wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2020-10-24 11:03 pm
wintersday) wrote2020-10-24 11:03 pm
Fic: Mending
Title: Mending
Fandom: Fallen London
Major Characters/Pairings: Player Character, one half of a pair of gloves
Wordcount: 250
Rating: PG
POV: Second person
Summary: This is a different kind of doctoring than you're used to.
Notes: Spoilers for the Exceptional Story Paisley
The scrap of Paisley is a paltry thing, left ragged when the bullet tore through it. But still it dreams, the Dandy said, and years in London have left you deft with a needle and thread. This is a different kind of doctoring than you’re used to – or midwifery, perhaps – but the evening you spend pulling needle through fabric by candlelight requires no less care. You craft a fine new lining, and patch the outer fabric with satin dark as Liberation. It clashes. It’s meant to. No creature can see the River and return without scars.
When your work is done, the glove trembles in the foxfire gleam, then scuttles shyly into the crook of your arm, new-made, alone without its twin. By morning, it’s bolder, and when you slip it onto your hand, your thoughts are deep and dark, tinged with rebellion like ink diffusing in water.
You see Paisley about the city, that day and in the weeks after, in dashes and accents but never whole. You keep an eye out anyway. The original hasn’t vanished, it just knows how to hide. You’ll find it, or it will find you, in the crowds of Spite or chess at Caligula’s, a velvet-lined theatre box or the smoking ruins of a factory. You’ll compliment it on becoming the fashion of the season, and your patched-up missing piece will reclaim itself.
Until then, you are the only one in London who owns – or belongs to – such a singular glove as this.
Fandom: Fallen London
Major Characters/Pairings: Player Character, one half of a pair of gloves
Wordcount: 250
Rating: PG
POV: Second person
Summary: This is a different kind of doctoring than you're used to.
Notes: Spoilers for the Exceptional Story Paisley
The scrap of Paisley is a paltry thing, left ragged when the bullet tore through it. But still it dreams, the Dandy said, and years in London have left you deft with a needle and thread. This is a different kind of doctoring than you’re used to – or midwifery, perhaps – but the evening you spend pulling needle through fabric by candlelight requires no less care. You craft a fine new lining, and patch the outer fabric with satin dark as Liberation. It clashes. It’s meant to. No creature can see the River and return without scars.
When your work is done, the glove trembles in the foxfire gleam, then scuttles shyly into the crook of your arm, new-made, alone without its twin. By morning, it’s bolder, and when you slip it onto your hand, your thoughts are deep and dark, tinged with rebellion like ink diffusing in water.
You see Paisley about the city, that day and in the weeks after, in dashes and accents but never whole. You keep an eye out anyway. The original hasn’t vanished, it just knows how to hide. You’ll find it, or it will find you, in the crowds of Spite or chess at Caligula’s, a velvet-lined theatre box or the smoking ruins of a factory. You’ll compliment it on becoming the fashion of the season, and your patched-up missing piece will reclaim itself.
Until then, you are the only one in London who owns – or belongs to – such a singular glove as this.