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| the Devon saga; 4 fics thus far. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 13 2006, 03:14 PM (447 Views) | |
| Keenir | Mar 13 2006, 03:14 PM Post #1 |
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Returned
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~~~~ Title: Rebuilding from rockets. Author: Rodlox. POV: Devon. Summary: Devon's thoughts as she handles being a returnee. Note: this is my 16th 4400 fanfic. Spoilers: Pilot, Wake-Up Call. {yes, that Devon}. I highly recommend the book 'The Mercury 13: the Untold Story of Thirteen American Women and the Dream of Spaceflight' by Martha Ackerman. Author's notes: This is arranged into weeks since being returned on the lakeside. ~~~ Week 11: I hear the one plane head off on its own into the heavens, its companions soaring on, left to continue the path they had begun together. And I can't break away from looking at the casket. One month. We had one month after I was brought back. He'd waited for me. He held me while I cried. He didn't envy my still being youthful. Even now, even then I yearned for the time we missed. Forty-four years. We didn't have children early in our marriage, and we agreed to put it off while I was a canidate for the space program...and when I came back, it was too late. His cancer had seized him, and it refused to let him go. Focused on the casket, the rest of me feels like I'm back in the sensory isolation tank. There's nothing outside of me, nothing affects me. Everything is a vague unreality, a hallucinagen I can't pull away from. My hands were numb when they handed me Pete's folded flag. Everyone's in uniform here, except me. There's a hand on my shoulder now. "Devon," General Bob Roarke says, trying to comfort me in my hour of need, "if there's anything...me and Mim are just a phone call away." I force myself to nod. They used to be our neighbors, but that was a long time ago. Now they live a few minutes away by car. On hand for anything Pete needed. Fifty-five years of friendship. "Thank you," I say. "Thank you for everything." For helping Pete through the years, for lending your support, for everything." "You're welcome, though it was never an imposition. In fact, would you like to stay with us for a while? At least until you get everything sorted out?" Funeral costs, catching up on history, trying to figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. The planes I flew are antiques now. I'm an antique. I just don't look it. I wish I did, maybe then I wouldn't feel so miserable. I make myself nod; he deserves an answer. Bob's a friend, always been there for me and Pete. We're the last ones to leave the plot. As we make our slow way to his minivan (will I become accustomed to names like that?), he mentions that, "I've made some connections at NASA since Webb retired. If you're interested, I could see about getting you a seat on the shuttle." 'A seat on the shuttle.' I want to cry at that. I know he means well, but the very fact he says it so casually...it eats at me. I tested for months to be a canidate, only to be ripped away from all opportunity. And when I come back, I find that all my efforts, all the work of Cobb, Cochrane, Lovelace and the others, were for naught. Nobody ever permitted them to go into space; kept telling them that space was a frontier exclusively for men. I hold back my tears, picturing myself in the deprivation tank. "I'll consider it," I tell him, grateful that I've finally gotten an offer regarding my going into space. Women are in space, I'd learned while in quarantine, and it hadn't been any of the Mercury 13 who'd gotten to go. The Soviets'd sent up a woman, and still my government refused to allow us access to orbit. But in time, an American woman had reached the heavens. While I was in quarantine, I wrote a letter of congratulations to Sally Ride, praising her on her accomplishment. I signed it with my name, with 'Project Venus,' and the year I'd gone. I'd convinced the people in charge of the quarantine to please mail my letter. I got the reply two days before Pete passed away: Sally thanked me for my letter, and said it was thanks to the efforts of women like me, the early pioneers, who had made her spaceflight possible. I cried that day too, but I was happy. I cried today, and I'll cry later today, and won't be happy. I doubt I'll have any happiness from here on out. ~~~ Devon Svensen, nee Wells. 2 December 1960. ~~~ Week 15: "You're certain of that?" I ask, finding it difficult to keep disbelief from my voice. "Absolutely," Mr. Collier tells me from behind his desk. "And not just because you're one of the 4400," aren't you one as well? "Your credentials alone make you more than qualified for the job." "Thank you," I say, feeling not a small amount of awe at my luck. The last three employers I sat down for an interview with, they refused to hire any number of the 4400. Maybe that was their excuse, maybe they just didn't want someone whose registration number was 0000. "Thank you, Mr. Collier." I can't keep staying with the Roarkes, much as I want to. I can't pay them rent: neither of them will stand for that, and I appreciate that. But there isn't anything I can do -- their maid already keeps the house neat and tidy, cooks for the children and grandchildren when they visit, and has always done everything for the Roarkes. I need something to do, something that lets me feel like I'm paying my own way. My vouchers from the people overseeing quarantine - NTAC, I believe the abbreviation was - allows me to buy the occasional dinner out for the three of us. But its just not enough, not for me. Maybe I'm just a creature of my times, a relic from the past, too set in many of my ways. I was flexible enough to learn to fly, adaptable enough to make it through astronaut canidacy...but deep down, I truly agreed that a woman should fix things, that a woman should cook dinner herself. And those just aren't really options in this modern time. I'm a stick in the mud to people nowadays. "I'm happy I could help," Mr. Collier tells me, an honest smile on his face. "Though you do understand you'll need to re-train for more recent planes and helicopters. Air safety regulations, you understand." I nod. "I'm no stranger to red tape, Mr. Collier." "Then it's settled. You can start here whenever you like." "Tomorrow?" I ask. One of my prospective employers tried such word game to weasel out of having to outright refuse my application. "Whenever you like. There's no hurry." Well, that's a relief. ~~~~ the end. |
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~~~~ My fanfic.net page. My geocities fanfic page. | |
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| Purpleyin | Mar 14 2006, 11:34 AM Post #2 |
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Time Manipulator
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You know, I'd never considered if Devon was a 4400. She's not on the db so I don't think it's likely she is in canon, but then again nothing much goes against it (apart from mention of her mother, who would have to be a sprightly 90 year old but that's not impossible). It's nice to see Devon fic, I rather enjoyed this look into her as a 4400, regardless of whether it's canon or not. Devon needs more fic. Youl'll see why later
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| Keenir | Apr 7 2006, 01:12 PM Post #3 |
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Returned
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~~~~ Title: Over Lunch. Author: Rodlox.[/b] Summary: Shawn talks to Devon. POV: Shawn. <lj-cut>Note: this is my 22nd 4400 fanfic. Spoilers: Pilot, various season 1 episodes, Wake-Up Call (parts 1 & 2)....and my 'Rebuilding from Rockets'. Author's notes: This takes place between the "pod people" comment in _Wake-Up Call_ part one, and Shawn confronting Collier in _Wake-Up Call_ part two. ~~~ "Somebody sitting here?" I ask. She doesn't look up at me from where she's sitting; she used to, though. Nowadays Devon just says "No," and says nothing when I sit down at her table and start eating my lunch. Mm, meatloaf. It was this or mahi mahi, and I had that yesterday. Just how rich is Jordan that he can afford supplying everyone here with daily highpriced meals for anyone who wants one, free of charge. I'm still trying to figure that one out. I'm definately glad, though, that we don't have to queue through a cafeteria line. I've been doing this for two months now, asking permission and sitting down at this table. All this time, she's been wary of me. And all this time, all I want is someone to sit with. Nothing more. The last thing I need in my life is another relationship. Maybe its all my fond memories of cafeteria food that make this place so reassuring. Maybe its the fact that I know this place is safe -- nobody's going to pick a fight with me, nobody's going to deface my car -- and we're all 4400s here. Even Collier's security detail was recruited from the 4400. "Can I ask you something?" my first question in two months; now's a decent time, I figure. She looks over at me with those sharp eyes of hers. After a while, she nods, as cautious as ever. "What exactly do you do?" "I beg your pardon?" Doesn't matter where in time she's from, I recognize the set of her shoulders from back in school -- it tells me she's about to stand up and walk off. "Nothing personal," I tell her. "I'm just wondering what it is you do for Mr. Collier. If you don't want to say, that's cool," and, to prove it, I take another spoonful of mashed potatoes. I'm done with the potatoes and more than halfway through my meatloaf before, "I'm a public image," Devon says. "A pleasant face to win audiences." Into her glass, "Much as in the before." 'In the before,' I've heard that phrase used around here. It was coined by another returnee, not sure who exactly, but it refers to our own personal era before we were abducted. 'Subjective, individual,' as it was explained when I asked about it, 'not our collective experience.' "That's it?" and I regret saying it as soon as its out. Aw man, I'm sorry about that. "Of all people, you expect more from me?" her tongue as sharp as her eyes. I admit, I coulda phrased it better than I did. Shoulda worded it better. I...ah..."I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like...its just that it doesn't seem like that's much of a life." And doing dictation can't possibly be a full-time job. Her shoulders settle, she returns her attention to her lunch. Well, at least I won't have to eat alone, which'd be a real pisser. "Can you fly?" Aw man, now you're threatening me? Wait a minute...'Fly'? "No, I just heal people. You?" She finished off her lima beans and coffee before answering. "I fly." Staring into her green beans, "I also flew." "That your ability?" Most folks here don't like it called a 'talent,' like its nothing more than sleight of hand...and 'power' makes it sound like you need to plug a 4400 into a wall socket. "I fly planes and helicopters for Mr. Collier," sharply. There wasn't any space between my question and that answer of hers. Really? Cool. "Cool. I've never met a pilot before." I went to an airshow, once, when I was like five. Never got closer than the rest of the audience. Skeptical eyes rise to peer at me. Cool and unperturbable, that's you. No amusement in those beady pupils of yours, but that might just be a front. "You're from the recent years, aren't you?" sounding like she's verifying what she's heard or been told, but wondering, maybe puzzled. I confused her? I can't see how I did that. That doesn't mean I didn't, but I don't see how. "Yeah." Devon stabs her brocoli, bites and chews. I guess it's a sensitive subject; I'm all set to apologize when she says, "Flight is common now-a-days," enunciating the word; guess it wasn't that prevelent back in your before, huh? Or maybe it was, and you personally didn't use it much. I shrug. "That doesn't mean I met any pilots." Guess its true, we all have assumptions about other years, other decades. Bring us all together, and watch us stumble over our beliefs. Probably one of the reasons Jordan's brought us all here, to break down the walls that divide us -- if the 4400 can do it, the rest of the world can follow our example. Hell its what I like to think I'd do if I had his resources. Two more minutes pass before Devon stands, all set to leave; before she does, though, she looks at me, and says, "Your cousin was singularly rude." Kyle! Kyle was here? When? And why didn't anybody tell -? Before I can ask any of that, she's gone. ~~~~ the end.</lj-cut>
sequel! thought I'd post it, even if it still makes me uneasy. (not sure why) ps: it was either "rude" or "disagreeable". |
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~~~~ My fanfic.net page. My geocities fanfic page. | |
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| Purpleyin | Apr 7 2006, 01:20 PM Post #4 |
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Time Manipulator
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Oooh, sequel - off to read! And also, you might like to check out the set visit report in the General 4400 discussion area... EDIT: Now read, love it! Love the tie in to an episode. :D |
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| AbductedWhileDriving | Apr 7 2006, 04:11 PM Post #5 |
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Healer
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Oh I loved it. The detail about Devon's face was impeccable. You really did a good job with this. Shawn was cute in this. (Of course I think he always is, lol) I really like this fic, it really perked my interest in the two's relationship. I'm going to read the sequel now, so excited! |
ZOMG, I love this. XD Thank you, Leob!My Personal Affiliates: ![]() ![]() ![]() Thanks to Leob for the avatar! She's just making everything... ^.^ | |
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| Keenir | Apr 16 2006, 01:21 PM Post #6 |
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Returned
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~~~~ Title: Bedside Manners. Sequel to 'Rebuilding from Rockets' and 'Over Lunch'. Author: Rodlox. Summary: Shawn goes to talk to Devon, and discovers the truth of what happened during the missing scene of 'Weight of the World'. POV: Shawn. Spoilers: Pilot, Wake-Up Call, Voices Carry, Weight of the World. I highly recommend the book 'The Mercury 13: the Untold Story of Thirteen American Women and the Dream of Spaceflight' by Martha Ackerman. Author's notes: I wrote the last 1/2 or 1/3 of this before writing the rest....just in case it reads oddly, now you know. ~~~ "I'll go see if she's awake," Devon's mom says to me, "and you stay here, finish your dinner," and I half expect her to waggle her finger at me -- she doesn't. I nod, and she leaves the kitchen; I came over to check in and see how Devon was doing, and her mother pulls me in and sits me down at the table for a full dinner. A quiet dinner, but still something I hadn't figured on getting while I was out: I just came by to say hi. I ain't complaining though, this meatloaf has taste, flavor -- unlike every other meatloaf I've ever had in my life. The recipe's probably a Wells family secret, kept safe in a nuclear bunker or something. Devon's mom comes back in, sitting back down in the same chair as before, watching me. "She's waking up now. Give her a few minutes to make herself presentable." I keep from groaning, having come over to lend support to a friend, not to come-a-courting. For one thing, I doubt Devon's sights've wavered since the last time I stopped by. For another, while my heart's not as raw as it used to be, I'm not exactly in the market for a relationship either. "Have you known my daughter long?" asking the question I might've heard last time I was here if it hadn't been for Devon's return from the hospital last time I was here. "A little under a year," I say. I bite and chew the last piece of meatloaf on my plate, and when I've swallowed it, I tell her, "This' delicious." "Thank you, Mr. Farrel, though its only meatloaf." 'Only'? "Would that you were my mom." Then I could've grown up knowing that meatloaf was supposed to taste like something. That's when she slaps me. Not hard enough to bruise flesh, mine or hers; but enough to register in my mind. What the hell was that for? But before I can ask, "She misses Peter, I don't doubt it. Has she blamed me for not being there when he died?" sounding more curious than anything else, definately not bitter. "No," I say, since I've never heard Devon blame anyone for anything. On the few occasions Devon says something not directly related to work, she's either praising you or Jordan. "What -" "I was out on an ecotour in New Zealand when Peter died," interupting me, and by the sound of it completely missing what I'd been about to ask. "I had a bit of a stumble while I was there, and by the time I was in a position to come back, my girl'd taken a job at that Center." She sighs. "Peter told me to go and enjoy myself, he'd told me that for years before my Devon returned." A smile graced her face. "Returned, for which I've thanked God every day since I heard about the big return...at a lake, yes?" I nod. I'd been there. "I kept an eye on Peter for Devon, checking in on him, making sure him and Robert kept out of mischief. He never remarried, the good boy he was, even when the cancer started to take him and I could see he needed comfort, he never even let his eyes wander from the pictures of Devon he kept about the house." First you're asking me if I'm seeing your daughter, Miss Wells, and now you're telling me about Devon's ex? "I don't doubt Peter's death hit her hard, she's always taken comfort in her work." I nod. "Devon's the best employee anyone could hope for." Peering at me quizically. "I wasn't aware you were her boss." "I'm not; I work with Devon. I just meant that nobody works harder than Devon." And Jordan damn well better be aware and appreciative of that. "I see, I'm terribly sorry." "It's okay," I say, "it's my fault for not being clear." "Thank you, young man. And Devon's told me all about the long walks the two of you take every day." A few laps around the Center, walking together, nothing more; and that was only after I managed to have two whole weeks of minimum-sentance lunches...but I have a feeling I shouldn't mention that. "I think it's sweet, and that its good that my Devon's finally thinking about settling down again," and, with an audible *tsk* "now that that whole race to the Moon is done with." I think I saw something about a few new Moon missions, on tv today or yesterday, but that's another thing I don't think I should mention just yet: call it a hunch. "Come with me," standing up again, "I should think Devon is presentable by now." I follow her out of the kitchen and down the house's central hallway, stopping behind her mom just outside Devon's shut door. "Devon?" she asks, hand against the door. "You can come in," Devon says. Her door's opened for me, and her mom pulls her arm back and returns to the kitchen. What, no duenna? I step inside Devon's room, noticing not for the first time - seeing them better this time, my attention last time being understandably elsewhere - all the photos on her walls. "Shawn," Devon says. "Hello again," probably noticing that I'm not bringing flowers this time. "Is there a problem at the Center?" Oh you could say that. Not what you'd call a problem, but there's definately the start of stormclouds. "Not really," I say, knowing better than to start a conversation with an argument. "How're you doing?" and I figure she's doing better, since her pallor's definately improved. She gives me a noncommittal fine, and clears me a spot to sit at her bedside, putting that stack of paper on her other side. You know, Devon, for a workaholic, your room's strangely lacking in any chairs. Then again, I guess your room's probably a good place to crash after a long day, right? But hey, I sit where I'm told to, no funny business. "Then..." and I fully expect her to ask 'why are you here' or 'why' something. But, no, just a, "Did Jordan send you?" "Nope." Her face goes from puzzled to confused to pure horror. "Is he alright? She didn't do anything to him, did she?" 'She'? "Jordan's fine, Devon. Why, who was going to try killing him?" When in doubt, assume death is someone else's assumption, and go from there. Devon's face calms, going back to her usual tranquil demeanor. "Its nothing. Was my mother keeping you?" Keeping...keeping; it takes me a moment to get the right meaning for that word. "No, your mom's great; she insisted I have something to eat before I come in and talk to you." Devon nods, clearly familiar with that. "Though..." nah, better not to say stuff like that. "What is it?" she asks me. When I don't supply an answer, her tone gets that no-nonsense business tone that's gotten Jordan to take a step back, metaphorically if not literally at least once, "What is it?" "Your mom hit me," I say, still more startled about it than hurt. "Really?" Devon asks, and I nod confirmation. "Did you say something?" "I was saying how good of a cook she is, and that I wished she was my mom." Devon nods once, twice, a slow smile on her face. "Then either she thinks you're belittling your own mother and praising mine too much, or," and the smile starts to fade, "she's playing matchmaker." Not sure if I feel relieved or hurt that that's the point where her smile goes off into the sunset. Sunset... Okay, Shawn, clear your head. Wait, that doesn't work: it just leaves me with a mental image of Devon in a nightie several layers thinner than what she's got on right now. Try again, something to distract -- ah, "Who did you think was going to hurt Jordan?" I ask. "Its nothing," Devon says. "An old woman's silly thought, nothing more." "Devon, if your mom's got a hunch on who'd want Jordan hurt or worse, that's not something we can just dismiss." And that's a fact I don't think she'd ever contradict...aside from that recent statement of hers. But she just gives me this look...its not quite a glare, but its supposed to be harsh, I guess. "What?" "I was the one with the nonsense thought, Shawn." But you said 'old,' and you're not old. "Its nothing, really." And she smiles, that disarming curve of her lips. "So, have you heard that the President is going to send people to the Moon again? I may submit my name, if my age doesn't disqualify me from canidacy this time." "I bet you'll go," I agree, though I have a bad feeling you'd ask Jordan for a permission slip beforehand. "If anybody deserves to walk on the lunar surface, Devon, its you." "Thank you," a bit of blushing on her cheeks. "What about you?" "Oh I'll be too busy investigating this threat on Jordan's life." Her blush utterly vanishes, the smile gone. "I said it was nothing. I was...I was mistaken." Uh-huh, suure riight. No offense, but you don't lie well. "Women my age, we're prone to flights of absurd fears." In a little voice, as though its a possibility she's hesitant to offer, "It may well be from the occasional drop in oxygen during my flights and the tests." "Devon," I tell her, "number one, you're not old. Number two, I'd like for you to trust me enough to tell me what's going on." "I trust you, Shawn, I do." Thanks. Probably not as much as you trust Jordan, I bet, but hey, you probably put Jordan above God. "She..." and "Idiot," in a tone that I can't tell if she's calling herself an idiot, or if that 'she' is the idiot. "Devon," I tell her, "people were idiots in everyone's before, an' people're idiots in the now too. Don't let an idiot stop you from doing what's right." She looks away from me, sniffling. "I'm not staying quiet because of Cloe, that...she could..." shuddering each time she trails off. "If it were just her, maybe, maybe I would say something." Even I can add this together: who's the one person Devon never wants to cross? "But it's not. It's Jordan too, isn't it?" She looks at me fleetingly before glancing away again, red eyes pleading with me not to say anything, not to do anything. Sorry, Devon, but there're some promises I just can never agree to keep. "What did he tell you? Did he say anything, something suggesting you'll be back in his good graces if you keep quiet?" "He's not like that, he wouldn't do that," she insists. "Jordan hasn't said a word to me since I had to be hospitalized," for all those drugs in your system. "He's sent cards and flowers," I know, and he's paid for several deliveries of groceries for you and your mom; don't let that be hush money, Devon. 'Hush money'? Cripes, I think I've been picking up some pretty interesting words since I joined the Center. "I think I...I hope I don't scare him." I can't help but smile at that, the sheer image of Jordan cowering in fright of a diminutive woman who'd give him her firstborn if she could, assuming said firstborn isn't Jordan's to begin with. "I don't think he's frightened." Though he should be afraid. "Its more likely his schedule's keeping him away," and her face relaxes, becomes calmer -- I figured that'd work. "Without his secretary, he's lost." Devon cracks a smile, murmuring about a 'little boy lost.' "But there's something I don't understand," since, if it isn't Jordan she's protecting, then who? Why's she keeping mum on the matter. "Who did this to you?" "No," she mumbles, starting to raise a hand - just into the air, up to her chest, not raised against me or to protect her face. "No, you don't understand..." and I half think I hear her whisper "You wouldn't understand." "Try me," I tell her, flat, up front, and blunt. I'm not going to dance around this all day, Devon, however much it might be easier to. She looks at me now, eyes wide and jaw slack, her lips slightly parted. If I didn't think you'd kill me for trying, and if I didn't value our friendship above everything else in my life, I'd chance a kiss. "Who did this to you, Devon Wells?" using her maiden name. Hey, I'm not just a poster boy, I'm also a pretty fair hand with a computer, if I do say so myself. "Svensen," she corrects me, her hand returning to its spot alongside her hip. "I was in my office at the time. I had just finished filing several upcoming appointments for Jordan, and I decided to take a break and try to rest a little." She clenches both hands into fists, then relaxes them again. "That was when she came in, asking if Jordan was around, asking if you were with anyone, asking a lot of things. I asked her to please leave my office, I asked her to go away...and she wouldn't. She laughed." That's gonna hurt, I know: I've been the butt of malicious laughter myself enough times. "She laughed. Cloe said it was cute how I followed Jordan and you around, that she'd keep me around when she was in charge of things." What? Either that b****'s got a bigger ego problem than I thought, or she's up to something, and I intend to find out what exactly. "I asked her to leave, and she still refused to listen. I said I would call security, and -" hand shaking, she picks up and drinks the entire glass of water before continuing. "Cloe stuffed those pills down my throat," and hesitates, judging me with those piercing eyes of hers, "after she struck me unconcious." Wait a minute, if you were unconcious... Much as I don't like Cloe, what you just said does sound a little strange...even for a returnee. "You heal people," Devon says, appearantly reading what she saw on my face; guess I'm still not good on my poker face, "I stay aware." Not 'awake,' she said 'aware.' "All the time?" I ask, then want to take it back, that being perhaps just a little too intimate a question for our conversation, just a bit too much detail, the little tidbit she might've wanted to keep to herself. But she nods, watching my reaction, which is more than a little awed right now, a bit of amazed too. There're days I think I probably would've been better off with your ability, Devon. But, "Then what's the problem? We take Cloe to court, sue her for -" what's the word? Damages? Abuse? Wait, definately attempted murder: she could've killed you, Devon; that was probably the idea. Intent. Whatever. "We wouldn't," I add quickly, seeing the look on Devon's face, "involve Jordan." "He invested so much time and..." oh my, finally a disgusted look on her face when talking about something related to Jordan; you were about to say 'effort' weren't you? "Cloe could ruin the Center, could ruin Jordan." Just when I think we're making progress, everything leads back to Jordan. Is this how mapmakers felt when somebody told them that all roads must lead to Rome? "I can't do that." I think I have an idea now how uncle Tommy feels when life railroads him. I sigh, and she misreads it: "You can go, if you like, Shawn." Whether she misread deliberately or not, I've no way of knowing. "Is that what you want?" I ask her, I couldn't resist phrasing it like that. You sting me, I sting back; I don't like to sting, Devon, particularly you; but I can sting just as well as you can. "What exactly are you going to do, Devon? Just hide here the rest of your life, never leaving this bed for anything?" Well, you'd probably attend Jordan's funeral, assuming he ever dies. I bet you'd be wearing the deepest darkest black of anyone in attendance. She shakes her head. "Then what?" "It won't come to that," she says. "I'll get better, I'll come back to work." Sounds like the same sort of plan an old friend of mine had after he'd had the crap kicked outta him by the school bully. "And if Cloe comes back? Or if Jordan hits the sack with somebody else who takes a dislike of you?" Then what? I don't want you ending up like that old friend of mine, Devon, I don't want you buying a gun and winding up dead in a playground -- or anywhere, for that matter. "I'll handle it." I don't doubt that you will. Don't get me wrong, I don't doubt that you will. One more salvo, then I'll ask for a truce. This has to be asked, I have to ask it of her, so she never gets blindsided by it happening first in reality. "What will you do if Jordan moves on?" Devon looks at me blankly. "What'll you do when the day comes that Jordan doesn't 'share' with you?" even if 'he shares that with me' makes it sound like some kids splitting their lunch. Her blank look turns to one of horror and, in a blink, resignation. Somehow I was hoping for more anger, more indignation. Then again, I suppose Devon really is, after all, one of those rare people who're next to impossible to rub the wrong way. "It won't happen," she says, confident. "If, one day, I lose Jordan's trust, it'll be my own fault." Devon, do you have any idea how close I am to grabbing your shoulders and shaking some sense into you? Then again, that policy never worked on me when I was a kid, so why would it work on you at all? Clearly Jordan can do no wrong in your eyes, and there's nothing I can say to change any of it. Can't blame a guy for trying, though, can you? Well, I tried. I wouldn't get any further than I have, even if I went at it for another hour. "I'm sorry," I tell her, hoping we can bury the hatchet. She just looks at me, not blankly, but more of...patiently, waiting to see what I say. "For all that I said about...everyone." Devon nods. "You said what you believed." Well, I toned it down in places, but yeah. "There's nothing to apologize for." Well that's a relief. And we finish our interupted discussion of whether or not resuming missions to the Moon is a good idea, and her mom then makes absolutely sure I know where the front door is. Some people just baffle me. ~~~~~~~~~ The End. |
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| Keenir | Apr 16 2006, 02:23 PM Post #7 |
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Returned
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~~~~ Title: Shock from fire. Sequel to 'Rebuilding from Rockets' and 'Over Lunch' and 'Bedside Manners.' Author: Rodlox. Summary: That rending scene in the Center when Jordan was giving his speech. <lj-cut> POV: Devon. Spoilers: Pilot, Wake-Up Call, Voices Carry, the 5th episode of season two. I highly recommend the book 'The Mercury 13: the Untold Story of Thirteen American Women and the Dream of Spaceflight' by Martha Ackerman. ~~~ I'm back. Once more back to work after all thats gone on. My mother says I was being self-pitying towards the end of my convolescence, and perhaps she's right. Maybe I need to get back to work more than I thought I did. Deep breath, Devon, deep breath. Imagine the look on Jordan's face when he sees you're back. I stride through the crowd, making my way to the podium, listening to first Shawn and then Jordan. I'm not yet halfway across the room when - Popping sounds, noises that'd have me grounding any plane I heard it on. Popping sounds and spatters of red like insane flecks of paint, cliche perhaps but here its applicable. I don't need the surrounding panic to tell me that this is no attempt at humor. Jordan knows how to tell a joke, rumors to the contrary aside; but he would never stoop to such a physical comedy, even for the sake of those who consider them funny. This isn't funny, and it wasn't so even before he collapses, crumbling upon himself, striking the floor with a sound that my mind can imagine even if my ears can't pick it up, just as my mind's filling in the sound of gunfire that I hadn't previously heard as clearly as I heard the screams of everyone. Finding myself mute, unable to even scream or holler, I rush forward to lend what assistance I can -- or so I try, until I strike against a wall of men, tourists all, no doubt. I open my mouth, and I still cannot even shout. I dance to one side and the other, searching for a way around this living wall, looking for a route that will go up to the podium. I'm no nurse, but I know a bit of medicine. Help him, Shawn. I know he will, I know he'll do all he can for the man who taught him so much...but I can't entirely forget his words to me when I was still recovering. "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani," I whisper, that being the only thing I can get to rise up from out of my throat: my God, my God, why have you forsaken me...or him? Please, do not let this be the end of Jordan Collier; let this be a close call, a near miss...something. The wall still is unyielding and unending, and I drop to my knees. I can feel the sensation leaving my skin, my ears turning deaf. A return to the sensory deprivation tank as I curl up, my temple touching the carpet just as I fall-and-roll to one side. No more tactile, no more auditory, no more smell...only sight remains to me, the same as always. I'm aware of everything around me, of a few ladies looking down abruptly and inquiring if I'm quite all right, of a boy looking at me like I'm a plague victim, and, in time, Shawn steps up to where I lay and he crouches down, helping me stand up again. "We'll get through this," he assures me. ~~~~ the end. |
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~~~~ My fanfic.net page. My geocities fanfic page. | |
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ZOMG, I love this. XD Thank you, Leob!


8:53 AM Jul 11