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31_days2016-01-13 05:21 pm
bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2016-01-13 05:21 pm
[January 13] [Beetlejuice] Small Worries
Title: Small Worries
Day/Theme: 13. Strength is quite different from toughness and being vulnerable isn't quite the same as being weak.
Series: Beetlejuice
Character/Pairing: The Deetz clan, mostly Delia
Rating: G
Even when Delia was the most annoyed at Lydia, she understood. The girl was different. Artists usually were. Photography seemed dry and aloof compared to the visceral thrill of sculpture, but art was in the eye (or hands) of the creator more than the beholder. Delia had a vague inkling of how photography worked; the chemicals and the process. It fit the whole witch’s brew aesthetic that Lydia sported so well. It was good. It was artistic. In its own way.
She understood that she was the stepmother and no matter what she did, Lydia would always be comparing it to what her real mother might have done. She understood that they might never be as close as Charles wanted them to be. She wasn’t sure he understood it, but that was all right too. She loved him. She loved that silly, middle-of-the-road man with every over-dramatic bone in her body. Finding him gray and clutching his chest, gasping that it hurt, he couldn’t breathe had terrified her. The thought of losing him so soon had sent Delia to depths that she would never be able to translate into words.
She had rallied though. She was the sculptor, not the clay, not as weak and malleable as people liked to mutter at her shows. She had taken charge. She had called 911 with one hand while tending to Charles with the other and had handled everything. When the doctors told her it could happen again, she had been the one to make all the plans. Charles would never have asked her to give up everything. She did it for him. Lydia had been near catatonic at the thought of losing her father as well and had been no help. It had been Delia, calling the realtors, calling the movers, making it all happen.
She wasn’t losing him, she told herself. She wasn’t losing Lydia. They would find a good place and they would make it work. If by the time, they had found one, she had been shrill, nervous wreck of a harpy, well what could they expect? She fussed about little things, she barked and bitched. She had to. The brittle shell of bitterness was all that was keeping her from shattering into a million pieces. The reality of the situation kept sneaking up to dig its claws into her.
This was not the life she wanted. She wanted Charles to be all right. She wanted to get back to work as soon as possible, just to have something of her own. She wanted Charles to be safe. She wanted him to appreciate that she had done this for him. She had come from a miserable little town like this and had sworn never to go back. They had treated her like a freak instead of an artist. She wasn’t going to tolerate it as an adult and if that meant reminding them all how Podunk and common they all were as often as possible, that’s what she would do.
They weren’t going to get to her. Lydia wasn’t going to get to her. Thank God for Odo. With him there, she had an excuse to fixate on something easy, like mauve wallpaper, and not have to wonder if this would work. Would Charles recover here? Would Lydia be all right? Would the small town’s small minds crush the moody girl? Would it mean the end of Delia’s career? It was too much all at once, but it would be worth it for Charles, even though she snapped at him. It wasn’t his fault that this was all his fault. She hoped he knew that too. She was short with Lydia, who was dealing with the near-death of her father by embracing all other death. It was like she was already mourning him, and it made Delia’s teeth grind. He was going to be fine if she had to kill him herself.
And then she had to lock herself in the bathroom to cry at that thought. When Charles knocked to check on her, she couldn’t bear to have him think she was crying over how scared she was. She shrilled something about how tacky the tile was, so he wouldn’t know it was him she was upset over. He had said something sweet and stupid about how if anyone could make it amazing, it was her, and then he walked off. The bathroom was quiet after that, and she started doing her face up enough that not even sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Lydia could tell there had been tears.
The house was quiet when she walked out. It felt like it was watching and waiting. She squared her shoulders. It was going to be hers too, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to end up a widow walking these halls. Worry about something small and manageable, she told herself and went to see what passed for take-out in this place.
Day/Theme: 13. Strength is quite different from toughness and being vulnerable isn't quite the same as being weak.
Series: Beetlejuice
Character/Pairing: The Deetz clan, mostly Delia
Rating: G
Even when Delia was the most annoyed at Lydia, she understood. The girl was different. Artists usually were. Photography seemed dry and aloof compared to the visceral thrill of sculpture, but art was in the eye (or hands) of the creator more than the beholder. Delia had a vague inkling of how photography worked; the chemicals and the process. It fit the whole witch’s brew aesthetic that Lydia sported so well. It was good. It was artistic. In its own way.
She understood that she was the stepmother and no matter what she did, Lydia would always be comparing it to what her real mother might have done. She understood that they might never be as close as Charles wanted them to be. She wasn’t sure he understood it, but that was all right too. She loved him. She loved that silly, middle-of-the-road man with every over-dramatic bone in her body. Finding him gray and clutching his chest, gasping that it hurt, he couldn’t breathe had terrified her. The thought of losing him so soon had sent Delia to depths that she would never be able to translate into words.
She had rallied though. She was the sculptor, not the clay, not as weak and malleable as people liked to mutter at her shows. She had taken charge. She had called 911 with one hand while tending to Charles with the other and had handled everything. When the doctors told her it could happen again, she had been the one to make all the plans. Charles would never have asked her to give up everything. She did it for him. Lydia had been near catatonic at the thought of losing her father as well and had been no help. It had been Delia, calling the realtors, calling the movers, making it all happen.
She wasn’t losing him, she told herself. She wasn’t losing Lydia. They would find a good place and they would make it work. If by the time, they had found one, she had been shrill, nervous wreck of a harpy, well what could they expect? She fussed about little things, she barked and bitched. She had to. The brittle shell of bitterness was all that was keeping her from shattering into a million pieces. The reality of the situation kept sneaking up to dig its claws into her.
This was not the life she wanted. She wanted Charles to be all right. She wanted to get back to work as soon as possible, just to have something of her own. She wanted Charles to be safe. She wanted him to appreciate that she had done this for him. She had come from a miserable little town like this and had sworn never to go back. They had treated her like a freak instead of an artist. She wasn’t going to tolerate it as an adult and if that meant reminding them all how Podunk and common they all were as often as possible, that’s what she would do.
They weren’t going to get to her. Lydia wasn’t going to get to her. Thank God for Odo. With him there, she had an excuse to fixate on something easy, like mauve wallpaper, and not have to wonder if this would work. Would Charles recover here? Would Lydia be all right? Would the small town’s small minds crush the moody girl? Would it mean the end of Delia’s career? It was too much all at once, but it would be worth it for Charles, even though she snapped at him. It wasn’t his fault that this was all his fault. She hoped he knew that too. She was short with Lydia, who was dealing with the near-death of her father by embracing all other death. It was like she was already mourning him, and it made Delia’s teeth grind. He was going to be fine if she had to kill him herself.
And then she had to lock herself in the bathroom to cry at that thought. When Charles knocked to check on her, she couldn’t bear to have him think she was crying over how scared she was. She shrilled something about how tacky the tile was, so he wouldn’t know it was him she was upset over. He had said something sweet and stupid about how if anyone could make it amazing, it was her, and then he walked off. The bathroom was quiet after that, and she started doing her face up enough that not even sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Lydia could tell there had been tears.
The house was quiet when she walked out. It felt like it was watching and waiting. She squared her shoulders. It was going to be hers too, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to end up a widow walking these halls. Worry about something small and manageable, she told herself and went to see what passed for take-out in this place.