Babylon 5 fic
Nov. 28th, 2006 03:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chanter1944This is dark, be warned. It came to me out of the blue, and it just... needed to be written. I may write a reunion-ish sequel to this at some point, but the muse who's a telepath first and foremost is satisfied for the moment, so not now.
Title: Where charon Left Her
Author: chanter
Fandom: Babylon 5, season 5 or thereabouts
Rating: PG13 for some very dark imagery, and because the stuff in Talia's glass isn't your average fizzy drink
Pairings: veiled but definite Susan/Talia
Summary: Not even close to the good life. Talia Winters doesn't have it easy. Note: this assumes that Talia managed to lose the implanted personality the Psi-Corps gave her and regain control of herself.
350 words
The nights are horrible.
She's had long nights, hotter than Hades in a ten-by-ten foot sweltering summer room that only smells like vanilla when her perfume is covering the lingering hints of dust, cold like the underworld frozen over with hands and face pressed to an icy window, chilling bare feet braced against chipped hardwood, nights that she swears won't end until she's given up and collapsed the better to sleep until the clock's turned round to the next afternoon or dropped quietly dead from the memories.
And the days aren't much better.
She tries, really she does. She tries for normalcy, and it's fragile at best but on the outside, some days, it's almost there. But in reality everything's a mask, glossing over true intent and feelings best ignored the better not to spill over and out, either down cheeks made rosy by the application of too much rouge, or past weathered and chapped lips she's gnawed relentlessly ever since she reclaimed herself, or out the first vein she can find on some torturously quiet evening when thoughts of her get to be too much to bear.
So she keeps it all hidden and in the end it's avoidance for the avoided; the constant hum of other peoples' minds, the quiet life that years ago she'd turned into an art form, the potent, watery swirl at the bottom of the glass as she desperately tries to drown the image that refuses to leave her alone. And only in the morning does she realize that the reason behind the headache that sends her reeling for the bathroom is the product of the powerfully strong vodka she never quite managed to swear off.
and there's little she can do about it, all time and lifestyle aside. Not much, except turn the fading photograph teetering in it's frame on her bedside table to the wall, and cry. And try to screen the name she's sobbing into her pillow out of any thoughts she might be projecting, because the hell she's living in would doubtless acquire a few more circles if anyone heard.
Title: Where charon Left Her
Author: chanter
Fandom: Babylon 5, season 5 or thereabouts
Rating: PG13 for some very dark imagery, and because the stuff in Talia's glass isn't your average fizzy drink
Pairings: veiled but definite Susan/Talia
Summary: Not even close to the good life. Talia Winters doesn't have it easy. Note: this assumes that Talia managed to lose the implanted personality the Psi-Corps gave her and regain control of herself.
350 words
The nights are horrible.
She's had long nights, hotter than Hades in a ten-by-ten foot sweltering summer room that only smells like vanilla when her perfume is covering the lingering hints of dust, cold like the underworld frozen over with hands and face pressed to an icy window, chilling bare feet braced against chipped hardwood, nights that she swears won't end until she's given up and collapsed the better to sleep until the clock's turned round to the next afternoon or dropped quietly dead from the memories.
And the days aren't much better.
She tries, really she does. She tries for normalcy, and it's fragile at best but on the outside, some days, it's almost there. But in reality everything's a mask, glossing over true intent and feelings best ignored the better not to spill over and out, either down cheeks made rosy by the application of too much rouge, or past weathered and chapped lips she's gnawed relentlessly ever since she reclaimed herself, or out the first vein she can find on some torturously quiet evening when thoughts of her get to be too much to bear.
So she keeps it all hidden and in the end it's avoidance for the avoided; the constant hum of other peoples' minds, the quiet life that years ago she'd turned into an art form, the potent, watery swirl at the bottom of the glass as she desperately tries to drown the image that refuses to leave her alone. And only in the morning does she realize that the reason behind the headache that sends her reeling for the bathroom is the product of the powerfully strong vodka she never quite managed to swear off.
and there's little she can do about it, all time and lifestyle aside. Not much, except turn the fading photograph teetering in it's frame on her bedside table to the wall, and cry. And try to screen the name she's sobbing into her pillow out of any thoughts she might be projecting, because the hell she's living in would doubtless acquire a few more circles if anyone heard.
