[Fic] Blackout in Bolivia
Aug. 14th, 2010 07:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Blackout in Bolivia
Fandom: The Losers (film)
Characters: Aisha
Word Count: 800
Rating: PG
Summary: Power outages leave too much time for contemplation.
A/N: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
mundane_bingo "Power outage"
Aisha was in the middle of composing an email of her adventures, with photos, back to the Losers when the power went out. "Shit."
She leaned back in the chair and glared at the computer and decided that maybe it was just as well. She could save the email for later, when it was less late at night and maybe when she was thinking clearly. Part of this was undoubtedly due to the fact that Clay had called her up. Hearing his voice was enough to make her rethink this whole time apart thing. It made her miss him, and when it was late at night and she was going around checking outlets and lighting candles it made the longing even sharper.
Of course, all she had to do was remember him calling her childish and telling her to get over it to remind her why she was here again.
"Stupid bastard." She blew out an angry puff of air to extinguish the long matchstick.
Candles lit in the room, and now that only her laptop was humming she could hear more of the rain sheeting down over the windows. It was a big storm, the likes of which was only seen a few times a year, no wonder the power had gone out. And her email still sat blinking at her from the laptop screen, unable to be sent.
"Jackass," she murmured, less angry this time. She had taken pictures of the house after the bombing, what was left of it. But she'd included in the email pictures of the house before the bombing, what her room had looked like, dinner with her father and his friends, the real friends and not the business associates. Pictures of her at sixteen, looking ragged and wild, refusing to comb her hair and dress like a woman and instead stealing her father's soldiers' old fatigues. Standing in front of the dinner table that her father had had laid out in the garden, for him and his well-dressed, well-groomed friends. She looked angry. And suspicious, and afraid. Feral.
Pictures of her in her early twenties, working on the house. She couldn't remember why she'd been doing that and not some hired professionals, but it didn't look too difficult. Maybe she'd done a good job. Pictures of her in her room, reading. On her bed, the tapestries and scarves draping from the walls and ceiling, the shutters open on the window so the breeze could travel through. Her bed, her bedroom covered in stacks of books and handguns, and the occasional jacket or pair of jeans.
The text of the email was unimportant, now, anyway. She deleted it before she could re-read it. Something about how she missed them, yes, but also a long and rambling email about how she was rebuilding the old home and her feelings on the subject, and something about her father and how he hadn't been the bad man they'd thought... they wouldn't care. Like Clay had said, he was a target, and a target's a target. Into the recycle bin that went.
The pictures she hesitated over a little more before she deleted the email entirely. When the power came back on she might think differently, and they'd still be on her hard drive.
Aisha shut down the computer and leaned back in the chair in silence, listening to the rain. The hissing of the drops on the roof, the smoky smell of the candles. This was something she had, here, now. These sensations. That she couldn't appreciate when she was chasing destructive bastards like Max or worrying in a clinic waiting room about the consequences of the stupid shit she'd done.
The last time she'd smelled smoke and felt the heat of a flame in a hotel room there had been more of it, and the hotel had almost burned down around them.
She pushed to her feet and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. There was still too much left to do to start dwelling on him again, and just because the power was out was no reason to stop being productive. Several exhaustive lists of things to do and people to see later, several hours of sketching out layouts and plans for the new house, she thought she was finally ready to go to sleep. The rain had let up, and even if the power wasn't back on by morning people would be refreshed and ready to go to work, and she could make her visits and at least talk.
Aisha blew out the candles with a gentle, calmer breath and crawled into bed trying not to think about how big and cold it was, or how it lacked the scent of jasmine and cocoa leaves that her bed back at home had.
Fandom: The Losers (film)
Characters: Aisha
Word Count: 800
Rating: PG
Summary: Power outages leave too much time for contemplation.
A/N: Written for
mundane_bingo "Power outage"Aisha was in the middle of composing an email of her adventures, with photos, back to the Losers when the power went out. "Shit."
She leaned back in the chair and glared at the computer and decided that maybe it was just as well. She could save the email for later, when it was less late at night and maybe when she was thinking clearly. Part of this was undoubtedly due to the fact that Clay had called her up. Hearing his voice was enough to make her rethink this whole time apart thing. It made her miss him, and when it was late at night and she was going around checking outlets and lighting candles it made the longing even sharper.
Of course, all she had to do was remember him calling her childish and telling her to get over it to remind her why she was here again.
"Stupid bastard." She blew out an angry puff of air to extinguish the long matchstick.
Candles lit in the room, and now that only her laptop was humming she could hear more of the rain sheeting down over the windows. It was a big storm, the likes of which was only seen a few times a year, no wonder the power had gone out. And her email still sat blinking at her from the laptop screen, unable to be sent.
"Jackass," she murmured, less angry this time. She had taken pictures of the house after the bombing, what was left of it. But she'd included in the email pictures of the house before the bombing, what her room had looked like, dinner with her father and his friends, the real friends and not the business associates. Pictures of her at sixteen, looking ragged and wild, refusing to comb her hair and dress like a woman and instead stealing her father's soldiers' old fatigues. Standing in front of the dinner table that her father had had laid out in the garden, for him and his well-dressed, well-groomed friends. She looked angry. And suspicious, and afraid. Feral.
Pictures of her in her early twenties, working on the house. She couldn't remember why she'd been doing that and not some hired professionals, but it didn't look too difficult. Maybe she'd done a good job. Pictures of her in her room, reading. On her bed, the tapestries and scarves draping from the walls and ceiling, the shutters open on the window so the breeze could travel through. Her bed, her bedroom covered in stacks of books and handguns, and the occasional jacket or pair of jeans.
The text of the email was unimportant, now, anyway. She deleted it before she could re-read it. Something about how she missed them, yes, but also a long and rambling email about how she was rebuilding the old home and her feelings on the subject, and something about her father and how he hadn't been the bad man they'd thought... they wouldn't care. Like Clay had said, he was a target, and a target's a target. Into the recycle bin that went.
The pictures she hesitated over a little more before she deleted the email entirely. When the power came back on she might think differently, and they'd still be on her hard drive.
Aisha shut down the computer and leaned back in the chair in silence, listening to the rain. The hissing of the drops on the roof, the smoky smell of the candles. This was something she had, here, now. These sensations. That she couldn't appreciate when she was chasing destructive bastards like Max or worrying in a clinic waiting room about the consequences of the stupid shit she'd done.
The last time she'd smelled smoke and felt the heat of a flame in a hotel room there had been more of it, and the hotel had almost burned down around them.
She pushed to her feet and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. There was still too much left to do to start dwelling on him again, and just because the power was out was no reason to stop being productive. Several exhaustive lists of things to do and people to see later, several hours of sketching out layouts and plans for the new house, she thought she was finally ready to go to sleep. The rain had let up, and even if the power wasn't back on by morning people would be refreshed and ready to go to work, and she could make her visits and at least talk.
Aisha blew out the candles with a gentle, calmer breath and crawled into bed trying not to think about how big and cold it was, or how it lacked the scent of jasmine and cocoa leaves that her bed back at home had.