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femslashficlets2015-11-22 10:55 pm
sidonie) wrote in femslashficlets2015-11-22 10:55 pm
Entry tags:
Possible Futures (Mad Max: Fury Road, Cheedo/the Dag)
Title: Possible Futures
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Pairing: Cheedo/the Dag
Rating: PG
Prompt: maybe
Word count: 615
Summary: All her life until now, the Dag has known exactly what would happen next.
(The night before the escape, fear and hope and uncertainty)
All her life until now, the Dag has known exactly what would happen next.
She was born in this place, with its windows and its walls. Everything here is ordered and familiar, from the texture of soft clean cloth against her skin to the sound of water running, quiet and constant as fear. She could close her eyes and walk a circuit around this room, weaving past obstacles, to sink down again on these cushions beside the fountain where Cheedo sits folded close against her, watching the moon through glass and waiting.
Once they step outside the Vault, that will change. Out there, Toast says, probability rules the field, and there's no predicting all outcomes. The most likely ones are death and pain regardless, but all the same, the Dag thinks sometimes that it might be worth it, to wonder and not to know.
Cheedo shifts beside her, breathing with the too-regular rhythm of enforced calm. She's afraid, and the Dag lays a hand against the back of her head to still her trembling. Her breathing shifts, fast and then slow, as the Dag runs fingers through her hair, lifts and weaves the strands into braids and nets in a spell to capture shadows. Does it work? Who knows. What matters is that she was on the edge of panic, and now she isn't.
"Do you think we can do it?" she says, almost too quiet to hear, but her voice isn't shaking.
"We can," the Dag says, "we will." No uncertainty. Anything less would be a crack in their resolve that they can't afford. But many things might happen in the desert, the stories say, and her mind spins with possibilities.
I don't know, she thinks, and maybe, and it frightens her, but not as much as staying behind.
This time, it's Cheedo who reaches for her – an arm around her waist, head on her chest, offering comfort. She's angular and heavy, safe, and this, too, is familiar. Not all known quantities are bad. The Dag could trace the curve of her smile in the dark, tell by touch whether it was practiced or real. Share space with someone long enough, and you learn to read them without sight or speech, and see the pieces of themselves they don't show to strangers. Cheedo has green things growing behind her ribcage, and flowers might be fragile, but their roots are tough.
They'll have to be tough, to survive. The sand and wind will pare them down to nothing, if they're not strong, and either way it will change them, and it will hurt.
We might die, she thinks, and bends down to kiss the top of Cheedo's bowed head, feels her breathing shift again. We might win. We might ride eternal with the Immortan's hounds at our heels, or we might be swept up into the sky, or the wasteland might swallow us. We might be free.
And then she shakes her head and laughs, because that's wrong, it's been wrong since the beginning. They've made this choice, and that means they already are.
"We can do it," she says, not pretending this time.
Cheedo turns her face toward the hollow of the Dag's shoulder, closed eyes and warm breath on bare skin; her heartbeat is steady, and when she smiles, the Dag knows it's real. Outside, the moon is high and bright, and the sands wait, deadly and dreaming. That's where they belong, and that's where they'll be going – out into the world, with all its possible futures. And yes, she thinks, stroking Cheedo's hair and imagining a story with an ending she doesn't know. It will hurt, and it will be worth it.
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Pairing: Cheedo/the Dag
Rating: PG
Prompt: maybe
Word count: 615
Summary: All her life until now, the Dag has known exactly what would happen next.
(The night before the escape, fear and hope and uncertainty)
All her life until now, the Dag has known exactly what would happen next.
She was born in this place, with its windows and its walls. Everything here is ordered and familiar, from the texture of soft clean cloth against her skin to the sound of water running, quiet and constant as fear. She could close her eyes and walk a circuit around this room, weaving past obstacles, to sink down again on these cushions beside the fountain where Cheedo sits folded close against her, watching the moon through glass and waiting.
Once they step outside the Vault, that will change. Out there, Toast says, probability rules the field, and there's no predicting all outcomes. The most likely ones are death and pain regardless, but all the same, the Dag thinks sometimes that it might be worth it, to wonder and not to know.
Cheedo shifts beside her, breathing with the too-regular rhythm of enforced calm. She's afraid, and the Dag lays a hand against the back of her head to still her trembling. Her breathing shifts, fast and then slow, as the Dag runs fingers through her hair, lifts and weaves the strands into braids and nets in a spell to capture shadows. Does it work? Who knows. What matters is that she was on the edge of panic, and now she isn't.
"Do you think we can do it?" she says, almost too quiet to hear, but her voice isn't shaking.
"We can," the Dag says, "we will." No uncertainty. Anything less would be a crack in their resolve that they can't afford. But many things might happen in the desert, the stories say, and her mind spins with possibilities.
I don't know, she thinks, and maybe, and it frightens her, but not as much as staying behind.
This time, it's Cheedo who reaches for her – an arm around her waist, head on her chest, offering comfort. She's angular and heavy, safe, and this, too, is familiar. Not all known quantities are bad. The Dag could trace the curve of her smile in the dark, tell by touch whether it was practiced or real. Share space with someone long enough, and you learn to read them without sight or speech, and see the pieces of themselves they don't show to strangers. Cheedo has green things growing behind her ribcage, and flowers might be fragile, but their roots are tough.
They'll have to be tough, to survive. The sand and wind will pare them down to nothing, if they're not strong, and either way it will change them, and it will hurt.
We might die, she thinks, and bends down to kiss the top of Cheedo's bowed head, feels her breathing shift again. We might win. We might ride eternal with the Immortan's hounds at our heels, or we might be swept up into the sky, or the wasteland might swallow us. We might be free.
And then she shakes her head and laughs, because that's wrong, it's been wrong since the beginning. They've made this choice, and that means they already are.
"We can do it," she says, not pretending this time.
Cheedo turns her face toward the hollow of the Dag's shoulder, closed eyes and warm breath on bare skin; her heartbeat is steady, and when she smiles, the Dag knows it's real. Outside, the moon is high and bright, and the sands wait, deadly and dreaming. That's where they belong, and that's where they'll be going – out into the world, with all its possible futures. And yes, she thinks, stroking Cheedo's hair and imagining a story with an ending she doesn't know. It will hurt, and it will be worth it.