BRUNHILDE
I BET ON LOSING DOGS
I’m not sad, Brunhilde repeats to herself as she looks into Vastra’s eyes. She is just so alive, so alive and teeming with everything Brun wishes she is. The little flame sits in her assumptions, imagines her companion taking flight with all the confidence their world can muster. The tangles of her mane, the smooth cream of her coat—how beautiful she is in her feral, stoic nature. Brun knows almost nothing of this woman, but she paints such a beautiful picture of her in her mind, images so incredible that her pulse rushes and her legs itch to get away.
“Wanna—” Brun begins to ask if Vastra wants to take to the skies when she cuts her off. Hildy’s glow dims and the butterflies that flutter around her spread out their orbits. She looks naked, shocked. “Must just slip my mind most days,” is her noncommittal answer, followed by a weak smile and a roll of her shoulders. She knows this is a blatant lie, that anyone with half a brain will see through her excuse—but she can’t bring herself to come up with a good lie, and that simply leads to—
“Actually, uh,” Hildy pauses, swallows back her hesitation, “I’m sick.” It’s not a lie. She is sick (sick to want him, sick to miss him, sick to punish herself even as he punishes her). “Yeah,” she kicks a hoof into the grass, now, attempting nonchalance, “I just haven’t been able to kick a cold . . . or something.” Brun laughs, then sighs, then returns her downturned eyes to Vastra’s. Stupid, she thinks, so stupid—she’s going to know something is wrong because you lied. Stop fucking lying.
“I never caught your name before,” Brunhilde quickly adds, desperate to change the subject. “Wanna tell me now?”
“Wanna—” Brun begins to ask if Vastra wants to take to the skies when she cuts her off. Hildy’s glow dims and the butterflies that flutter around her spread out their orbits. She looks naked, shocked. “Must just slip my mind most days,” is her noncommittal answer, followed by a weak smile and a roll of her shoulders. She knows this is a blatant lie, that anyone with half a brain will see through her excuse—but she can’t bring herself to come up with a good lie, and that simply leads to—
“Actually, uh,” Hildy pauses, swallows back her hesitation, “I’m sick.” It’s not a lie. She is sick (sick to want him, sick to miss him, sick to punish herself even as he punishes her). “Yeah,” she kicks a hoof into the grass, now, attempting nonchalance, “I just haven’t been able to kick a cold . . . or something.” Brun laughs, then sighs, then returns her downturned eyes to Vastra’s. Stupid, she thinks, so stupid—she’s going to know something is wrong because you lied. Stop fucking lying.
“I never caught your name before,” Brunhilde quickly adds, desperate to change the subject. “Wanna tell me now?”
@[Vastra]
