MPC 91A (For bits): Thread by Thread.
Oct 13, 2021 5:21:03 GMT
Post by supesman on Oct 13, 2021 5:21:03 GMT
It was getting colder outside by the day, the nights were getting longer. The moon's sickly white paleness was like the breath of ice itself down on the world. The walls of the shelter weren't perfectly made, drafty and if one ran a hand along those walls they'd find a hole before they found much of anything else, they really needed to put some better decoration on the walls. Marigold could help fix the problem though, make sure everyone was able to sleep soundly, warm and safe and snug just like they had promised everyone who walked through those doors. The fire kept it at bay on the bottom floor but the vents carrying the heat through to the upper ones was cracked and full of holes, that would be a problem for another day.
She was thankful for that fire now though as the rhythmic clicking of her legs parts played like a beat to a gentle old song in her ear she simply rocked back and forth in the creak old chair her father had found for her. Wool folded over wool folded over wool again and again and again, endless threads coming together in a pattern that expanded by the moment. Everything fell away from her when she worked like this, all of the fear for her father's safety, all of the trauma that still seemed tattooed on the back of her eyes when she closed them at night. None of that mattered any more when she was brought to a soft, swaying rock in her new favorite chair, folding wool over wool.
His costume was torn all the time, she kept it nice for him, letting him be able to stand under the sunlight in that gold and bronze. It made her proud of him and proud of herself. She was the one who allowed him to stand there, hands on his hips like a statue carved from marble and he was the one who made any of it count. A superhero without his costume is no superhero at all. She would be unhappy with the stitches sometimes, it was too loose or too tight, it didn't blend in with the material right and she'd curse herself for not giving him what he needed to be there for others. But he'd bend over, pat her on the head and tell her it looked wonderful. He always said it looked brand new or even better than new no matter how obvious the scars along the custom jacket became. She smiled, the thrilled at his praise and she stitched him up right again.
The shelter was letting her stich even more as the days went on. She wanted there to be plenty of clothing for people to take when they needed them. She made hats and gloves, shirts and pants and then there were the scarves. She paused, looking down to see the crimson ribbon tied around her own neck. It was cheap, it frayed at the edges a little. he had given it to her when he had first seen her stand up for someone else. She could still remember the way his pride beamed off of his expression, it could keep her warm for a thousand years in any world. It was the mark their shared, the little thing around her neck that let her always feel him, just a reassuring pressure that let her know that he would never let her fall, she would never go back to that place again. She thought everyone needed a scarf like that, she wanted to make them, a little weight around the shoulders that would always remind people that they weren't alone, that there was always an open door and a freshly made bed waiting for them, or even just a friend if that was what they needed.
The house, the manor, the shelter...her home now. It was well quiet by now, even her father couldn't bring himself to keep out on patrol after midnight while he had been studying and working on the shelter all day beforehand. Even with the slowing of time there wasn't enough hours before sleep claimed him. She fought her heavy eyes for just a little while long though.
One final curl, the end of a blanket tied tight, the long rectangular shape made all in black thread. Thick comforters of wool, blankets and sheets of thinner make, socks, gloves, little handkerchiefs with directions so they could always find their way back. She crept from one bed to the next, the patrons sleeping on anything he father had been able to find. She snapped out blankets and comforters left and right, watching them extend in the air before falling in a covering shape over the sleeping guest. She tucked it up to their shoulders, leaving their new gifts in a pile beside their bed, anything new she had seen they needed when they arrived and those little handkerchiefs folded right on top, an embroidered heart looking up at them would morning would dawn. She saved the best for last though.
Wool of gold and bronze. His colors. Their colors. The colors he had made for himself when he had made it clear to the whole world that she was his, his baby bee. She wiped the memories fro her eyes as she snapped one last blanket out. He had been first one up and last one to bed. She took the liberty to disable his alarm clock for the next morning as she let the warm, fluffy blanket cover him to the shoulder. She ducked her head under the comforter, snuggling up next to him. He moved without waking, wrapping an arm around the center of her body. On instinct she shrunk down to her tiny, humanoid form, like a stuffed animal against his chest. In this form she felt the most safe, nuzzled up against him. She wanted to savor the moment, to just appreciate it, second by second until he awoke.
Her blinking got slower...and slower...until she was held there, breathing softly, held in the flicker of the firelight.
She was thankful for that fire now though as the rhythmic clicking of her legs parts played like a beat to a gentle old song in her ear she simply rocked back and forth in the creak old chair her father had found for her. Wool folded over wool folded over wool again and again and again, endless threads coming together in a pattern that expanded by the moment. Everything fell away from her when she worked like this, all of the fear for her father's safety, all of the trauma that still seemed tattooed on the back of her eyes when she closed them at night. None of that mattered any more when she was brought to a soft, swaying rock in her new favorite chair, folding wool over wool.
His costume was torn all the time, she kept it nice for him, letting him be able to stand under the sunlight in that gold and bronze. It made her proud of him and proud of herself. She was the one who allowed him to stand there, hands on his hips like a statue carved from marble and he was the one who made any of it count. A superhero without his costume is no superhero at all. She would be unhappy with the stitches sometimes, it was too loose or too tight, it didn't blend in with the material right and she'd curse herself for not giving him what he needed to be there for others. But he'd bend over, pat her on the head and tell her it looked wonderful. He always said it looked brand new or even better than new no matter how obvious the scars along the custom jacket became. She smiled, the thrilled at his praise and she stitched him up right again.
The shelter was letting her stich even more as the days went on. She wanted there to be plenty of clothing for people to take when they needed them. She made hats and gloves, shirts and pants and then there were the scarves. She paused, looking down to see the crimson ribbon tied around her own neck. It was cheap, it frayed at the edges a little. he had given it to her when he had first seen her stand up for someone else. She could still remember the way his pride beamed off of his expression, it could keep her warm for a thousand years in any world. It was the mark their shared, the little thing around her neck that let her always feel him, just a reassuring pressure that let her know that he would never let her fall, she would never go back to that place again. She thought everyone needed a scarf like that, she wanted to make them, a little weight around the shoulders that would always remind people that they weren't alone, that there was always an open door and a freshly made bed waiting for them, or even just a friend if that was what they needed.
The house, the manor, the shelter...her home now. It was well quiet by now, even her father couldn't bring himself to keep out on patrol after midnight while he had been studying and working on the shelter all day beforehand. Even with the slowing of time there wasn't enough hours before sleep claimed him. She fought her heavy eyes for just a little while long though.
One final curl, the end of a blanket tied tight, the long rectangular shape made all in black thread. Thick comforters of wool, blankets and sheets of thinner make, socks, gloves, little handkerchiefs with directions so they could always find their way back. She crept from one bed to the next, the patrons sleeping on anything he father had been able to find. She snapped out blankets and comforters left and right, watching them extend in the air before falling in a covering shape over the sleeping guest. She tucked it up to their shoulders, leaving their new gifts in a pile beside their bed, anything new she had seen they needed when they arrived and those little handkerchiefs folded right on top, an embroidered heart looking up at them would morning would dawn. She saved the best for last though.
Wool of gold and bronze. His colors. Their colors. The colors he had made for himself when he had made it clear to the whole world that she was his, his baby bee. She wiped the memories fro her eyes as she snapped one last blanket out. He had been first one up and last one to bed. She took the liberty to disable his alarm clock for the next morning as she let the warm, fluffy blanket cover him to the shoulder. She ducked her head under the comforter, snuggling up next to him. He moved without waking, wrapping an arm around the center of her body. On instinct she shrunk down to her tiny, humanoid form, like a stuffed animal against his chest. In this form she felt the most safe, nuzzled up against him. She wanted to savor the moment, to just appreciate it, second by second until he awoke.
Her blinking got slower...and slower...until she was held there, breathing softly, held in the flicker of the firelight.
