The Picnic

WITHOUT MEN-fanfic. Just a tiny story about the ladies from the "Without Men" movie.
(Cleotilde/Rosalba)


A brief pause from the "Patching Her Up"-series, because a certain person told me to do it. ^^;

Read The Picnic

Disclaimer: I have no clue who owns the rights to the “Without Men” movie, and I’m just borrowing because a certain person made me do it.




The Picnic
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By Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson




”We’re here!” Rosalba happily declared to her companion, trotting off to a small patch of grass at least partially shaded by the branches of a large tree, expertly tip-toeing to avoid getting stuck with the high-heel shoes that were just not suited for this environment.

Cleotilde nodded and watched with interest as Rosalba lay out the blanket. She had all but wrestled her lover for the picnic basket, wanting to be gallant and carry their things, but Rosalba was as always stubborn and bossy, so they ended up sharing; Cleo carried the basket and Rosalba the blanket and the bottle of wine.

She’d tried to play off her excitement when Rosalba had asked her out for a picnic, and tried very hard to keep a neutral expression even now, but she could feel the smile breaking through as she sat down and relinquished control of the basket.

Rosalba of course beamed happily, not so secretly charmed by the bashful but happy smile tugging at Cleo’s lips. She was glad she thought of this.

With expert hands she set out the wine and glasses, some cheese, two different types of biscuits, and many different kinds of fruit, all chopped up to pieces she thought would be suitable for feeding her Cleo by hand. Last of all she brought out a special treat, a handful of nice, ripe strawberries and a small bowl of honey.

Cecilia had some very good ideas, she would have to thank her later. Even if hearing the suggestions about the other uses for the honey was a bit embarrassing.

The wine was nice, and they took turns feeding little bits to one another in between kisses. Rosalba was happy and content, and all seemed well with the world.

Cleotilde was lying down on her back with Rosalba straddling her hips, strawberries long gone but another use for what was left of the honey found – although one more innocent than the one Cecilia had suggested – when they heard it.

A buzzing.

A very, very strong buzzing, getting closer.

Abruptly Cleotilde sat up, unintentionally dislodging Rosalba whom with a yelp poured the rest of the honey over herself and rolled away over the blanket and the remains of their romantic meal. With honey still smeared liberally over her face Cleo stared at the large dark and undulating cloud quickly coming their way.

“W-why?” She gasped and scrambled to get to her feet, knocking the wine bottle over in the process and splashing both herself and Rosalba with what was left in it.

Rosalba, recovered enough from her shock to get angry, growled and threw biscuit crumbs and cheese at her lover. Cleo grabbed her hand and yanked.

“Stop it!” Rosalba complained. “What has gotten into you?”

In reply Cleotilde, with a sticky but firm grip, turned Rosalba’s head towards the loud buzzing.

“Honey...” Cleo squeaked as Rosalba gasped. “Run!”

Finally Cleotilde managed to yank Rosalba to her feet, and together the two of them ran screaming at the top of their lungs away from the large and fast-moving cloud that followed them. Rosalba’s high heels sank into the dirt almost immediately, causing her to fall.

Cleotilde stopped and helped Rosalba to her feet, this time abandoning the shoes, but the first of the bees were already upon them. With a speed borne from desperation – and pain – they ran for the water and dove in.

They just hoped they could both hold their breaths until the angry bees had lost interest in them.

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“I just don’t understand why they attacked us.” Rosalba complained as Cecilia applied salve to the multitude of beestings covering her face, arms and legs. On a chair nearby Cleotilde pouted mightily as she was given a similar treatment by Magnolia, only her scant clothing meant that she had suffered even more stings than Rosalba.

Cecilia looked thoughtful. “You said you were going somewhere by the trees on the other side of the river?”

Rosalba nodded morosely, mourning her ruined picnic.

“Was it by the really big tree with the branches that make a parasol?”

Both Rosalba’s and Cleotilde’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at their friend.

“Did you happen to see the large beehive up in that tree?” Cecilia asked cheerfully. “I got the honey from there this morning.”

Patching Her Up 4: Elevate

RIZZOLI & ISLES-fanfic. Just a little love and care for Jane Rizzoli.
(Maura/Jane)


This is the fourth installment in my series of short stories called "Patching Her Up".

Read Patching Her Up 4: Elevate

Disclaimer: All things Rizzoli and Isles belong to... actually I don’t know who they belong to, probably a whole bunch of people by now and none of them a certain dragon. I’m just borrowing though, honest.

My “Patching Her Up” series is just a series of short stories unrelated to one another, from different fandoms, that have a certain theme in common. Each part is a stand-alone.






Patching Her Up 4: Elevate
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson







”Honestly, Jane…” Maura Isles said with concern lacing her voice as she eyed the sight before her. “Are you really sure you don’t want to see a doctor about this?”

“Heh, I am seeing a doctor.” The grin on the dark-haired woman’s face was perhaps a bit more goofy than usual, and the voice at the more low-pitched and raspier end of its register, but the eyes were full of the usual sparkle. “Right, ma?”

“Right you are, Jane.” Angela Rizzoli sounded in equal amounts amused and concerned for her offspring, which in turn had the effect of calming Maura considerably. Strangely enough, when it came to Jane’s well-being she didn’t always trust her own judgement, but she knew for an absolute fact that Angela would overreact to any harm come to her precious children. So if Angela was not insisting Jane go to a hospital, she probably didn’t need to.

“Besides, our Maura is much better than those quacks at the hospital anyway.” The Rizzoli matriarch concluded with a warm smile at Maura, whom, with a curious lump in her throat, wondered if Angela would ever know how much little offhand comments like that meant to her. Not the faith in Maura’s abilities, which Maura felt weren’t entirely deserved, but the ‘our’. “You, on the other hand, what am I going to do with you?”

Jane grinned cheekily at her mother. “It wasn’t my fault, ma! You think I wanted that perp to tackle me off the road and into the ditch that god forgot? I swear it doubles as an obstacle course on Tuesdays.” Angela made as if to swat at Jane’s head, changing to a motherly pat on the head at the last minute. “So, what’s the verdict, doc? Will I still be able to play the violin?”

Trying her hardest to push away the fact that it was Jane, her Jane, sitting there, Maura gave the injuries her best professional assessment. “Hm, you don’t really need any stitches, I have already cleaned out all the gravel and thorns and applied disinfectant... if you keep your foot elevated once I am finished with the bandages, you will be fine.” She did, however, apply a bit of salve to a small cut on Jane’s cheekbone. “And you don’t play the violin.”

“Maybe I’ve always wanted to.” Jane insisted, her voice and expression striving for something mock-childish. “Maybe you don’t know everything about me.”

Angela rolled her eyes and mouthed a ‘behave!’ before leaning in to look a bit closer at Jane’s face. “You don’t think she’s got a concussion, do you? Because she’s had those before, like when she was thirteen and thought it was suuuuch a good idea to challenge her brothers to climb...”

“Hey! Cut it out, ma! And that wasn’t my fault either.”

“No, she’s fine. She did take quite a blow to the head, but there are no signs of concussion.” Maura assured, putting a small band-aid on the cut. “She will have to keep rather still tonight anyway to keep that foot elevated.”

“She always did have a hard head, my little girl.” Angela sighed. “But she has the darndest knack for getting herself into trouble. There’s always one scrape after another, always roughhousing, and never a thought to what might happen to her.”

“Ma, I was working, not swinging from the rafters on a dare or playing with Frankie in the muck. And its not like I go looking to get hurt, but I’m a cop. Sometimes it comes with the job.”

“But Jane, you have to be careful! Just look at what you’ve done to your face!” Exasperated and agitated waving from Angela and a strangely affronted look from Jane. “What if you’ve ruined your face permanently? Your beautiful face, Jane!”

“Whu, wha, no ma...”

“She hasn’t ruined her beautiful face.” Maura inserted calmly as she was finishing up the bandage on Jane’s right arm, hoping to calm what was threatening to become a test of Rizzoli tempers if she didn’t intervene. “I’ve set her nose, the cut is unlikely to leave a scar, and the ecchymosis is...” Maura trailed off and corrected herself. “Jane’s bruises, her black eye. It will fade.”

She missed the wide and triumphant smile Angela gave her daughter, but she did catch the curiously bashful expression Jane wore as she glanced at Maura oddly. Maura frowned slightly at the colour darkening Jane’s cheeks.

“Jane? Are you blushing? Or are you running a fever?” Instead of waiting for an answer, elegant hands were placed gently against Jane’s forehead and the uninjured cheek, carefully avoiding to put pressure on anything that might hurt. “Are you feeling light-headed or dizzy in any way?”

Jane croaked something that could possibly be taken as a negative while trying hard to ignore both the gleeful dancing of her mother behind Maura’s back and the way the blush surely got that much worse.

“Maybe I should get you something to drink.” Maura speculated, not entirely aware that when she removed her hand from Jane’s forehead she neglected to do the same with the hand on her cheek, and that she was absently caressing that cheek in a way that wasn’t really normal behaviour for Maura. “Would water be okay? Do you want something else?”

When Jane did not respond, instead busy staring at Maura and remaining very still underneath that caressing hand, Angela stepped in and, with perhaps a bit more cheer than was entirely appropriate for the situation, sent Maura on her way. “Water sounds like a good idea, Maura.”

As the woman in question obediently walked over to the kitchen, thereby turning her back to mother and daughter, Angela enthusiastically gave Jane two thumbs up and an even bigger grin. Jane, blushing even worse and trying to cover it by glaring at her mother, mouthed a ‘shut up’ and ‘go away’ in response. Nodding as if Jane just had the best idea ever, Angela turned to call out to Maura, far louder than what was entirely needed to be heard.

“Maura, honey? Will you need my help with Jane tonight, to get her in bed or fix her a snack to go with the painkillers, anything?”

Jane tried to get her good foot far enough off the couch to kick at her mother, but the elder Rizzoli pranced away and tutted at her efforts.

“What? No, I’m sure we will be fine if you want to go to bed.” Jane tried to reach her mother as Angela smirked at her. “I’ll make sure Jane has all she needs, but of course if there is anything in particular, we will call you.”

Angela waggled her eyebrows at her mortified child, before she beamed in Maura’s direction. “You are a treasure, Maura. Be sure to call me if there is anything either of you need, alright?” She blew her glowering daughter a kiss. “Goodnight then, girls. Love you.”

“Goodnight ma, thanks so much for all your help.” Was Jane’s sarcastic and growling reply.

“Goodnight Angela.” Maura came in to hand Jane her water, the happy little smile on her lips from being included once again by Jane’s mother, made Jane’s expression immediately soften. “Here Jane, drink some of this while I go get your things from your, um, the guest bedroom.”

Without really thinking about it Jane obeyed, downing half the glass before even noticing what she had been given. “Oh? I’m not staying in the guest room tonight?”

“No,” Maura raised her voice to be heard as she disappeared into the room in question. “I thought it would be a good idea if you stayed in my room tonight. I’ll keep Bass in here, well out of the way so you won’t risk stumbling over him.”

“That’s... sweet, Maura, thanks.” Jane tilted her head to peer after the other woman, but was still thwarted by the doorway. “Why are we having a sleepover in your bed tonight, though?”

“I have a TV in there.”

Jane laughed. “Good idea. You were serious about keeping me from moving about tonight, huh?”

A determined nod was her answer as Maura, Jane’s sleepwear and toiletries in the crook of one arm, came over to help Jane get up from the couch. “Come on, I’ll help you get over to the bed.”

“I can walk just fine.” Jane protested, but still allowed for the helping hand. Once on her feet Maura moved herself under Jane’s arm and, with one arm around Jane’s waist, encouraged the taller woman to lean on her. “No, really Maura, I can do it.”

“I know you can, Jane, but it is better for your foot if we keep you from putting too much weight on it.” She wasn’t taking no for an answer, and, as usual, Jane caved. “Want me to help you to the bathroom first, or the bed?”

“Depends. Will there be movies and popcorn, or does Janie have to go to bed like a good little girl?” The playful sarcasm that was her trademark was present, but the question still both genuine and a little hopeful. It was too early to try to sleep, really.

Maura smiled a bit mischievously. “Movies, yes, you can pick whichever ones you want. Popcorn there could be, if you want, but...” She tried to sound like it was no big deal, still Jane could hear the excitement in her voice. “I bought two slices of that chocolate cake you like so much earlier today, and we have two types of ice-cream in the fridge and fudge that just needs a quick heating.”

“Ooooh, the death-by-chocolate one?” Jane tossed herself on the side of the bed she usually ended up on when they shared. “They had it? And there wasn’t a long line of people you had to scare away in order to get it?”

“No, they had it, but only the two slices.” Not mentioned was how long she’d have to wait in order to get it, or that she did just because it was Jane’s favourite. “I got cannoli for your mother though, so she said she didn’t mind.”

“I just bet she didn’t. That’s so thoughtful of you Maura, thank you.” Jane said warmly, taking her sleepwear from Maura to begin getting ready for bed. “You really are too good to us.”

The wide-eyed and flushed reaction Jane had to the wide and happily beaming smile that comment earned her was something Maura missed, as she, humming to herself, left Jane to get herself situated while she got their desserts together.

Two movies and a short animal documentary later the dishes were in the washer, the TV turned off, Jane’s leg properly elevated, and two tired, stuffed and generally pleased – despite injuries – women were swiftly falling asleep.

Later Jane would blame her sleepiness for the lack of surprised reaction when Maura snuggled up to her side, laying her head on Jane’s shoulder. Not hiding a contented smile Jane muttered. “You know that if you feed a Rizzoli they’ll never leave, right?”

Maura giggled softly. “Sounds good. Let’s have the family dinner on Friday, then?”

Absently tucking the blanket a little higher on Maura Jane hummed her approval, too tired to open her eyes anymore. A happy little sigh was her reward, and then Maura’s breathing evened out into sleep. Jane soon followed, and the smile on her lips remained into the night.

Patching Her Up 3: Crush

BtVS-fanfic. Faith has a head wound and Buffy wants to know why.
(Buffy/Faith)


This is the third installment in my series of short stories called "Patching Her Up".

Read Patching Her Up 3: Crush

Disclaimer: All things Buffy the Vampire Slayer belong to Joss Whedon and perhaps others, and certainly not this little dragon.

My “Patching Her Up” series is just a series of short stories unrelated to one another, from different fandoms, that have a certain theme in common. Each part is a stand-alone.






Patching Her Up 3: Crush
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson







”Aw, geez… you couldn’t have picked another time to forget how to duck than when a Fyarl demon is tossing a stone slab at your head?” Buffy wasn’t nearly as exasperated as she sounded, mainly she was concerned as she dabbed at a rather nasty gash that had only just stopped bleeding.

She wasn’t about to let on that she was actually worried about the other girl though, or Faith would get the idea that Buffy cared or something, and she’d never hear the end of teasing for that.

“Yeah, but you know me, B... no time like the present.” Faith answered somewhat airily, her voice a bit muffled from the bag of frozen peas she was holding to her forehead. A moment later and Faith started shaking.

“What?” Buffy yelped in alarm, immediately removing the cloth she was using to clean up the blood-matted mess that was now the other girl’s hair. “What, what happened? Does it hurt? Are you cramping?”

Getting increasingly worked up and inching towards all-out panic, Buffy made to jump off the bed and reach for the phone. “I knew it! We should have taken you to the hospital!” Under her breath she muttered. “Why I listen to you I’ll never know.”

“No, no, it’s nothing...” Faith gasped a little, and suddenly it was clear that she was in fact neither shaking nor cramping up in any way, but actually giggling to herself. “Its just... you know me, B?” The wide, dimpled smile coupled with the squinty-eyed look sent Buffy’s way was just about the only thing that kept Faith from getting the phone tossed at her already injured head. “It rhymes!”

“Gah! Faith!” Buffy made a few throttling motions in the air above Faith’s head as Faith continued to giggle and mumble about other words that apparently rhymed with ‘B’. “You scared me!”

“Sorry.”

Buffy blinked a little at that. Had Faith apologized? Faith didn’t do apologies.

“Yeah, well, there could be all kinds of brain damage going on in there, so please try to stay calm, alright?” She eyed the brunette that was looking at her with squinty but still surprisingly honest eyes. Maybe Buffy should call Willow, have her come over and have a look at Faith? Willow knew about things like these. “You could have gotten that phase thing, or, or, that other, the dys-something thing. Maybe they come with random giggling and shaking, how would I know?”

“Naw B, I’ve just gotten a concussion. Don’t worry.” Faith reached up to rub at her head and Buffy swatted her hands away. “I’ve had them before, though not since I became a Slayer.”

It wasn’t entirely as reassuring as Faith might have thought. For one thing it would clearly take quite a beating to give one of them a concussion, for the other Buffy wanted to ask about the concussions Faith had gotten in the past, but knew that it wasn’t a good idea. Faith did not talk about her past beyond the few odd references to her former watcher. It was probably too painful a subject to bring up when she was already so... out of sorts.

“Lucky it hit my head, huh? The hardest part of my body.” Faith joked and buried her face back into the bag of peas.

“I think you’ve gone loopy, you almost sound like you’re drunk.” Buffy scolded, taking a critical look at the gashes on Faith’s head. The life of a Scoobie meant that, apart from being a master at first aid, you had to become something of an expert at judging whether something needed stitches or not. Luckily it didn’t look like Faith did, despite how much she had bled on the way home. Head wounds were like that though, Buffy knew that from very personal experience. “I still think we should get you to a doctor, just to check so your insides weren’t scrambled in any really bad way.”

“No. No, please Buffy.” Unlike before, when Faith had loudly and determinedly protested Buffy’s suggestion of going to the hospital, this was quiet and pleading. Buffy felt herself flush and knew with a sense of resignation that she wouldn’t try to convince Faith to go.

“Alright. If you’re sure its nothing bad?”

“Just a concussion.” Faith assured, sounding tired and a little bit distant. “Slayer healing will fix me up by morning, I might just sound a bit... erm, loopy, until then.”

Unseen by Faith Buffy nodded, and prepared a few alcoholic swabs.

“This will sting a little, okay?” Faith nodded but said nothing. She didn’t say anything when Buffy cleaned the wounds, didn’t even move, but Buffy herself cringed in sympathy. Slayer strength or not, she knew it still hurt.

Finally she got off the bed to put the bowl of water, the bloody towel and the used swabs aside. “There, I’m just going to wrap that up and you’ll be all set.” She gently nudged the bag of peas away from Faith’s face. “Let me see?” She crouched down to get a better look.

“Wow... that will be quite the shiner.” She commented, which earned her a brief but dimpled smile. “Still, it was still lucky it didn’t really hit you in the eye.”

Actually, jokes about luck aside, Buffy almost wished she hadn’t slayed the Fyarl demon already so that she could go out and do it again, after first stomping on all its bones with something very, very heavy, for how fragile and beat up Faith was looking. She had been far too quick about it, but really, seeing Faith go down after that nasty blow to the head had scared the crap out of Buffy. The added adrenaline had given her quite the edge against the demon, and helped drag Faith all across town to Buffy’s home.

Without really meaning to she found herself reaching out to gently brush Faith’s hair out of her eyes.

“What was it that distracted you, anyway?” She asked, mostly to cover up her moment of embarrassment when she realized what she was doing and to keep Faith from making some teasing comment about it. This wasn’t Willow, after all, she couldn’t just go brushing Faith’s hair or pat her cheek or something like there was nothing to it.

Apparently caught off guard, Faith couldn’t verbalise a response. Her eyes were more honest than the girl would probably have intended them to, however, as they, as wide as they could be at the moment, immediately dropped from Buffy’s down to Buffy’s cleavage.

Realizing what she had just done, Faith looked away, awkwardly clearing her throat.

Buffy blinked, stunned, before quickly glancing down at herself. Ah. She was wearing that new top, the skimpy one that was in fact a bit more risqué than what Buffy would usually wear. It was an impulse buy one day after Buffy had been feeling depressed about being single again, and it was meant for dating or clubbing, certainly not for slaying.

So why had she worn it tonight, anyway?

Looking back up she found that she and Faith wore matching blushes. It looked good on Faith, rather cute. It gave Buffy a strangely warm feeling, and she found herself wishing she could get to see Faith blush more often.

“Hey...” She said gently, touching the chin of the girl that was studiously avoiding to look at her. “it’s okay. Flattering, really.” When Faith reluctantly looked back at her Buffy gave her a warm smile. “Thank you.”

And then she tenderly kissed Faith’s cheek.

Oh. That was the reason it was a bad, bad idea to get all touchy-feely with Faith as if she was safe, sweet, best-buddy Willow... because naturally then Buffy would do something incredibly stupid and girl-crushy.

Blushing a lot stronger now and internally babbling about girl-crushes and not boys, sexy dimples and Faith lips, Buffy quickly got up and walked over to the dresser where the rest of her rather impressive first aid kit was laid out and waiting. As she nervously gathered up the bandages one small voice in the back of her head that sounded suspiciously much as her best friend was listing all the signs and reasons why Buffy kissing Faith on the cheek was not as much a surprise as Buffy thought, while another voice that sounded very much like Xander was busy singing the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song.

Then, by pure chance, she caught sight of Faith through the mirror on her dresser.

The other girl had dropped her bag of peas and just sat there, eyes wide, holding a hand to her cheek while looking completely awed. Buffy even saw her mouth a ‘WOW’ to herself while she thought Buffy wasn’t looking, and the expression in those dark eyes when they looked her way... such longing, such warmth...

Buffy’s heart was pounding away like not even a full tilt run across town could make it do, but she still felt a strange kind of calm. She smiled warmly and turned back towards Faith.

“I’ll just wrap this... is that okay?” She asked and gestured to Faith’s head, smiling even more when she got a careful and slightly stunned nod in answer. She started out on the bed beside Faith but soon, unintentionally, found herself finishing while kneeling between Faith’s legs.

“There.” She said, lowering her arms and leaning back a bit to meet Faith’s eyes. “How does that feel?” Faith however had a strange expression and her eyes were glued, she quickly realized, once again to Buffy’s cleavage.

Buffy blushed but giggled, and Faith blinked herself out of her trance.

“Erm, yes?” Faith said sheepishly, embarrassed but clearly happy that Buffy wasn’t offended. “Perfect? Mr Pointy? A week from Tuesday? The colour blue?” She gave Buffy the full wattage dimpled smile that Buffy was just now beginning to realize had always made her just a little weak in the knees. “I feel no pain?”

“Good.” Buffy laughed. “But I think I’d better put this dangerous thing away for now, anyway.” She pulled a little at her top and went to take out two sets of sleepwear.

“Aww, do you have to?” Faith complained, probably before she’d had the chance to think about what she was saying. At Buffy’s grin she relaxed and joked about it. “Goodbye, tight top, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and let no-one tell you different.”

Still grinning Buffy stepped a bit closer than strictly necessary to hand Faith the set of sleepwear she had picked out for her. “Well, you know, you weren’t really supposed to see it on patrol anyway. I bought it for dating purposes.”

“So you might just get to see it again once you’re better.” She winked at Faith and disappeared down the hall towards the bathroom.

When she returned some time later, sleepwear on and arms full of blankets and pillows, she found Faith still sitting where she left her, dreamily staring off into space.

“Faith? You didn’t change?” Buffy asked a bit surprised as she lay the spare bedding on a chair. “Do you need help?”

“B? I think I’m, um, hallucinating.”

“Ah.” Buffy smiled and put an arm around Faith’s shoulders. “Would those hallucinations be of me alluding to that I would like to go on a date with you once you’re better?”

“Yeah...” Faith looked at her with wide eyes. “Wow, B, are you reading my mind?”

“What do you think?” Feeling quite bold and ignoring the little voices in her mind that told her not to, Buffy leaned in and gave Faith a little peck on the lips. It was brief, chaste and really just the tiniest peck, but it was still quite electric. She had kissed Faith!

Ignoring her own blush and Faith’s stunned look, she gently pushed Faith towards the door. “Go get changed and I’ll get the bed ready while you’re gone. I figure that you shouldn’t lie down like this, so I’ll make up the bed so you can sleep sort of half sitting up.”

Resisting the urge to throw herself at the phone to call Willow and get some best friend advice and support – it was nearly two in the morning and Faith would be back at any moment, after all – Buffy hurriedly got the bed ready and promised herself that she would get Willow’s input, and possibly girl-dating advice, as soon as she could in the afternoon or something. Faith returned, wearing Buffy’s nightwear but still looking a bit dazed, and Buffy wasted no time in tucking the dark-haired girl into the impressive and cosy nest she had transformed her bed into. A quick sprint to fetch a glass of water and some painkillers later, and Buffy crawled under the blankets next to Faith.

“B?” Faith questioned quietly when their bare legs touched under the blankets, sounding unsure.

“Go to sleep, Faith.” Buffy reassured soothingly, reaching out to take Faith’s hand in her own. “I’m right here next to you if you need anything. Just close your eyes and try to relax.”

With a strangely relieved sigh Faith did as told, leaned back and closed her eyes. It did not take long before Buffy could tell that the other girl had fallen asleep.

Even in sleep though, Faith did not let go of Buffy’s hand.

A happy little smile playing at her lips, Buffy closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift away as well. A vague reminder to ask Willow for dating advice swam past in the last moments of conscious thought, as well as to make sure she went back to the store where she had bought that top as soon as possible... she was fairly sure it came in blue as well.

Patching Her Up 2: Scar

CLAYMORE-fanfic. Miria has a weakness, but that's ok, so does Galatea.
(Galatea/Miria)


This is the second installment in my series of short stories called "Patching Her Up".

Read Patching Her Up 2: Scar

Disclaimer: Claymore belongs to Yagi Norihiro as far as I know, and certainly not this little dragon.
This story is based on the idea that Galatea ended up in Pieta with the others in the anime (and that things turned out a bit better, I suppose), and has of course absolutely nothing to do with the manga (which I have not read). It might even fit a little bit with my Claymore series that begins in “Paths of Silver”... if you squint.

My “Patching Her Up” series is just a series of short stories unrelated to one another, from different fandoms, that have a certain theme in common. Each part is a stand-alone and a one-shot.






Patching Her Up 2: Scar
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson







”That hurts!” The whiny complaint was one Miria could scarcely believe she was hearing, at least not from the person she was currently crouching in front of.

“If you don’t wriggle around so much it would be over faster, and it wouldn’t hurt as much.” She explained with some patience, even if it was starting to wear a bit by now. Miria was a warrior and a leader, not a healer... how had she ended up doing this?

Oh, yes. That’s right. Galatea.

The tall, proud, often superior and, even Miria had to admit it, somewhat regal warrior had turned silver eyes on Miria and pouted. Pouted. At Miria.

So she had caved like a house of cards, and accepted the unwanted nursing duty which really should have fallen to one of the other girls, one of the girls more suited for these things. But oh no, when Galatea wants something, she usually gets it.

Of course, Miria could relate. She wouldn’t be keen on letting the younger girls that all looked up to her, looked to Miria for leadership and guidance, see her injured if she could help it, either. If injured, Miria would try to patch herself up as best she could. Enhanced healing had its perks, thankfully.

“You have the hands and gentle touch of a fisherwoman.” Galatea sniped, sniffing slightly and twitching in place once again. Miria sighed.

She had been wholly unprepared for this whiny and sulky side of ‘prince’ Galatea, a warrior as stoic and unflinching as the best of them normally. But as she had followed Galatea to a secluded room to get to work on the rather nasty gash that ran mid-thigh to calf on one of the woman’s unusually long legs, she soon found herself having to fight what seemed to be an overgrown and twitchy two-year-old for every stitch.

“Known a lot of those, have you?” Miria asked archly, pursing her lips and raising an eyebrow at prince pouty, knowing exactly what the answer would be. “Fisherwomen’s hands, that is.”

The transformation was instantaneous. With a rather self-satisfied smirk, the flirty woman whom had all the younger girls blushing as she walked by was back, oozing charm as she gave Miria a suggestive look.

“My fair share, why?” The whine was replaced by a sultry tone as Galatea leaned forward to bat her eyes at Miria in a rather outrageous move that would just look silly on anyone else. “You know I’m irresistible.”

Miria just grunted a little in response and refused to look at Galatea, far to busy multitasking; patting herself on the back mentally for distracting her difficult patient so easily, mentally shaking her head at Galatea for being oh so very predictable, and of course continuing stitching up the long pale leg in front of her while the woman held still.

“Why, Strawberry...” Galatea flirted, her smile far too smug but an honestly exited gleam in her eyes. “Are you jealous?”

Miria wondered idly why exactly it was that while Galatea seemed to be just naturally an outrageous flirt, and would indeed practice her charms on any woman within earshot sometimes, the taller woman had zeroed in on her. Galatea was particularly insistent, not to mention persistent, with Miria, no matter how little response she was given. It had quite frankly confused the hell out of Miria to begin with.

“Mmmmaybe.” She hummed, hiding a smile. While she still wasn’t sure what Galatea was really after, she had changed tactics with the woman and found, to her delight, that whenever Miria would flirt right back the poised and self-assured Galatea tended to flounder like a schoolboy. Sometimes she worried that she might perhaps have become somewhat twisted herself, to take such pleasure in making the other woman blush over her.

“R-really?” Immediately Galatea sat up straighter, the sly womanizer in her visibly having to struggle not to break out into a silly but delighted grin at Miria’s response. Eagerly she leaned even more forward. “Those others meant nothing, you’re the only one for me, Miri...ow!”

Miria’s elation was short-lived as the movement jostled the leg she was working on, and reminded her patient that she was displeased with the world currently.

“Honestly, Galatea...” Miria sighed again and carefully wiped a little bit of blood away from the wound. “I’m almost done, if you could just hold still for a little while longer I’ll have you all wrapped up.”

The pout was back, and while Miria tried not to she couldn’t help but soften at the sight of it.

“I don’t know why you’re having such a hard time with this anyway.” She chided gently, not entirely aware that she was caressing the leg under her hands comfortingly between the few remaining stitches. “You didn’t make a sound when that Awakened one sliced your leg open.”

In fact Galatea hadn’t so much as twitched as far as Miria could tell. Normally the attack wouldn’t have connected, but it had been a bad place and a bad situation, and if not for Galatea one of the younger girls would have been cut in half instead. It was quite the noble thing to do, really, and of course Galatea had been admired for it afterwards.

“In fact, if you hate being stitched so much, why don’t you at least try to enhance your healing?” Galatea was a warrior whose abilities were offensive rather than defensive, and as such her powers were not focused towards the physical. Still, by raising the yoma levels in herself she could probably heal much of the injury on her own, if not all of it.

“I don’t want to be ugly.” Was the quiet and reluctant answer. Galatea looked away, and after a moment of silence she continued. “Especially not in front of you.”

“Oh.”

Miria was unsure of what to say to the quiet admission, much less how to feel. Strangely her cheeks warmed and she couldn’t make herself look at Galatea anymore, focusing instead on tying off the stitches and gently wiping them down.

Reaching for the bandages she started with a slender pale foot and slowly worked upwards.

“Will there be a... scar?”

The question was so quiet that Miria did a double take to make sure Galatea had spoken. She eyed the long line of small and neat stitches she had carefully made sure to make, despite Galatea being difficult, and tried to understand why it would matter to creatures like them.

“I... don’t think so?” She offered, hesitantly, not having enough of a healer’s sense to be able to give any real assurances but well aware of their enhanced healing nonetheless. Suddenly thinking of the many scars on her own body she frowned, uncertain. “Does that matter?”

The squirming was back, even though Miria was merely finishing bandaging up, however absently.

“I don’t want to be ugly...” Galatea repeated quietly in a mutter. “...for you.”

Swallowing an unexpected lump in her throat, Miria focused on tying of the top of the bandages. While Galatea could sometimes appear to be a bit more vain than one would expect from a warrior of their kind, Miria was sure that underneath her uniform Galatea had the same tortured and gut-wrenching appearance as they all did, so what did a scar or two more matter? And yet, looking closely at the tall woman it was plain to see that Galatea did not have scars or other blemishes on any part of her body readily visible. Not like the rest of them.

Not like Miria herself. She felt a touch of regret suddenly for all the battles that had left their mark on her, but quickly shook off such whimsical thoughts.

“Don’t worry, Galatea.” She patted the bandaged knee gently before rising. “Short of you loosing yourself, that would never happen.”

She moved about putting away the supplies and the soiled cloth, taking a moment to give Galatea time to compose herself and Miria herself the chance to chase away strange thoughts she had no business dwelling over. She was already moving towards the door when Galatea’s voice stopped her.

“What...” The pout now on the tall woman’s lips were a playful one, but Miria still felt curiously powerless to resist it. “...no reward for being a good girl?”

A short laugh erupted from Miria before she could control herself.

Wrestling her expression under control she adopted a playfully thoughtful expression as she turned around and walked the few steps back towards Galatea, who was grinning at her, apparently quite pleased with herself. Miria tapped her lips as if in thought.

“Hmm... I guess...” She wondered briefly if she had been overtaken by some kind of madness, to even consider what she knew she was going to do. But the grin on Galatea’s face as she prepared to hop down from the high perch she had been sitting on until now made Miria feel a bit reckless, and giddy. “If you had really been a good girl...”

No-one could really match Miria when it came to speed.

Before Galatea had even realized that she had moved, Miria was already standing in between long legs, grabbing that flawlessly beautiful face with both hands, and placed what was meant to be a chaste kiss on the other woman’s lips.

Only, while it started out chaste, once the stunned and immobile Galatea made a small noise of surprise, chaste became far less so... even without Galatea’s participation.

Sucking a full lower lip into her mouth to give it a playful lick before finally stepping back, a bit breathless herself from the rather unexpected turn of events, Miria quickly leaned in to whisper into a slightly pink ear in as sultry a voice she could muster.

“Just imagine if you had really been a good girl.”

Then, barely containing a laugh that threatened to bubble up, the suddenly quite happy Miria all but skipped out of the room, not really caring if any of the younger warriors would see her grinning like a fool as she did so.

She didn’t get far before a whimper followed by a noisy scrambling reached her ears. Several fair heads peeked out into the corridor to gawk, amazed, between the now chuckling Miria and the open door through which Galatea was seen stumbling across the floor.

Possessed by some evil impulse Miria called over her shoulder to the wide-eyed and blushing Galatea. “Don’t forget to put on some pants before you come out here... baby.”

With a gasp and a yelp Galatea disappeared from sight, followed by an impossibly loud crash as she slid right into some furniture, upending it. The spectacle drew even more fair-headed young girls to the hallway, and a chorus of gasps and whispered speculation followed them.

Miria walked along, humming to herself and generally unusually happy with the world at large. Touching her lips she grinned widely at a tiny patch of blue sky among the grey that was visible through a window as she passed it by.

It was shaping up to be a fine day in Pieta.

Patching Her Up 1: Thought

NOIR-fanfic. Sometimes even the most skillful of assassins get hurt. Or worried.
(Mireille/Kirika)


This is the first installment in my series of short stories called "Patching Her Up".

Read Patching Her Up 1: Thought

Disclaimer: All things Noir belong to Bee Train and probably others, perhaps even to Raimi/Tapert by now, but at any rate I’m just borrowing.

My “Patching Her Up” series is just a series of short stories unrelated to one another, from different fandoms, that have a certain theme in common. Each part is a stand-alone and a one-shot.






Patching Her Up 1: Thought
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson







”How stupid!” She scolds as she cleans various cuts and bruises. “You’re supposed to be a professional. This is a rookie thing to do, and you know it.”

She knows she is a bit less than gentle as she patches her young partner up, but the girl remains passive, not complaining the treatment. Those dark eyes follow her movements with an intensity that for some unnerving reason makes Mireille feel ashamed.

“Look, I know that in the kind of fights that we end up in it is hard, if not impossible, to escape without injury all the time, but...” She wills herself to calm though her voice still reveals both her exasperation and irritation over the situation. She grabs the bandages. “Its all fine and well to do whatever necessary to live through the moment, but if you do it at the cost of your ability to fight, then you’re as good as dead already.”

She sighs and meet dark eyes with an unusually open expression of concern in her own.

“You yanked your right arm right out of the socket, and your left hand is sprained to the point you couldn’t get it to close around a gun, much less pull a trigger. You came damn close to breaking something, you know?” She stilled her ministrations, merely sitting on the floor in front of the girl on the bed, bandages forgotten in her hand. “What were you going to do if there had been anyone else there? Attack them with your teeth? Or maybe your feet?”

The dark head tilts and brows knit. She sighs again, from a strange surge of affection this time. She can tell that the younger girl is giving serious thought to what was mostly sarcasm on her part.

“You’re actually thinking about it, aren’t you?” She asks, a smile twitching briefly at the corner of her lips. The girl nods.

“Well...” She murmurs, reluctant to admit it but honest enough to know it to be true. “If anyone could manage to kill opponents with just the use of her teeth or toes, it would be you.” Mireille can’t even imagine how, but then again, she wouldn’t have imagined killing someone with their own sunglasses or the wheels of a toy car either.

Another thought intrudes, another memory, and her expression darkens. The words slip past her lips before she had given them leave to escape. “You, and maybe Chloe, of course.”

Another thoughtful look on the young face before her, and another small nod.

Mireille grinds her teeth together and tries to clamp down on her temper. She is angry and she doesn’t want to take any closer look at why.

“Yes, of course. Chloe, the perfect killer.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, and she stretches the fabric of the bandages with a touch more ferociousness than is strictly called for. Kirika merely watches, silently as ever. “Just... perfect.”

“Why did you do it, anyway?” Avoiding dark eyes now to finally begin the bandaging that should already be finished. “I know you know better.”

“You.”

The simple answer in that quiet voice is startling enough that she freezes for a moment before looking up, blinking in confusion.

“You were in danger. I had to protect you.” Unspoken was the part where Kirika would do so even at the cost of her own health or safety, and never think twice of it.

Feeling strangely flustered Mireille tries to focus on the arm in front of her. She isn’t sure of how to react, but after a moment angered offence is just easier to take than the all-encompassing confusion and almost adolescent shyness. She growls.

“Because I’m not a perfect killer like Chloe, is that it?” Her voice is brittle with resentment and anger, but most of all with the jealousy she carefully avoids acknowledging to herself. “I may not be versed in how to kill using random toys or tiny blades, but I am far from defenceless. I need no babysitter.”

“We are partners, equal partners.” Bitter words in some ways, as she in the beginning had thought herself the senior, more experienced and more skilled of the two of them. “Unless...” She hesitates, the words tasting like blood in her mouth. “You don’t feel you can trust your back to someone that doesn’t have that skill?”

It is the only way she can ask if Kirika would have preferred Chloe as her partner, and she hates the fact that she has given in to her insecurities and asked almost as much as she fears the answer.

“Chloe...” The quiet voice begins, contemplatively, as brown eyes no longer looks at Mireille but into the distance. That small but important change causes a painful pressure in the blonde’s chest even before Kirika speaks. “I... like Chloe.”

She cannot breathe. All the air has left the room in an instant.

“I would trust Chloe to have my back if we were in a fight.”

Images of just that, the two oh so very lethal girls fighting back-to-back in a crowd of assassins, dance on the inside of Mireille’s eyelids as she closes her eyes for the briefest of moments. Angrily she opens them again, forcing away the memories of that one important and painful moment where she had first realized that there was another that not only challenged her place at Kirika’s side, but perhaps was better suited for it than she could ever be. Kirika and Chloe had been flawless together. Perfect.

“I would kill for Chloe.” Kirika is rather matter of fact, and now her eyes focus back on Mireille’s with a different kind of intensity, a different kind of expression than usual. She smiles, that tiny, sweet and surprisingly innocent-looking smile of hers.

“I would, however, not die for Chloe.”

Dark eyes bore into Mireille’s, their meaning clear. She gasps.

“Oh.” She mutters quietly, feeling surprisingly shy and aware that she has started to blush rather badly. Of course. To people like them, to be willing to kill for someone wasn’t a particularly big deal, but to be willing to die for someone... that was far more significant.

Try though she does Mireille cannot keep herself from smiling slightly, a smile unusually bashful for her in fact, as she wraps up the bandaging with a far more gentle touch than before. As she finishes fastening the edges of it on Kirika’s upper arm, her gaze slides upward to find brown eyes staring unwaveringly back at her.

That is right. She ducks her head slightly to hide the smile until she can get it better under control. Kirika is always watching her.

Always, unwaveringly.

A gentle if not entirely intentional caress of the bandaged arm as she stands up, and Mireille meets Kirika’s gaze with an unusually warm and affectionate one of her own. She reaches out to briefly run her fingers through short dark hair. The younger girl does not protest the gesture, only smiles slightly and continues to meet Mireille’s eyes.

Yes, that is right. Kirika had been watching Mireille from the start and never once looked away.

With a little thrill in her heart it begins to dawn upon Mireille that somewhere along the line of their dark and blood-soaked acquaintance... she has started to look right back.

Silvana pt2 End

Noir-fanfic. And life goes on for the darkness and the untouchable one.
(Silvana/Chloe)

Read Silvana pt2 End

Disclaimers in part 1. Spoiler warning for much of the show and the ending in particular.





SILVANA pt2 End
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by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson






The children that, free from any restrictions of the adult world, would happily greet Silvana and show her their sweet and guileless faces as she watched them play took to Chloe with enthusiasm. All it took was a smile from the girl as she helped return a lost toy and the young children seemed to decide that she was one of their own, eagerly coming running after the both of them when they were out walking in the fields to play with Chloe.

It shocked her the first time she heard herself laugh at the children’s antics with Chloe, a sound so foreign to her life before that point that Silvana could not remember when last she had laughed. Chloe’s response, her bright smile and sun-flushed face sent something to flutter in Silvana’s chest, and she wondered if this was normal, what an ordinary woman might feel. After that day she would find many occasions to laugh, indeed it seemed as if her young companion deliberately set out to garner that response from her. Silvana soon found herself helpless to prevent the small smile that took up almost permanent residence on her lips in Chloe’s presence.

It was peaceful and sweet, and Silvana would have been perfectly content to allow those days to continue forever. Awareness of change intruded at quite an unexpected moment however.

She had watched the children at play in the fields, even laughed as Chloe chased the little ones around, tossing and twirling whatever squealing child she’d pretend to catch up to, and merely enjoyed the moment and the sunlight. With the children cheering her on Chloe had suddenly grabbed Silvana by the waist and twirled her through the air. Even though Silvana, ever before as untouchable as her name suggested, had gotten used to the casual, and perhaps even increasing, touch between them by now, this latest move had her too stunned to react any further than simply gripping onto Chloe’s arms. Something the children did jostled them, and down they tumbled into the grass, Silvana at the bottom of what quickly became a pile of squirming and laughing little bodies.

Chloe was directly above Silvana, protectively braced as if to prevent any climbing or jumping child from accidently hurting her. For some reason there was a pain in Silvana’s chest, and she felt herself tremble slightly and hold her breath as stared unblinkingly at the face so very close to her own. It crossed her mind in a strangely detached way that although she always likened the beauty she found in Chloe to that of the light and dark of the moonlit night, the girl always smelled of sunshine, grass, and for some reason apples. It was a warm, soothing scent, completely void of the acrid tang that always tainted a gun-wielder.

There was a strange expression on Chloe’s face which Silvana could not understand. Distracted by this she did not notice that her hands inched up towards Chloe’s shoulders, or how the distance between their faces shrank away. Their lips brushed just barely at first, the contact far too light to be considered a kiss, and then returned for a soft and gentle caress far more worthy of the name.

Then, as abruptly as it had been initiated, Chloe’s warm, sweet weight was gone and Silvana was left blinking into that endlessly blue sky. She found her feet and her self-control, aided by the loud but guileless laughter of children, hiding well the confusion she felt at what had just transpired. Confusion soon made place for charmed amusement when she caught sight of the persistent blush dusting pale cheeks even as Chloe used the children’s games to avoid meeting Silvana’s eyes.

The girl was adorably shy with her affection and Silvana decided not to make her any more uncomfortable than she had to be. After all, she knew Chloe’s story, she knew of the boundless devotion the girl had carried for so long, and the bitter, to say nothing of brutal, rejection that had followed. She was after all the one who had picked up Chloe’s broken form and nursed her back to health. In bits and pieces the story had all been told.

Chloe, tall and lanky and only recently filling out into a more adult form, with a beauty too subtle to see at first glance and her manners too innocent and direct, had gone up against Mireille Bouquet, the aristocratic and fashion-model beautiful Odette Bouquet’s equally striking daughter whom was world-wise and undoubtedly more experienced in matters of attraction, as rivals in love. Not that Silvana suspected that appearances or experience had mattered in the end, Chloe had never truly been in the running to begin with, despite the sincerity of her boundless love.

Rejected and robbed of not only the love she had carried since childhood but of her destiny, identity and only family as well in one fell swoop, Chloe had persisted with a dignity and resilience that Silvana doubted she could have matched in similar circumstances. Chloe accepted and moved on, slowly rebuilding herself and her life over time.

That affection had grown between them with the passage of time was not surprising, although it had indeed come as a surprise to Silvana, for they were kindred in so many things. Still, Silvana had barely begun to get accustomed to that affection and now it seemed as if their bond was already deepening, changing into something she was entirely unfamiliar with and woefully unprepared for. It was a sad truth to face that young Chloe, although rejected and now shy, had more experience in matters of the heart than she.

Time passed after their tumble in sunlit grass, and Silvana did not speak of what had transpired between them in effort of overcoming the awkwardness that initially set in once they were alone. Chloe soon relaxed again, and after a few days their interactions were for most part back to what had become usual for them. For most part.

If their eyes lingered a little longer on the other in ill-disguised secret, or if Chloe would blush and act bashfully where she previously had not, neither of them mentioned it out loud. Silvana was less successful in quieting her own mind, and in the days that followed she would find that Chloe dominated her every thought. Distracted and troubled by the direction of her thoughts, Silvana opted to remain behind when Chloe went for a particularly long run one evening in lieu of the sparring they usually engaged in.

Cool or lukewarm baths were things Silvana was long accustomed to, only upon occasion allowing herself the luxury of hot water. It was born from practicality, but for that particular evening the cool water felt like a blessing, soothing an increasingly feverish reaction in mind and body alike. She lay back in the large tub and watched clouds chase one another across the darkening sky through the window, her own thoughts keeping pace with them.

Chloe was young, so very young, and Silvana was not. It was surely both shameful and inappropriate to allow herself to harbour such thoughts and feelings for one so young, especially since life had more or less placed Chloe in Silvana’s care.

It was all well and good that Mireille Bouquet had taken a lover as young as Chloe, the daughter of Corsica was a fair bit younger than Silvana herself and besides which, the destiny of Noir had probably decided for them since birth, if not before. It did not quite apply to Silvana and Chloe.

Yes, Chloe was indeed young, but then again Silvana could not demean her by considering her a child either. The dark and blood-soaked life she had led was not that of a child, and what was more, the time spent in Sicily with Silvana meant that surely by now Chloe would be seen as an adult by whatever standard one would choose to measure. A young adult, certainly, but an adult nonetheless.

It was as she distractedly allowed herself to dwell on the many changes, inside and out, that Chloe had undergone during their time together, that it occurred to Silvana that she was giving serious consideration to taking Chloe as her lover.

The thought stilled all else, and for one long moment Silvana found herself staring up at the rise of an early moon. She could scarcely breathe.

Finally closing her eyes and shaking herself out of her absorbed stupor, Silvana sighed at her own folly. The water was beyond cold by now and so was she, having spent far too long in it even for her. She found her feet and rose slowly, feeling slightly unsteady, in the tub while casting her eyes about for the towel and robe she hoped she had managed to remember to bring even in her preoccupied state.

While she stood there with the water still running in rivulets down pale skin the door opened with a violent burst, startling her, and a worried Chloe came hurrying into the room with Silvana’s name on her lips.

Time froze for a moment, with Silvana naked and shocked that she had not heard the younger woman approach, much less call for her, and with Chloe locked in helpless staring, her narrow eyes gone alarmingly wide.

As finally she became aware of in just what manner Chloe was eyeing her naked body, a knowing smile made its way to Silvana’s lips quite unbidden. Chloe flinched at the reaction and, with an adorable blush on her face, closed her eyes to whip around and run from the room.

Instead she spun face first into the doorframe, the force of the impact bouncing her off to catch a glancing blow against the thick wooden door upon the back of her head, and finally deposit her in an ungainly and undignified heap on the stone floor just outside.

Silvana was out of the tub and at Chloe’s side, gently cradling the burgundy head to her still bare and wet chest, even before she realized what she had just witnessed. Chloe kept her eyes squeezed firmly shut in mortification as Silvana carefully probed the bleeding nose that had taken quite a bump in the spectacular turn of events. She, Silvana Greone, had just watched as one of death’s most powerful and graceful angels, the one that usually moved with the poise and surety of a large feline predator, had become as a fumbling adolescent boy... at the sight of her.

At the sight of Silvana.

Chloe had not behaved thus, never revealed even a trace of anything less than full mastery of her movements, in front of that dark-haired child. Not even when faced with the other girl’s nakedness had she stumbled, Silvana knew, her physical composure remaining perfect even though her emotional one had not been.

But for Silvana Chloe had bloodied her own nose and given herself a sizeable bump on the head, to say nothing of her loss of dignity. The smile that bloomed on Silvana’s lips at the realization was wider than any she had ever worn, and not at all mysterious.

Pleased, yes, perhaps even a little proud and smug, but overall just happy with Chloe, herself, and the world at large.

She did not stop smiling as she dotingly tended to the mortified and increasingly cranky young woman, making sure that nothing had permanently come to mar what she now considered to be the delicate beauty of Chloe’s face. The smile followed her to bed that night, still teasing the edges of her lips as she slept, and returned in force upon catching first glimpse of Chloe the next morning.

She had never really known much of happiness in her life, and certainly not like this. It was intoxicating.

It was during a mundane thing, simply the two of them preparing for a meal together, that true insight hit Silvana in full.

The decision had been made.

There was no point in debating the point further, or attempting to fight against it. All that was left was to embrace it fully, and perhaps, in their own special way, this too was destiny.

Their destiny.

And Silvana would dedicate her life to Chloe and Chloe’s happiness. It was something she would do gladly, and the one thing in this world she would do not for honour or duty, but for herself.

Chloe chose that moment to step up beside her, peering over Silvana’s shoulder to see what had caught the older woman’s attention so much that she had stopped chopping vegetables to simply stand there, staring. Silvana let the knife in her hand slip quietly down onto the chopping board.

As she turned towards Chloe Silvana was unaware of the almost fiercely tender and loving expression she wore, even as it stunned Chloe to immobility.

Then she had wrapped the slender young woman up in her arms and kissed her, giving in to her longing at long last.

She tasted the shock and hesitation along with the softness, and also, a small but amused part of Silvana added with glee, the little bits Chloe thought she had stolen in secret while they were preparing their food.

Finally Chloe responded, with fervour, and their kiss grew dizzying. Silvana embraced Chloe closer, more possessively, and the younger woman eagerly accommodated her. Neither knew how long they leaned against the cupboards, dinner preparations forgotten to wilt and desiccate behind them, before Silvana led her young lover to bed.

For the future there would of course be obstacles to face and hurdles to overcome, but some things would ever remain true; Silvana would love, honour and cherish Chloe for the rest of her days. Anything else would not have been in her nature. Chloe, finally free to love and be loved fully, would never have cause to think that anything else would ever be more important to Silvana... and so these two daughters of the moonlit night would live out their mostly peaceful, loving lives in the sunlight.

And Silvana would be untouchable no more.

Silvana pt1

NOIR-fanfic. The world's most brutal princess had been left for dead, but she survived.
(Silvana/Chloe)

Read Silvana pt1

Disclaimer: All things Noir belong to Bee Train and probably others, perhaps even to Raimi/Tapert by now, but at any rate I’m just borrowing.

Spoiler warning for much of the show, but the ending in particular.





SILVANA pt 1
------------------------------------------
by Carola “Ryûchan” Eriksson






There were likely many things that the daughter of the Corsican Bouquet family was and was apt in, various types of combat and assassination methods utilising a gun prominent among them, but one thing she was not so skilled in… the ways of the blade.

Silvana Greone supposed she should be grateful for that, given that it was only the other woman’s unfamiliarity with a knife that had ended up sparing her life. She was however of rather mixed feelings regarding her run-in with her childhood acquaintance, it was after all the first and only time Silvana, the vaunted Intoccabile, had ever been defeated.

More than merely defeated, of course. Her own blade, the very blade upon which she had ended both her father and beloved grandfather’s lives for the honour and glory of the Cosa Nostra, had been driven deep into her own chest. It was merely the other woman’s inexperience with stabbing that had prevented the blade from reaching Silvana’s heart.

She had been left for dead while the Bouquet girl and her young companion hastened on to the next hurdle in their death-riddled journey, left to bleed out on those cold ancient stone ruins alone. How ironic that while her killer had not taken the time to check whether Silvana was still alive, she had spared a moment to retrieve the tip of the dagger from her chest. A trophy from a defeated foe or a symbol for a fear conquered? Silvana did not know.

The blade, like her pride, was now broken anyway.

Silvana had been found in time, obviously, and rushed to a hospital. She would spend a long time recuperating at various such places, during which she officially handed over control of the Cosa Nostra to a man distantly related to herself. She offered him the traditional ritual, fully expecting him to take it and in a way she had even welcomed that end. In the end he did not take it. In the end, she was still Intoccabile, the untouchable one, in more ways than she had imagined.

He and others like him ruled the organisation in her name, while Silvana herself officially returned to a self-imposed exile in her beloved Sicily. If anyone thought such a thing would be a hardship they were sorely mistaken, for Silvana, while fully prepared to do her duty to the fullest and most brutal, longed for nothing more than that quiet, peaceful life she enjoyed in her Sicily.

But there was one thing she needed to do before putting the blood-soaked events that had dethroned the world’s most brutal princess behind her. One thing Silvana needed for her own and personal closure. With reverently bowed and respectful heads, the time and means to do so was extended to her.

And so it was that Silvana Greone, the feared Intoccabile of the Cosa Nostra, found herself in a deeply hidden valley between Spain and France, a small piece of land that time and the world had forgotten. The Soldats holy land.

It did not do to be discourteous, not there, not then, not with Soldats... not anymore. Silvana had dressed in a simple cloak, much like that of the nuns that occupied this ancient place, and arrived on foot for the last lengthy passage. She neither sought audience with Soldats’ powerful religious leader nor did she in any way approach or interfere with the activities there. Silvana merely sent a brief letter to the one named Althena to inform them that she was there and that all she wished was to watch from a distance as a conclusion came to the situation of those called Noir.

She expected no answer and received none. The fact that none of the heavily armed and fully combat prepared nuns attempted to kill her or drive her away, to say nothing of the Noir girls themselves, was blessing and approval enough.

Because of this Silvana watched from afar as the ever-changing three-way battle between the daughter of Corsica, her companion and a third girl Silvana herself did not know, raged back and forth as if they were all of them possessed. She felt approval when watching Mireille Bouquet during this battle, her erstwhile friend and one-time opponent no longer trembled in fear when faced with beings of such deadly presence and skill that the blonde should have been as a child before the reaper. There was a certain twisted satisfaction to be found in the fact that the woman who had, admittedly with help from her young lover, delivered Silvana’s own defeat perform well against such monsters. Perhaps in some way it appealed to the tattered remains of her self-esteem.

What was it that compelled Silvana, once the battle was ended and the newly decided couple made their way onwards towards their destiny, to approach the stone slab beside the ruins where the defeated girl had been laid to rest? She was unsure, although perhaps it had something to do with a wisp of memory of another ruin, another stabbed woman, and of bleeding out onto ancient stones alone.

Whatever the reason, she made her way down from her observation post as the sunset bled vibrantly across the landscape and the shadows grew long. The girl lying upon the weathered stone was a surprise once Silvana came close enough to clearly see her features. Young and slender, with skin as impossibly pale as Silvana’s own and a shock of remarkably deep burgundy hair, although the features or the still face were somewhat on the plain side there was something beautiful about this girl, something... fair.

The bloody cake fork lying next to the unmoving figure was also not what was expected, but with a sting from her own healing wound Silvana’s eyes were drawn to the blood that stained the front of simple white fabric. There was far less of it than there should be, and with a slight frown Silvana leaned over the prone figure, alert for any sign. Could it be? Could these two skilled assassins, one of them perhaps the most lethal being in the world right now, could they have made the same simple mistake... twice?

Judging by the tool and the blood, the wound was in the right place to kill but too shallow to meet its mark. The girl was not breathing, still Silvana sought for a pulse. It was hard to find, but finally there it was, slow and weak but still there.

If there was one thing Silvana had not been taught how to do, it was how to save a life. Still she struggled, lending the very breath from her own lungs until the girl, with a strained little gasp, drew breath on her own. She could not understand why it had become so important to save this one life, why it mattered so much to her, only that it did.

When narrow, slanted eyes fluttered open to reveal the blackest obsidian for just a moment, Silvana knew that she had succeeded. This girl, whoever she might be, would live. Vaguely aware of nuns moving in the distance, no doubt having witnessed that the girl was still alive and on their way to report this to Althena, Silvana gathered the long-limbed but surprisingly light form into her arms.

The sound of gunshots coming from the direction of the rather derelict-appearing building towards which the nuns of Soldats had been moving earlier had Silvana opting not to take the wounded girl there. Instead she carried her to a niche between stone and vegetation where they would not be easily seen yet Silvana had a clear view of the area.

She saw several nuns give their lives to Mireille Bouquet and her partner right there in the wine orchard, and as the two of them disappeared into the dark interior of the building Silvana could hear the sound of gunfire continue for some time before all was quiet. With a small nod to herself she approved. Good for you, daughter of Corsica, was her thought before simply ignoring the events inside the house completely.

Silvana had come there on foot for quite a distance, and while her car and her driver waited on the other side of that invisible but important border, she, out of respect once again, had not brought a phone by which to summon them. She had gotten there by her own strength and would leave the same way or not at all, or so had been her assumption, because such was the Soldats way. It was with a touch of contempt she had observed that some of the Soldats men had driven all the way to their sacred grounds, ignoring old traditions and taboos.

Very well. The situation was changed, and if she was to dedicate herself to rescue this stranger, Silvana would do so all the way. Half-measures were not appropriate for the famed Intoccabile, come what may.

What she needed to do was to acquire either a phone from the Soldats lackeys, or one of their cars. As the old was being burned down behind her with such reckless abandon it mattered little whether her servants crossed the boundary to get her or if she drove past it to meet them, either way she would get this girl to medical care as fast as she was at all able.

While a master of all bladed things, Silvana was still unarmed and held little illusions regarding her ability to take on a dozen well-armed and alert men empty-handed. A careful search yielded three narrow but utterly lethal blades hidden upon the girl which she tucked into her cloak, at least she would not be completely helpless.

She hid the girl as well as she could and, after long moments of observation until she decided whom among the black-suited men were the leaders of Soldats, eventually made her slow and careful approach.

Perhaps time had passed more quickly than Silvana had realized, or perhaps the two women that from that moment on would be known to the underworld as Noir had been more efficient in whatever trials they faced than she could have imagined, because as Silvana had completed her silent path through blackness and was about to make her presence known, the two women came limping out from the smouldering building.

They were both of them wounded, the daughter of Corsica limping as she struggled onward with her partner, the smaller woman soaked through with her own blood it seemed, leaning on her so heavily the former was all but keeping them both upright. And yet these were no defenceless or weakened creatures that stepped out into the night, oh no. Even as the blonde woman issued her warning of bleak death to those that would oppose them, Silvana saw the fire that burned in those eyes. Deeply moved she performed the ancient genuflection for the Maidens of Death and bowed her head in respect.

Pride, yes, pride was what she felt most of all, that the fair-haired child she had so adored during their brief and unfortunate acquaintance long ago had grown into this, this woman not only she but all the dark and bloodstained world would have to respect. Mireille Bouquet had never looked lovelier to Silvana.

The men of Soldats parted before Noir in silence, some out of fear and others out of respect, and the two women made their passage into the darkness without halting or sparing a single look back. It was as it should be, Silvana thought.

It was the tiniest of sounds that alerted her, and as Silvana tore her attention away from the retreating figures barely visible in the dark she found several of Soldats’ men in the process of aiming their guns at those two that they were all now honour bound to revere and serve.

The blades flew from her hand without conscious thought, each of them hitting with instant and deadly precision. A gun fired twice quite close by, and five bodies slid to the earth without protest. Noir neither stopped nor turned back.

If the one remaining leader of Soldats, now perhaps the very singular leader of all of Soldats, was at all surprised to find her there he was quick to mask his reaction. He knew her of course, as she him, and she silently approved of his quick disposing of his two fellow leaders for their treachery much as he, with a glance and an inclination of his head, approved of the intervention of her blades. They wasted no time on pleasantries.

Silvana was given one of the cars and drove off as the Soldats remained, aiding the fire and throwing their dead into it, and she only made one discreet stop before driving to the point where she could discard the vehicle in favour of her own. Hopefully the Soldats would not be aware that the pale and still unconscious girl was alive, for the girl’s sake as well as Noir.

She went to certain lengths to protect the girl’s identity, but as she was given treatment and care in Silvana’s own Sicily the odds were remote that she would be found, even if Soldats had reason to search for her. Careful probing of mutual contacts revealed in time that they in fact did not, and Chloe, for that was the girl’s name, was allowed to move as she pleased in Silvana’s simple cottage on the outskirts of her small village in the rural part of Sicily.

Days, weeks and even months passed, and to Silvana’s surprise her young visitor not only showed no signs of wanting to leave, but Silvana herself had no desire to see the lanky youth leave and her solitary days return. Chloe was nothing like Silvana could have expected.

There was no doubt that she was the same graceful and utterly lethal creature that Silvana had witnessed in the Noir battle, in fact there was little doubt in her mind that were it not for the tradition dictating that the Maidens of Death be lovers, Chloe would have been Noir. None could be more skilled, more capable, more lethal... but her love had been rejected.

Chloe also had another side to her, and it was this that continued to amaze Silvana. The girl was soft-spoken and shy, unassuming and possessing a strangely childlike innocence and devotion that made her very easy to love, even for someone like Silvana whose heart had frozen so many years ago. They shared a joy in the simple things in life, a love for the land and toil, and an appreciation for the rewards it brought. Most would reject Silvana’s simple and rustic lifestyle, but Chloe embraced it with familiarity and delight.

Solitude had never bothered Silvana, rather the reverse, outside the company of the village children any human contact was merely a burden, a duty to fulfil without protest or letting on but never willingly sought out. She always returned to her silent cottage with a quiet sense of relief, going about her simple life in peace. But this was no longer true. There was such joy to be found in Chloe’s presence, even in the small and silent moments. She could not quite grasp how it could be so.