eachdraidh | Video - Seelie/Unseelie (Memory)

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Video - Seelie/Unseelie (Memory)

[If Stiles had been asked which memory he would have thought would have been forcibly pulled from his brain and broadcast to the entire Drabwurld, he never would have thought it would have been the one chosen by the star. With how his life had been lately, he would have expected something along the lines of screaming and death and pain and blood. Hurt. He'd expected to hurt.

He did, but in a different sort of way.]

[The boy that came running down the stairs had to have been about six or seven, dark hair tufted and sticking up, pajamas emblazoned with iconic little Batman symbols as bare feet padded over carpeted floors, down a set of stairs and over to the large Christmas tree set up in the corner. There was no snow outside (duh, California), but there was fake snow sprayed all over the windows, snowflake decals added to give it a winter feel. There was a gasp, little hands moving up to cover a mouth open in an 'o' of surprised glee at the presents piled up under the tree. The boy went over, pulling one out and shaking it, then looking up the stairs with a sort of thoughtful look. Maybe he could open just one before...]

Put that down, Stiles. Let us at least get a little coffee in us first?

[His dad came down the stairs, flannel pj pants and a tshirt half covered by a robe. He was yawning and scratching at his belly as he shuffled towards the kitchen. A woman followed after, looking just as sleepy but giving him a fond smile as she came over, her robe closed as she went to sit on the couch.]

Oh, let him open just one. It'll help him take the edge off, right, baby?

[The woman smiled at the boy and the boy jumped up, coming over to throw small arms around her neck and give her an enthusiastic kiss. The woman laughed and ruffled his hair, pushing him back over to the tree.]

Go on, then. One to tide you over until your old, grumpy parents get some caffeine in them.

[His dad sighed and looked over at her, but he clearly wasn't actually all that put out.]

You know you spoil him.

He's a baby. He's supposed to be spoiled.

I am not. I'm almost seven. That's practically all grown up.

See, mom? Practically a man already.

[The man laughed and set up the coffee maker before coming over and sitting heavily in a chair.]

Well, go on, then. It's two against one. Majority rules.

[The boy grinned, coming over and giving his dad a thankful hug before he went over to the tree, picking out one of the medium packages because he wanted to build up anticipation for that big one in the corner.

There were flickers of how that morning continued; paper everywhere, ribbons tied in hair both long and short, happy smiles as socks were oohed and ahhed over, gifts made by small hands fussed over and elated squeals of glee over the large box, which turned out to be a Star Wars compilation present with Lego sets and a pair of light sabers that would be used the next day with Scott. They'd both be broken in four months. The image flickered and faded with the three of them on the couch, the boy sitting on the woman's lap, playing with a strand of hair as the man sat beside them, showing them something in a book he'd gotten from his wife.]

IN THE MORNING
[With eyes a little red, he addressed the network.]

So... guess there's nothing we can do to stop that, huh?

[What he really wanted to ask is if there was a way to save it.]

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[ they had spoken before about family. oh-so-briefly. and only in the abstract. but sansa knows enough about the rawness of kinship that she very nearly snaps the locket shut when the scene plays out before her eyes. curiousity compels her to stay. to listen. to watch. she wonders if it's a betrayal of their fledgling friendship that she doesn't respect his privacy and avoid this memory as she's been avoiding the memories of others.

sansa winds the locket chain around her fingers. she feels an ache deep in her bones. she misses her family: the dead; the distant; the broken. her and stiles's light conversation about those left behind seems almost crass, now.

in the morning, it takes her a long time to gather courage. a long time to speak up: ] I don't think so. I take it was not intentional, Stiles?

[ her voice is quiet. even-toned. perhaps even a little hollow. she has allowed herself to care a little too much about a stranger's poignant memories. she's allowed herself to be moved by someone else's past. lord baelish would not be pleased. ]

Intentional? No... no, pretty sure all these, ah, what are they, memories? Pretty sure no one wants any of that out for everyone to see. Have you seen any of the others?

[He had. He'd spent the night consoling Hermione over tea and conversation, talking to make the memories a little dimmer. Well, for her. He'd pulled out his locket after she'd left and rewatched the scene about twenty times. God, he'd forgotten what her smile had looked like...]

I saw. But I never...

My apologies, Stiles. Yours was the first I attended to in full. [ and this makes her feel bad. nosy. rude. ]

Oh.

[He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. He sighed, moving over to the washbasin and setting the locket down for a second so he could splash water on his face, clean up a bit. He patted himself dry with a towel and picked the locket back up again.]

I'm not mad at you or anything. It's not like I asked to show it or you asked to see it. I guess out of everything it could have picked, that's probably one of the more... harmless memories. It's just...

[He sighed, moving over to sit in a chair.]

It makes me miss my mom. My dad too, of course, but... mostly my mom.

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