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thecarlysutraTITLE: Things That Are or Aren’t
RATING: PG
FANDOM: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
PAIRING: OFC (Watcher)/OFC (Slayer)
SPOILERS: None.
SUMMARY: Set in New York during the early 1820’s.
PROMPT: Written for
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wisdomeagle for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif){kind=small}
femslash_minis Slayer round. Requested was 18th-19th century United States, vamp-killing, romantic friendship, and an age difference.Eliza sits on Amelia’s plush bed, watching the maid do up the stays of Amelia’s corset. Bouncing a bit. The bed isn’t really good for bouncing – Eliza sinks into the down instead of being propelled above it – but she is restless, impatient. Always.
“When do I get a corset?” she demands. “I’m old enough, and they’re so fashionable . . . and I do like to be fashionable . . .”
Amelia doesn’t move to acknowledge the question, does not turn to face Eliza. It is not the first time they’ve had this conversation.
“A corset is fashionable, not functional. Which do you prefer: showing off a thin waist, or the ability to meet your enemies unhampered?”
Eliza’s rose-pink lips plump into a pout. “Perhaps I should dress as a boy.”
Amelia turns slightly, and her leaf-green eyes latch onto her charge. “And how would it look if my ward was seen dressed as a boy?”
Her ward pouts. “As it looks now. Poor girl, not allowed a corset—”
The maid finishes with Amelia’s laces, and scurries off for skirts. Amelia turns to face Eliza properly, one copper-colored eyebrow quirked.
“Sulking is unbecoming of a young lady,” she says. “A proper young lady is pleasant and humble at all times.”
If anything, the petulance on Eliza’s face only grows.
Amelia sits beside the younger girl, spine straight and knees together despite the generous give of the down mattress. Her bare arms, bare thighs are milky pale and lightly freckled.
“To live a noble life,” she says, and she lays her slim hand upon Eliza’s, “requires sacrifice.”
The dark veil of petulance lifts from Eliza’s face. Now her eyes soften, her chin dips, with repentance.
“You don’t have to be right all the time,” she says.
Amelia smiles. “It’s my job.”
“When do I get a corset?” she demands. “I’m old enough, and they’re so fashionable . . . and I do like to be fashionable . . .”
Amelia doesn’t move to acknowledge the question, does not turn to face Eliza. It is not the first time they’ve had this conversation.
“A corset is fashionable, not functional. Which do you prefer: showing off a thin waist, or the ability to meet your enemies unhampered?”
Eliza’s rose-pink lips plump into a pout. “Perhaps I should dress as a boy.”
Amelia turns slightly, and her leaf-green eyes latch onto her charge. “And how would it look if my ward was seen dressed as a boy?”
Her ward pouts. “As it looks now. Poor girl, not allowed a corset—”
The maid finishes with Amelia’s laces, and scurries off for skirts. Amelia turns to face Eliza properly, one copper-colored eyebrow quirked.
“Sulking is unbecoming of a young lady,” she says. “A proper young lady is pleasant and humble at all times.”
If anything, the petulance on Eliza’s face only grows.
Amelia sits beside the younger girl, spine straight and knees together despite the generous give of the down mattress. Her bare arms, bare thighs are milky pale and lightly freckled.
“To live a noble life,” she says, and she lays her slim hand upon Eliza’s, “requires sacrifice.”
The dark veil of petulance lifts from Eliza’s face. Now her eyes soften, her chin dips, with repentance.
“You don’t have to be right all the time,” she says.
Amelia smiles. “It’s my job.”
***
During the day they build the locks, carving into the earth and laying down artificial stone. At night the empty, half-constructed caverns provide perfect hunting ground for the undead. They move like wolves, Amelia says. They like to take their prey alive.
First letters, then arithmetic, then hand-to-hand. Today Amelia received guests for tea, and Eliza was left to myths and stake-carving. Downside: she missed the fun of visitors and proper tea with fancy dress and gossip. Like always, because she’s still a child—just because she’s not married. Sixteen is plenty mature. Upside: tonight she has an arsenal of newly-carved stakes. The smooth wood glistens in the moonlight, in the gaslights. Eliza admires her handiwork—if it’s alone, just to herself, it’s not prideful.
Well, not that prideful.
The new stakes look good dusting the two vamps she finds in the locks, too. Slip in so smooth, like they were oiled.
Eliza admires her handiwork.
First letters, then arithmetic, then hand-to-hand. Today Amelia received guests for tea, and Eliza was left to myths and stake-carving. Downside: she missed the fun of visitors and proper tea with fancy dress and gossip. Like always, because she’s still a child—just because she’s not married. Sixteen is plenty mature. Upside: tonight she has an arsenal of newly-carved stakes. The smooth wood glistens in the moonlight, in the gaslights. Eliza admires her handiwork—if it’s alone, just to herself, it’s not prideful.
Well, not that prideful.
The new stakes look good dusting the two vamps she finds in the locks, too. Slip in so smooth, like they were oiled.
Eliza admires her handiwork.
***
Eliza doesn’t need a maid to undress her because she’s not allowed a corset. The house is asleep when she returns home, and she undresses en route to bed even though a proper lady would never blah blah blah. She’s in just her underclothes when she reaches the bedroom, and most of her vestments she just let fall to the wooden floors in her wake. (She’ll catch it for that tomorrow. It will not be the first time they have this conversation.)
Eliza’s bare feet leave her cat quiet in the still night. Shadows dance across the walls as the gentle night wind, sneaking through the open windows, tangles in Amelia’s curtains and tosses them to and fro.
The bed is warm and the down takes her body into its gentle embrace. Eliza lets the firm pressure of the heavy comforter envelop her and imagines, only for a moment, what it is like to be sleeping in your grave.
The thoughts don’t come often, but they come.
Amelia’s hand, warm and weak from drowsiness, finds hers. Amelia’s thin, soft fingers intertwine with her stubby, rough (maybe a little dirty) ones.
“Three tonight,” Eliza says proudly. It isn’t prideful if it’s to Amelia, either. It just isn’t, the way some things just are or aren’t.
Amelia’s voice is low and soft with sleep. “Very good. My clever girl.”
Eliza’s eyes flit over to her sleepy Watcher. Amelia’s long red hair, unpinned, has fallen in gentle waves over everything: her pale skin, the bedclothes. Eliza’s eyes surf along the long, easy curves for a long moment before speaking.
“You didn’t have to stay up for me.”
Amelia smiles. She leans in close and presses her lips gently to Eliza’s. She stays close, familiar, and Eliza drinks deep of the feel and smell of her, desperate to become drunk. Always.
“Well,” Amelia says. “It’s my job.”
Eliza’s bare feet leave her cat quiet in the still night. Shadows dance across the walls as the gentle night wind, sneaking through the open windows, tangles in Amelia’s curtains and tosses them to and fro.
The bed is warm and the down takes her body into its gentle embrace. Eliza lets the firm pressure of the heavy comforter envelop her and imagines, only for a moment, what it is like to be sleeping in your grave.
The thoughts don’t come often, but they come.
Amelia’s hand, warm and weak from drowsiness, finds hers. Amelia’s thin, soft fingers intertwine with her stubby, rough (maybe a little dirty) ones.
“Three tonight,” Eliza says proudly. It isn’t prideful if it’s to Amelia, either. It just isn’t, the way some things just are or aren’t.
Amelia’s voice is low and soft with sleep. “Very good. My clever girl.”
Eliza’s eyes flit over to her sleepy Watcher. Amelia’s long red hair, unpinned, has fallen in gentle waves over everything: her pale skin, the bedclothes. Eliza’s eyes surf along the long, easy curves for a long moment before speaking.
“You didn’t have to stay up for me.”
Amelia smiles. She leans in close and presses her lips gently to Eliza’s. She stays close, familiar, and Eliza drinks deep of the feel and smell of her, desperate to become drunk. Always.
“Well,” Amelia says. “It’s my job.”
