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Abandoned Draft: Fire Emblem 4 - If it's safe at night.
If it's safe at night. (Fire Emblem 4)
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1000
PG for some unpleasantness between adults.
Notes: This is something I tried to write last November, a modern AU take on Levin's care of Yuria with hijinks with bio dad Alvis and whatnot. I ended up feeling like it didn't explore substantially different ground from Ghost Stories, and the actual part where it was supposed to differ wasn't handled with enough grace to come off in the right way. (Levin's resentment of Alvis was supposed to be reasonable but evidently biased and it was supposed to be a lot of cool tension between two badasses, but instead the scene makes them sound more like bickering teenagers.) I don't precisely remember what was supposed to be soooo amazing about it, so considering that I'm quite happy with Ghost Stories I'm just tossing this one out.
Bedecked in an old plaid apron, Levin had been beating egg yolk and sugar with his left hand while stirring a pot of slowly heating milk with his right. It was the worst time to answer the knock at the door.
“Julia, would you...” – No, of course she wouldn't go see who was at the door. – “could you come here and watch the stove?”
She appeared quietly from behind the curtains that blocked off the kitchen, the fingers of her left hand in her mouth, her right arm wrapped around the stuffed pegasus he had given her that morning.
“Here, turn the heat off when this starts bubbling. And don't bite your nails.”
Guiltily, she hid the wetness of her fingers with her shirt while Levin brushed past the curtains and bustled through the living room. Their visitor knocked again, three times, the first two insistent and the third uncertain. Levin didn't bother saying, I'm coming, instead habitually looking through the peephole while reaching for the bolt.
When he saw who was there he reconsidered, and put the chain on the door before opening it a crack. “Hello?”
“Good evening.” – said a bit too quickly to be stately. But Levin doubted he could ever see this man as stately – despite the elegance of his attire, the neatness of his wavy hair – given everything that had happened. “I'm Alvis Velthomer, Julia's father...”
“Yes.” I know. You don't remember my face from the slaughter? “– I wasn't expecting you.” Why wasn't I told about this visit?
“Oh, no, I ... I just wanted to drop by. It's Christmas, and I haven't seen her in more than a year.”
Because your requests were denied, Levin thought to himself. Because I had them denied. “This isn't the best time. We have plans for today.”
“I want to talk to her. Just five minutes.”
Levin stood in the doorway, wishing he weren't wearing an apron, wondering whether to say that she was napping or that they were simply too busy, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and made the mistake of looking.
Alvis looked too, and through the slender opening of the door ajar, smiled at Julia. Julia stared back; Levin hated him with his eyes.
But his anger was not for Julia. Softening his voice, he said to her, “The milk's scalded?” Her hand at her mouth, she nodded.
Alvis said, “Julia?”
The moment he spoke to her, she hid back behind the kitchen curtain. “She's bad with strangers,” Levin explained.
“I believe I'm not a stranger,” was Alvis's pointed reply.
You are as far as she can remember, he thought. And this man had stood on his doorstep for long enough. “I don't think she's ready to see you.”
“Ready?”
Alvis's expression lost its pleading and melded into something dangerous, like a top dog challenged – no, not like that, it was far from the first offense Levin had offered.
When Levin didn't rise to the bait, Alvis continued, “What do you mean, ready?”
“Come back some other time,” he said, hoping he'd never come back at all.
“No. I'm not finished. What are you insinuating?” Levin stayed silent, knowing that whatever answer Alvis wanted, he couldn't bring himself to say it first. “I never laid a hand on her.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Don't assume things about me.” I don't need to. “Julia and I – we need to talk about what happened. We never had a chance before they took her.”
“She's – not – ready,” Levin repeated. “Make an appointment. We'll let you know when it's time.” With that he closed and bolted the door. To his relief, it was beneath Alvis to pound at it in protest.
Sighing, Levin made his way back to the kitchen, where Julia was slouched over the kitchen table, her stuffed pegasus clutched against her stomach. He had no doubts that she heard every word. “He left,” Levin explained, for Julia or perhaps for himself. He poured in a sack of bread crumbs into the milk to soak. “Do you want to get the fruit and suit from the fridge?” After a moment, without setting down the plush, she rose and took a laden mixing bowl out of the refrigerator and brought it to the counter, and then a little plastic container. With a murmured, “thank you,” he scraped each ingredient into the mixing bowl in turn, while Julia leaned on the edge of the counter and watched.
“Do you like plum pudding?”
Julia didn't take her hand from her mouth as she said, “Sort of.”
“Oh? What made you think of it?”
She shrugged. Levin heaved the steamer out of a cabinet and let it fill with water in the sink. “It's something you do for Christmas.” Levin hadn't even heard of it before – he thought of gingerbread men and candy canes himself – but on Alvis's estate it had probably been something as complex as plum pudding, every Christmas since Julia had been born – until last year, anyway. It was strange how much Julia knew of her former life without remembering anything at all.
He poured the mixture into the molds and prepared the steamer. “Well, this is going to take ... four or five hours.” He threw the mixing bowls and utensils in the sink and suddenly felt too tired to wash them right away. “What else do you do on Christmas?”
“I don't know,” she said, looking at him as if he knew the answer. He didn't. He hadn't even celebrated Hanukkah for seven years.
she asks after alvis (“why was he here?”) and levin thinks about her twin
scars like cobwebs draped over her shoulder
friend of her mother's
regret all the things never told her
wondering for whom he keeps alvis away
yuria still doesn't call him daddy.
(The above is what it looks like when I leave notes for myself. :P)
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1000
PG for some unpleasantness between adults.
Notes: This is something I tried to write last November, a modern AU take on Levin's care of Yuria with hijinks with bio dad Alvis and whatnot. I ended up feeling like it didn't explore substantially different ground from Ghost Stories, and the actual part where it was supposed to differ wasn't handled with enough grace to come off in the right way. (Levin's resentment of Alvis was supposed to be reasonable but evidently biased and it was supposed to be a lot of cool tension between two badasses, but instead the scene makes them sound more like bickering teenagers.) I don't precisely remember what was supposed to be soooo amazing about it, so considering that I'm quite happy with Ghost Stories I'm just tossing this one out.
Bedecked in an old plaid apron, Levin had been beating egg yolk and sugar with his left hand while stirring a pot of slowly heating milk with his right. It was the worst time to answer the knock at the door.
“Julia, would you...” – No, of course she wouldn't go see who was at the door. – “could you come here and watch the stove?”
She appeared quietly from behind the curtains that blocked off the kitchen, the fingers of her left hand in her mouth, her right arm wrapped around the stuffed pegasus he had given her that morning.
“Here, turn the heat off when this starts bubbling. And don't bite your nails.”
Guiltily, she hid the wetness of her fingers with her shirt while Levin brushed past the curtains and bustled through the living room. Their visitor knocked again, three times, the first two insistent and the third uncertain. Levin didn't bother saying, I'm coming, instead habitually looking through the peephole while reaching for the bolt.
When he saw who was there he reconsidered, and put the chain on the door before opening it a crack. “Hello?”
“Good evening.” – said a bit too quickly to be stately. But Levin doubted he could ever see this man as stately – despite the elegance of his attire, the neatness of his wavy hair – given everything that had happened. “I'm Alvis Velthomer, Julia's father...”
“Yes.” I know. You don't remember my face from the slaughter? “– I wasn't expecting you.” Why wasn't I told about this visit?
“Oh, no, I ... I just wanted to drop by. It's Christmas, and I haven't seen her in more than a year.”
Because your requests were denied, Levin thought to himself. Because I had them denied. “This isn't the best time. We have plans for today.”
“I want to talk to her. Just five minutes.”
Levin stood in the doorway, wishing he weren't wearing an apron, wondering whether to say that she was napping or that they were simply too busy, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and made the mistake of looking.
Alvis looked too, and through the slender opening of the door ajar, smiled at Julia. Julia stared back; Levin hated him with his eyes.
But his anger was not for Julia. Softening his voice, he said to her, “The milk's scalded?” Her hand at her mouth, she nodded.
Alvis said, “Julia?”
The moment he spoke to her, she hid back behind the kitchen curtain. “She's bad with strangers,” Levin explained.
“I believe I'm not a stranger,” was Alvis's pointed reply.
You are as far as she can remember, he thought. And this man had stood on his doorstep for long enough. “I don't think she's ready to see you.”
“Ready?”
Alvis's expression lost its pleading and melded into something dangerous, like a top dog challenged – no, not like that, it was far from the first offense Levin had offered.
When Levin didn't rise to the bait, Alvis continued, “What do you mean, ready?”
“Come back some other time,” he said, hoping he'd never come back at all.
“No. I'm not finished. What are you insinuating?” Levin stayed silent, knowing that whatever answer Alvis wanted, he couldn't bring himself to say it first. “I never laid a hand on her.”
“I didn't say that.”
“Don't assume things about me.” I don't need to. “Julia and I – we need to talk about what happened. We never had a chance before they took her.”
“She's – not – ready,” Levin repeated. “Make an appointment. We'll let you know when it's time.” With that he closed and bolted the door. To his relief, it was beneath Alvis to pound at it in protest.
Sighing, Levin made his way back to the kitchen, where Julia was slouched over the kitchen table, her stuffed pegasus clutched against her stomach. He had no doubts that she heard every word. “He left,” Levin explained, for Julia or perhaps for himself. He poured in a sack of bread crumbs into the milk to soak. “Do you want to get the fruit and suit from the fridge?” After a moment, without setting down the plush, she rose and took a laden mixing bowl out of the refrigerator and brought it to the counter, and then a little plastic container. With a murmured, “thank you,” he scraped each ingredient into the mixing bowl in turn, while Julia leaned on the edge of the counter and watched.
“Do you like plum pudding?”
Julia didn't take her hand from her mouth as she said, “Sort of.”
“Oh? What made you think of it?”
She shrugged. Levin heaved the steamer out of a cabinet and let it fill with water in the sink. “It's something you do for Christmas.” Levin hadn't even heard of it before – he thought of gingerbread men and candy canes himself – but on Alvis's estate it had probably been something as complex as plum pudding, every Christmas since Julia had been born – until last year, anyway. It was strange how much Julia knew of her former life without remembering anything at all.
He poured the mixture into the molds and prepared the steamer. “Well, this is going to take ... four or five hours.” He threw the mixing bowls and utensils in the sink and suddenly felt too tired to wash them right away. “What else do you do on Christmas?”
“I don't know,” she said, looking at him as if he knew the answer. He didn't. He hadn't even celebrated Hanukkah for seven years.
she asks after alvis (“why was he here?”) and levin thinks about her twin
scars like cobwebs draped over her shoulder
friend of her mother's
regret all the things never told her
wondering for whom he keeps alvis away
yuria still doesn't call him daddy.
(The above is what it looks like when I leave notes for myself. :P)
no subject
I admit the idea of Levin making Xmas dinner is so hilarious it threw me for a second. I did like the detail about the plum pudding, though.
I also wondered how the hell Alvis committed his crimes against Sigurd-kind without being prosecuted, and if he made it look like Sigurd deserved it, how Levin was living as a free man with a foster kid.
no subject