wide - and who could blame her, when you’re not exactly up to old standards, either - you’d only hesitated for a moment.

A troll like this is a liability! A problem, really, and if you’re lucky, the sort that can be resolved with an airlock. A little harsh, maybe, but old grudges die hard. It’s been sweeps and sweeps since you last saw her, but that doesn’t stop the vicious surge of glee warming you from stub to frond.

“- and just like my enclade, did you know she’s an Imperial? At a party like this,” you laugh, rolling your cigarette to the corner of your mouth, all the better to grin. You lean in, fond and mockingly quiet: “Teresa, darling, sweetheart, what in the Empress’s name were you thinking –”

And the next moment, the floor’s flying up at you.

You manage not to fall. Old habits kick in and you catch yourself, do something with your feet that leaves you facing her even as you blink the spots from your eyes. (Some of them. The world’s pink, pink, pink, and the snow falling at the corner of your vision has nothing to do with the hit. She’s indigo. How the fuck did you forget she was indigo?)

She’s saying something, but you find you don’t really care.

There’s blood on your fingers when you touch your mouth, orange that glimmers in the station’s light. The cigarette’s not there anymore, and all you can taste iron. When your tongue brushes your fangs, hesitant, there’s a jolt of pain all the way up to your eyes.

“Oh my goodness,” you marvel, and you don’t bother to swallow the blood.

(There’s rage, bright and incadescent and stronger than anything you’ve felt in whole perigees, but more than that, there’s excitement.)

(You can’t believe she hit you.)

(You wonder if she’ll try again.)

You smile.

“Well, sweetchecks, it’s just a pleasure to see you, too.”