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Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (12a/?)
Date: 2016-03-04 03:07 pm (UTC)The fire is burning low, and Watch is always pacing the camp perimeter, bare feet barely audible on the hard dirt. Everyone else is settled in close to the fire, some more settled than others--Burn and Runner and Drummer are curled together, arms across chests or wedged under shoulders, legs thrown across hips and thighs; Siri folded up to their left, with her book on her legs, reading down at a sharp angle; Tooth sprawled on the edge of the firelight, legs splayed, one hand palm-down on the cracked dirt, the other palm-up, knuckles tapping in time with Watch’s footsteps; Birdy straight across the fire from Lucinda, between Twist and Tooth, watching the fire crackle lower and lower, with her fingers curled under her belly like she can lift the weight and make it lighter; Twist turning her switchblade so each edge and plane catches the firelight in turn, brushing at dust and picking at rust; Dredge with her head pillowed on Twist’s thigh and her heels tapping close to Photo, humming to herself with her hands folded over her stomach; Photo with her camera in hand, checking the fire through the eyepiece, trying to look at the others and compose a shot, fighting with the flickering, dimming light.
It’s Lucinda who breaks the silence, raises her head, shakes the hair escaping her braid back off her face.
“Your women let you down, Birdy.”
The snik of Twist’s switchblade stops, as do Dredge’s humming and the tmp of her feet. Watch’s footsteps stop, somewhere behind Siri. Tooth stops tapping. Runner sits up, to Burn and Drummer’s murmured and indistinct protests. Photo drops her camera into her lap, wriggles back away from the firelight; can't fade the way Watch or Tooth can, but close enough. Siri goes to turn the page of her textbook, pauses.
Everything is silent a long moment, even the wood failing to pop to break the tension.
“No they didn’t,” Birdy says, soft.
“Well they sure didn’t help.” Dredge snorts, throws one arm up at the sky before dropping it above her head to point at Birdy. “If they’d helped, you wouldn’t have the kid.”
“They helped,” Birdy replies. Sets her jaw, sticks her chin out. Tips her nose up as she draws her eyebrows down.
“But did they help the way you needed help?” Lucinda asks, just loud enough to be heard. Runner lays back down, rolls over, and Drummer and Burn go with her, turn their backs on the conversation. Watch starts her circuit again, starts humming, and Tooth keeps time. Photo picks at something hard and plastic.
Twist is silent. Siri is silent. Lucinda is silent. Dredge is silent.
Birdy is silent.
Lucinda digs out a plastic bottle--pre-war, duct taped together so many times it’s barely its shape anymore. She gestures to toss it to Birdy, then tosses it when Birdy raises her hands.
“Nan’s Lace. Grows wild in the southeast. Need to cultivate it, this far west. You take two thumbtips a day, in the middle days between bleeds. Makes sure it doesn’t take.” She holds her hand up, and Birdy tosses the bottle back.
Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (12b/?)
Date: 2016-03-04 03:07 pm (UTC)a/n: if you are pregnant and need an abortion, please don’t try any of this. please go to a clinic if you are able, for your own health and safety
“Other ways,” Twist offers. “Knew girls who put things inside.”
“Whole lotta ways,” Dredge agrees. “You can carry heavy shit, trip and fall, get in a fight, whole lotta shit you can do. Heard if you eat enough of a couple different plants you can fuck it up real bad, though whether that's real or just people talkin’ or maybe just coincidence I don’t know.”
“If it goes too long,” Lucinda murmurs, tucks the bottle away. “You get a coat hanger and you boil it, clean the grime off.”
Siri finally turns the page of her book.
“I don't recommend coat-hanger abortions,” she says. “The potential for harm to you is astronomically high.” She stretches her legs out, presses her thumb into the top corner of the next page in her textbook, right over the worst of a water stain.
“Well, shit, Doc,” Dredge laughs, loud and big. “If I’m willing to stab something inside me to death with a fuckin’ coat hanger, you think I care about what it might do to me?” She laughs again, pats her hands on the top of her head as she stretches, pops her spine. “Last option for a dead woman. Better to do like the Boss says and never have the problem in the first place.”
“But you need your women to care for you first, for that to happen,” Lucinda agrees. She rests her hands on her crossed shins.
“They cared,” Birdy repeats.
“But they didn’t care the way you needed them too, which is worse than not caring at all,” Lucinda replies. “Because that just gets you deeper, somewhere you don’t want to be.”
Twist goes back to flicking her switchblade, and Dredge reaches up to pat at her wrists until she runs one hand through Dredge’s hair.
“What was I supposed to do?” Birdy asks. Tips her chin down, looks at Lucinda from under her eyebrows. Sharp look, meaningful look, challenging look. Smarter than she let on at first, with the sobbing and the bashfulness and the giggling. Smart girl. Raven girl. She’ll learn.
“I don’t know,” Lucinda replies, tips her chin up. “But your women didn’t do right by you.” She narrows her eyes, considers for a moment. Little Raven looking at her, eyes narrowed, challenging everything. Was she this much of a shit to Old Raven when she was thirteen? She must have been. Would she have been at seventeen too? Probably. “It won’t happen here. You need something, you ask, you get it.”
“That go for everyone?” Dredge asks, perks up. “‘Cause I could really use a foot--”
“No,” Lucinda replies, cuts her off. She breaks into a grin, though, wide and honest, and Dredge laughs again.