It's a miracle when Fever appears in the Green Room, thinks Ellen. Minutes spent contending the fact she's just murdered in front of an audience drop through a trapdoor into nothing. So too does her stomach. She's alive. Soaked in blood at neck and abdomen, but standing, walking, fiercely alert and looking as though she'll throw something— something about the wrenching back of her shoulder, the way her fingers dance to palm, signaling action seconds before the shattering takes place.
Blood on her tongue. On her hands. On her skin. If not her's, then whose?
Crash!—
She's staring.
She's always had a staring problem. What draws Ripley's attention draws it wholly and without discretion, and she's ignorant to how prying eyes burn holes into Fever's bare skin even after they've left the audience. Turns the simple lace trim of her chemise chalk black in her looking. She doesn't mean it. She doesn't mean to probe what's already vulnerable. She doesn't understand any of this— the binding magic, the costume, the action. What was that horrible blade? What was the stone she unearthed from Fever's skin, and why had she felt so rapt by it?
Who was she?
A glance down at her own body, red faux-armor still clinging to her.
Who is this person?
Her hands feel uncoupled from her arms. They're numb, blood rushing to her fingertips where they hang limp at her sides.
"I thought you were dead."
Because, what else do you say? Are you okay? Stupid question— of course not.
Ripley starts forward, quick at first, concerned and relieved— she's alive, my god she's alive and she's breathing, breathing hard, harder, faster, like she'll break something again or else feel herself break first— then moves slowly, cautiously. The manner one approaches something wild and unpredictable, but no less relieved. Her hands are raised. She isn't a threat.
An aborted noise as she grasps for words that don't come.
And so she says nothing, close enough now to hover a hand over Fever's brachium.
no subject
It's a miracle when Fever appears in the Green Room, thinks Ellen. Minutes spent contending the fact she's just murdered in front of an audience drop through a trapdoor into nothing. So too does her stomach. She's alive. Soaked in blood at neck and abdomen, but standing, walking, fiercely alert and looking as though she'll throw something— something about the wrenching back of her shoulder, the way her fingers dance to palm, signaling action seconds before the shattering takes place.
Blood on her tongue. On her hands. On her skin. If not her's, then whose?
Crash!—
She's staring.
She's always had a staring problem. What draws Ripley's attention draws it wholly and without discretion, and she's ignorant to how prying eyes burn holes into Fever's bare skin even after they've left the audience. Turns the simple lace trim of her chemise chalk black in her looking. She doesn't mean it. She doesn't mean to probe what's already vulnerable. She doesn't understand any of this— the binding magic, the costume, the action. What was that horrible blade? What was the stone she unearthed from Fever's skin, and why had she felt so rapt by it?
Who was she?
A glance down at her own body, red faux-armor still clinging to her.
Who is this person?
Her hands feel uncoupled from her arms. They're numb, blood rushing to her fingertips where they hang limp at her sides.
"I thought you were dead."
Because, what else do you say? Are you okay? Stupid question— of course not.
Ripley starts forward, quick at first, concerned and relieved— she's alive, my god she's alive and she's breathing, breathing hard, harder, faster, like she'll break something again or else feel herself break first— then moves slowly, cautiously. The manner one approaches something wild and unpredictable, but no less relieved. Her hands are raised. She isn't a threat.
An aborted noise as she grasps for words that don't come.
And so she says nothing, close enough now to hover a hand over Fever's brachium.