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I SWEAR I posted this like three weeks ago . . . apparently not?
Title: Mistletoe
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Claire/Gretchen, Adam
Rating/Wordcount: G/850
Summary: Claire goes to Adam for guidance and gets a cryptic fable about gods and greenery.
Notes/Warnings: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
superkappa, who asked for both Adam/Claire and holiday schmoop starring Claire and Gretchen. Compromise?
Claire came to Adam reverent, primed with stories about the oldest special, who not only defied entropy but predated its codification in thermodynamics; ready to be charmed by the man who mentored Casanova. He laughed in her face.
“Please. You're a child. I don't mean in body; that actually rather works for me. Do you ever wear a tartan skirt and tie? Knee socks? Forget it. I mean in mind. You're a squalling newborn where immortality is concerned. How long have you had this gift? I thought as much. Come back and see me when you have a few more decades under your belt, then perhaps we'll have something to talk about.”
She demanded that he give her something, some prize of wisdom for her effort in finding him. It was only fair.
He smirked at that and rolled his eyes, but humored her. “Fine: beware of mistletoe.”
“What?”
“A piece of Norse myth: Baldr was a god, son of Frigg and Odin, and he was good and he was pure and everybody that met him loved him immediately and without reservation. He was plagued with nightmares, visions of his own death, as was his mother, and this troubled her so that she traveled the world begging every bird and beast and plant and stone and bit of lint to promise never, ever to harm him. Promise they did, every single thing; the only object she didn't bother to ask was mistletoe. It's a parasite, you see. It needs a stronger host to support it as it grows, it's too weak to live on its own. Frigg thought it harmless, and passed it by.
“With the oaths obtained, Baldr was invincible. Nothing at all could harm him. Norse gods being Norse gods, this soon turned into a sport: let's all throw things at Baldr and laugh as they bounce off without mussing his hair. The game turned grim when Loki, the spiteful trickster, joined in. He'd learned of Frigg's oversight and had crafted a dart of mistletoe, which he gave to Baldr's blind brother Hod. Chuckles all around as Hod raises his arm, rather less mirth when he strikes Baldr dead. The mistletoe loved Baldr too, you see. It flew true not because it resented Frigg's disregard but because it wanted nothing so much as to be in his heart. Can't blame a plant for being over-literal.”
She stared, nonplussed. “I don't get it. Is that, like, a metaphor or a parable or whatever? Or do you really mean, mistletoe kills invulnerables?”
“It's a riddle. You'll appreciate it once you solve it.” He finished his tea and stood, straightening the creases in his trousers. “Do drop me a line in another fifty or so years, if you're still around. Wear pigtails.”
It bothered Claire for weeks, that brief, bizarre conversation. She was plagued with her own nightmares, of dart games gone wrong and of pricking her finger like Sleeping Beauty on a plastic sprig while helping Sandra put up Christmas decorations in their old house in Texas and sinking into an eternal sleep, hair flowing away in waves and her face shrouded in cobwebs. Then college started, and she got distracted with studying and invisible sorority girls and trying to untangle the knot of feelings her new-and-now-ex-roommate caused to grow among the branches of her heart. She didn't think of it again, not until the Dickensian Holiday Supper hosted by the English department.
Claire spent her evening avoiding the doorway where the green sprig hung on red ribbon, even though she was pretty confident it was as fake as her mother's. Avoiding also the pale girl with the sad eyes, to whom she has not spoken since she tried to run away to the circus after Thanksgiving. It wasn't until she saw the two together, when Gretchen was backed up awkwardly under the waxy berries by a cluster of students waiting to leave, that Claire felt a chill of what she hoped was understanding.
She ran across the room to her, dodging English majors and dirty dishes, and grabbed her by the arm. Gretchen looked alarmed, and maybe a little hopeful.
Claire's mouth moved soundlessly, unsure what to say, until she blurted, “If I don't ask you not to hurt me, it's not because I think you're harmless, but because I trust you to trust me to be strong enough to let you in.”
Gretchen looked more concerned than before, but the corner of her mouth quirked up in a smile. “I thought eggnog had no effect on you.”
Claire let go of Gretchen's arm, raising her hands to her face, brushing hair from its periphery nervously before drawing her down into a kiss.
Her tall frame tensed, withdrew. She looked at Claire sceptically. “What was that for?”
Claire giggled stupidly and shrugged. “Mistletoe.”
Slowly, blissfully, Gretchen returned her open smile. She leaned in. Claire yielded to her greater experience, and her sweet spiced-cider mouth. Let Adam keep his stories and his cynical smirk, she thought. A dart to the heart's not always such a bad thing.
Title: Mistletoe
Fandom: Heroes
Characters: Claire/Gretchen, Adam
Rating/Wordcount: G/850
Summary: Claire goes to Adam for guidance and gets a cryptic fable about gods and greenery.
Notes/Warnings: For
superkappa, who asked for both Adam/Claire and holiday schmoop starring Claire and Gretchen. Compromise?Claire came to Adam reverent, primed with stories about the oldest special, who not only defied entropy but predated its codification in thermodynamics; ready to be charmed by the man who mentored Casanova. He laughed in her face.
“Please. You're a child. I don't mean in body; that actually rather works for me. Do you ever wear a tartan skirt and tie? Knee socks? Forget it. I mean in mind. You're a squalling newborn where immortality is concerned. How long have you had this gift? I thought as much. Come back and see me when you have a few more decades under your belt, then perhaps we'll have something to talk about.”
She demanded that he give her something, some prize of wisdom for her effort in finding him. It was only fair.
He smirked at that and rolled his eyes, but humored her. “Fine: beware of mistletoe.”
“What?”
“A piece of Norse myth: Baldr was a god, son of Frigg and Odin, and he was good and he was pure and everybody that met him loved him immediately and without reservation. He was plagued with nightmares, visions of his own death, as was his mother, and this troubled her so that she traveled the world begging every bird and beast and plant and stone and bit of lint to promise never, ever to harm him. Promise they did, every single thing; the only object she didn't bother to ask was mistletoe. It's a parasite, you see. It needs a stronger host to support it as it grows, it's too weak to live on its own. Frigg thought it harmless, and passed it by.
“With the oaths obtained, Baldr was invincible. Nothing at all could harm him. Norse gods being Norse gods, this soon turned into a sport: let's all throw things at Baldr and laugh as they bounce off without mussing his hair. The game turned grim when Loki, the spiteful trickster, joined in. He'd learned of Frigg's oversight and had crafted a dart of mistletoe, which he gave to Baldr's blind brother Hod. Chuckles all around as Hod raises his arm, rather less mirth when he strikes Baldr dead. The mistletoe loved Baldr too, you see. It flew true not because it resented Frigg's disregard but because it wanted nothing so much as to be in his heart. Can't blame a plant for being over-literal.”
She stared, nonplussed. “I don't get it. Is that, like, a metaphor or a parable or whatever? Or do you really mean, mistletoe kills invulnerables?”
“It's a riddle. You'll appreciate it once you solve it.” He finished his tea and stood, straightening the creases in his trousers. “Do drop me a line in another fifty or so years, if you're still around. Wear pigtails.”
It bothered Claire for weeks, that brief, bizarre conversation. She was plagued with her own nightmares, of dart games gone wrong and of pricking her finger like Sleeping Beauty on a plastic sprig while helping Sandra put up Christmas decorations in their old house in Texas and sinking into an eternal sleep, hair flowing away in waves and her face shrouded in cobwebs. Then college started, and she got distracted with studying and invisible sorority girls and trying to untangle the knot of feelings her new-and-now-ex-roommate caused to grow among the branches of her heart. She didn't think of it again, not until the Dickensian Holiday Supper hosted by the English department.
Claire spent her evening avoiding the doorway where the green sprig hung on red ribbon, even though she was pretty confident it was as fake as her mother's. Avoiding also the pale girl with the sad eyes, to whom she has not spoken since she tried to run away to the circus after Thanksgiving. It wasn't until she saw the two together, when Gretchen was backed up awkwardly under the waxy berries by a cluster of students waiting to leave, that Claire felt a chill of what she hoped was understanding.
She ran across the room to her, dodging English majors and dirty dishes, and grabbed her by the arm. Gretchen looked alarmed, and maybe a little hopeful.
Claire's mouth moved soundlessly, unsure what to say, until she blurted, “If I don't ask you not to hurt me, it's not because I think you're harmless, but because I trust you to trust me to be strong enough to let you in.”
Gretchen looked more concerned than before, but the corner of her mouth quirked up in a smile. “I thought eggnog had no effect on you.”
Claire let go of Gretchen's arm, raising her hands to her face, brushing hair from its periphery nervously before drawing her down into a kiss.
Her tall frame tensed, withdrew. She looked at Claire sceptically. “What was that for?”
Claire giggled stupidly and shrugged. “Mistletoe.”
Slowly, blissfully, Gretchen returned her open smile. She leaned in. Claire yielded to her greater experience, and her sweet spiced-cider mouth. Let Adam keep his stories and his cynical smirk, she thought. A dart to the heart's not always such a bad thing.
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