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fog is in the valley now and all the geese have gone
meme from ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ilthit, because I'm trying to freaking finish some of these: The game is to find the word “look” in your current work in progress, and post an excerpt from that section of the manuscript.
In the frigid and absolute darkness of Hoth night the stars blazed out like bonfires, but Luke lay buried with the rest of the Rebel Alliance beneath a thick insulating layer of snow. You didn't look at the Hoth night sky with your bare eyes, not if you didn't want to lose your eyelids to frostbite. Luke had looked at meterological holos, though, and as he lay curled in his bed he imagined those innumerable points of incandescence burning high above him. It was warm underneath his thermal blankets, dark and den-like, and Luke was drifting on the surface of sleep, caught between dream and waking.
She told Luke about the bioweapon threat over dinner that night – well, night by the space station's artificial daycycle, that is. The stars and empty spaces that swirled around them outside the transparisteel viewing portals looked the same as ever, moving on a grander scale than human chronology. Leia's quarters, which should have been less formal than the community mess hall, but was somehow moreso, everything minimalistic and bright-pale, Leia's coiled hair and and Luke's dark clothes forming elegant accent points. The yellow wine in their glasses was the color that Luke's hair used to be, back when he was a boy in the desert.
None of those things excuse your mother's rape, Elena, and I don't want you to think that we ever took that less than seriously. But pain circulates, passing into many in turn, and your father felt a lot of pain in his time. Loving you, looking after you and Miles – those were his balms and bandages. He saved me from my rape, and I tried to repay that by helping him rebuild a better self.
Laundry hangs listless from the fire escape over Steve's head as he juggles groceries and keys and the doorknob and carefully doesn't trip over the raised stoop, the way he has so many times over the past three weeks. He lets himself into their second-story apartment, where the light is paler, less golden, a purer shade of white. Tony's hunched over a complicated-looking creation of circuits and indicator lights, the vulnerable curve of his neck exposed by his undershirt, and Steve can see the edges of the ladder of dark lines that reach up Tony's chest and around his shoulders in a poisonous embrace. Tony doesn't look up when Steve comes in, doesn't notice the sounds of him stowing the groceries in their little efficiency kitchen, starts like an animal in a trap when Steve lays a hand on his arm. But then his pale face cracks in a tired smile, and his eyes gentle into something indescribably expressive, inexpressibly sweet, and despite his worry, Steve can't manage to do anything more than just smile back.
ilthit, because I'm trying to freaking finish some of these: The game is to find the word “look” in your current work in progress, and post an excerpt from that section of the manuscript.In the frigid and absolute darkness of Hoth night the stars blazed out like bonfires, but Luke lay buried with the rest of the Rebel Alliance beneath a thick insulating layer of snow. You didn't look at the Hoth night sky with your bare eyes, not if you didn't want to lose your eyelids to frostbite. Luke had looked at meterological holos, though, and as he lay curled in his bed he imagined those innumerable points of incandescence burning high above him. It was warm underneath his thermal blankets, dark and den-like, and Luke was drifting on the surface of sleep, caught between dream and waking.
She told Luke about the bioweapon threat over dinner that night – well, night by the space station's artificial daycycle, that is. The stars and empty spaces that swirled around them outside the transparisteel viewing portals looked the same as ever, moving on a grander scale than human chronology. Leia's quarters, which should have been less formal than the community mess hall, but was somehow moreso, everything minimalistic and bright-pale, Leia's coiled hair and and Luke's dark clothes forming elegant accent points. The yellow wine in their glasses was the color that Luke's hair used to be, back when he was a boy in the desert.
None of those things excuse your mother's rape, Elena, and I don't want you to think that we ever took that less than seriously. But pain circulates, passing into many in turn, and your father felt a lot of pain in his time. Loving you, looking after you and Miles – those were his balms and bandages. He saved me from my rape, and I tried to repay that by helping him rebuild a better self.
Laundry hangs listless from the fire escape over Steve's head as he juggles groceries and keys and the doorknob and carefully doesn't trip over the raised stoop, the way he has so many times over the past three weeks. He lets himself into their second-story apartment, where the light is paler, less golden, a purer shade of white. Tony's hunched over a complicated-looking creation of circuits and indicator lights, the vulnerable curve of his neck exposed by his undershirt, and Steve can see the edges of the ladder of dark lines that reach up Tony's chest and around his shoulders in a poisonous embrace. Tony doesn't look up when Steve comes in, doesn't notice the sounds of him stowing the groceries in their little efficiency kitchen, starts like an animal in a trap when Steve lays a hand on his arm. But then his pale face cracks in a tired smile, and his eyes gentle into something indescribably expressive, inexpressibly sweet, and despite his worry, Steve can't manage to do anything more than just smile back.