Birdâs Arenât Real (But You Are)
Based on this post by @nicolodigenovas
(I am afraid I forgot both the undercover bit-and the glock, BUT I may expand with a sequel)
~~
Most often, at first, Andy finds herself simply staring.
Sheâs got no shame to be called out for it, Quáťłnhâs eyes dancing with barely contained amusement when she inevitably catches her doing so. The answering glint sharp before it slowly fades to a gentler warm that eases around the corners of her eyes, brings out the softest barely-there lines of her face, and lets Andy know truly, that sheâs home.
Home, as much as that exists to them. Home as much as the stability of family has sturdier walls than any building could hope to match.
Hope, no longer a burnt-out dredge nestled between her ribs, clawing now with renewed flames, and licking her heart tentatively.
Stay.
Where you belong.
We missed you so much.
Threadingâs through holes in clothes, darns in socks, home, my love.
Youâre home.
--
Once, someone had spat to Quáťłnh that she was acerbic like a serpent, and the laughter that had followed from her twisted lips only spurned Andyâs heart into the overdriven cadence of love, adoration, pride.
Thump, I love you so much.
Thud, Iâd do anything for you.
Thump, Give me the world, Iâll bring it to your hands, lick itâs wounds and let you fester in itâs maw until you know for sure that itâs worthy.
Thud, My love, my love.
--
Those were the fools.
Who knew not the truths Andy did, the calm laughter, the sweet kiss of lips, the tender strokes through hair.
Even if at times they met in hurried flashes, in brief couplings that left them so shaky in the knees itâs minutes, ages so before they can stand.
Theyâd never know.
Theyâre the fools.
--
Quáťłnh approached the new age the same way Andy saw her do anything, intense determination and deliberate machination. Nobody walked all over her, be it knowledge, person, new age.
She adapted quickly; Andy knew she would.
But..sometimes.
Sometimes.
âQuáťłnh?..You..what are you doing?â Amusement thickening her tone.
She has a hunch, she does, she knows, but thereâs something endearing to Quynh holding a fistful of pebbles in ripped jeans and a faded Metallica hoodie, boots uneven upon the slippery rocks where the faded beach looms, frowning at the hovering objects.
THUNK
The pebble makes contact with its target, something pinging aggressively before a series of loud, broken squeals like seagulls at their endless mealtimes fills the air between them.
âBirds.â Quáťłnh huffs, pointing her free handâs fingers (two at a time, itâs quite cute) at the metal flying things, âYou said it, the other day âkill two birds with one stoneâ.
Indeed, two of the metal things are now littering the ground some inches from Quynhâs scuffed boots. (Theyâre bright red, Andy is quite fond of them).
It dawns on her slowly, the squealing dying down to wailing and hisses, crackling and sparks.
âQuáťłnhâ Andy fights to keep the laughter from her voice, approaching the ill-begotten drone birds with some mock-hesitation, the same old pride sheâd felt so long ago, so dead, resurging with a vengeance.
The moon, the stars, the gravitational pull that keeps them grounded.
She would carve it up and hand it to her on a platter.
Itâs the same reverence she walks to her with, steps sure as Quynh readies another stone, eyes glistening, hawk-like for more prey amongst the horizon, only allowing a twitch of amusement to her lips when Andyâs hands mold to her waist.
Drawn back to her chest, Andyâs hand wanders to tap once, twice, a third time against her stomach, old fabric soft as the skin she missed so much.
âI see another one.â
Quáťłnhâs arm draws back, head lifting to meet where Andyâs line scans the horizon.
A seagull squeal, and Quynh readies herself.
No prey set to escape.
Against her Andy tightens her arms, waits.
Welcome home, Quáťłnh.
(Also on AO3)
