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sidewaysTitle: Typology
Rating: G
Genre: Urban fantasy
Wordcount: 815
Remarks: Omen and Rebecca are mine; Delilah is Quixote's, though I like to think I can claim some responsibility seeing as she's Jester's sprog. Femslash February's just around the corner, so here's an old bit of rampant fluff to celebrate.
It was habit more than any real desire for secrecy that lead Omen to position himself out of sight of the girls. He didn’t want to disturb them, it was true, but with one blind and the other frequently blinded by her own enthusiasm there wasn’t much of a need to go seeking obscure angles and sniper’s nests to succeed at that. He could no more abandon the instinct than he could stop the smile tugging at his lips, though, and he leaned his shoulder against the thin plaster wall as he gazed out through the window, a cup of over-warm coffee in one hand.
Despite it being well into morning, neither teenager had changed out of their sleeping clothes yet, and they graced the front step with bright flannel and ribbon and a set of frog-mouthed slippers. Delilah’s hair was fluffing as it dried, fanning out around her ears, but Rebecca had swept her damp locks up into a twisted ponytail to keep it out of her eyes. Past experience said it would be completely unmanageable once she loosed it from the scrunchie’s hold, but the need for unimpeded sight had prioritised itself over the threat of a bad hair day, and she brushed her fingers absently by her ears at regular intervals as if trying to further dismiss the few strands that had escaped imprisonment.
He couldn’t hear their discussion from where he stood, but that wasn’t necessary; he could see just fine, and their gestures were more purposeful than usual. It wasn’t uncommon to witness Rebecca obliging some curious peer by flicking through a few phrases in sign language, and she was even known to make the movements unconsciously when excited, communicating her delight in every way she could. She had a natural comprehension of it that surpassed Omen’s usage, for all that he was the one who used it as speech, and as he watched her curve her hands with all the grace of a dancer he indulged in a moment of fluttering fatherly pride.
Teaching sign language to someone for whom gestures were a sensation rather than an image was not the easiest of tasks, but Rebecca was eager and gentle, and for her part Delilah was willing and patient, allowing her friend to mould her hands into the shapes as their meaning was spoken. They seemed to have moved from useful phrases into the enticing world of individual words, and he snorted in soft amusement as linked thumbs and splayed fingers painted out a silent butterfly.
Delilah grinned as she grasped it, wriggling her fingers to give life to her creation, and then dropped both hands back into her lap as she tilted her head thoughtfully. Her gaze drifted in the unfocused detachment of the unseeing, but her eyes were bright and animated, and they creased with some private pleasure as she lit upon her next choice of word.
His daughter was quick to respond, first performing the sign herself as if making sure she remembered it, and then leaning forward to deftly fold Delilah’s fingers into her palm so that only the second and third were left standing; she then brushed them down Delilah’s nose twice, as if scratching at an itch. Both were left giggling at the movement, which was fitting for the word funny, and Delilah moved closer to return the gesture, gently feeling out the shape of Rebecca’s face.
Smart was next (a tap of the middle finger against the side of the temple, quickly flicked outwards), and then beautiful, and Omen found himself leaning closer, frowning slightly. He took a distracted sip of his drink as he scanned the pair, not entirely noticing when it turned out to be still too warm for his liking. He missed the phrasing of Delilah’s next request, her head turned a little too far downward for easy viewing, but he didn’t miss the odd hesitation it invoked from Rebecca in response. She did respond though and slowly, more tentatively than before, she placed Delilah’s right hand over her left and, just as slowly, folded them against the other girl’s chest, palms pressed to her heart and fingers tickling her collarbone.
Love.
They sat still for a moment, heads close together and Rebecca’s hands still laid over Delilah’s. And then Delilah’s lips moved, forming one last word that he did not need to see signed to understand, and Omen leapt away from the window like a rabbit startled from the brush, promptly sopping a wave of hot coffee down his shirt.
Suddenly very aware that one of the children—teenagers!—below was a burgeoning but talented Psychic, he cast up as many mental walls he could manage while simultaneously running through an array of curses. He plucked at the shirt to keep the scalding liquid off his skin and beat a less than dignified retreat from the room.
Rating: G
Genre: Urban fantasy
Wordcount: 815
Remarks: Omen and Rebecca are mine; Delilah is Quixote's, though I like to think I can claim some responsibility seeing as she's Jester's sprog. Femslash February's just around the corner, so here's an old bit of rampant fluff to celebrate.
It was habit more than any real desire for secrecy that lead Omen to position himself out of sight of the girls. He didn’t want to disturb them, it was true, but with one blind and the other frequently blinded by her own enthusiasm there wasn’t much of a need to go seeking obscure angles and sniper’s nests to succeed at that. He could no more abandon the instinct than he could stop the smile tugging at his lips, though, and he leaned his shoulder against the thin plaster wall as he gazed out through the window, a cup of over-warm coffee in one hand.
Despite it being well into morning, neither teenager had changed out of their sleeping clothes yet, and they graced the front step with bright flannel and ribbon and a set of frog-mouthed slippers. Delilah’s hair was fluffing as it dried, fanning out around her ears, but Rebecca had swept her damp locks up into a twisted ponytail to keep it out of her eyes. Past experience said it would be completely unmanageable once she loosed it from the scrunchie’s hold, but the need for unimpeded sight had prioritised itself over the threat of a bad hair day, and she brushed her fingers absently by her ears at regular intervals as if trying to further dismiss the few strands that had escaped imprisonment.
He couldn’t hear their discussion from where he stood, but that wasn’t necessary; he could see just fine, and their gestures were more purposeful than usual. It wasn’t uncommon to witness Rebecca obliging some curious peer by flicking through a few phrases in sign language, and she was even known to make the movements unconsciously when excited, communicating her delight in every way she could. She had a natural comprehension of it that surpassed Omen’s usage, for all that he was the one who used it as speech, and as he watched her curve her hands with all the grace of a dancer he indulged in a moment of fluttering fatherly pride.
Teaching sign language to someone for whom gestures were a sensation rather than an image was not the easiest of tasks, but Rebecca was eager and gentle, and for her part Delilah was willing and patient, allowing her friend to mould her hands into the shapes as their meaning was spoken. They seemed to have moved from useful phrases into the enticing world of individual words, and he snorted in soft amusement as linked thumbs and splayed fingers painted out a silent butterfly.
Delilah grinned as she grasped it, wriggling her fingers to give life to her creation, and then dropped both hands back into her lap as she tilted her head thoughtfully. Her gaze drifted in the unfocused detachment of the unseeing, but her eyes were bright and animated, and they creased with some private pleasure as she lit upon her next choice of word.
His daughter was quick to respond, first performing the sign herself as if making sure she remembered it, and then leaning forward to deftly fold Delilah’s fingers into her palm so that only the second and third were left standing; she then brushed them down Delilah’s nose twice, as if scratching at an itch. Both were left giggling at the movement, which was fitting for the word funny, and Delilah moved closer to return the gesture, gently feeling out the shape of Rebecca’s face.
Smart was next (a tap of the middle finger against the side of the temple, quickly flicked outwards), and then beautiful, and Omen found himself leaning closer, frowning slightly. He took a distracted sip of his drink as he scanned the pair, not entirely noticing when it turned out to be still too warm for his liking. He missed the phrasing of Delilah’s next request, her head turned a little too far downward for easy viewing, but he didn’t miss the odd hesitation it invoked from Rebecca in response. She did respond though and slowly, more tentatively than before, she placed Delilah’s right hand over her left and, just as slowly, folded them against the other girl’s chest, palms pressed to her heart and fingers tickling her collarbone.
Love.
They sat still for a moment, heads close together and Rebecca’s hands still laid over Delilah’s. And then Delilah’s lips moved, forming one last word that he did not need to see signed to understand, and Omen leapt away from the window like a rabbit startled from the brush, promptly sopping a wave of hot coffee down his shirt.
Suddenly very aware that one of the children—teenagers!—below was a burgeoning but talented Psychic, he cast up as many mental walls he could manage while simultaneously running through an array of curses. He plucked at the shirt to keep the scalding liquid off his skin and beat a less than dignified retreat from the room.
