aisalynn | (no subject) (Reply)

So, last night, instead of working on the essay I am now rushing (alright, thats pushing it: I'm still procastinating, as this post proves), I wrote a short fanfic for Terminator: Sarah Connnor Chronicles. I don't know if I should be happy that my fanfic interests have expanded, ( I used to write only Harry Potter fanfiction) or worried that it is taking over my life ( the essay I'm supposed to be writing is actually about fanfiction). Anway, here it is.

Title: Langue de L'ame (Language of the Soul, or so the translator told me. Its been a while since I took French)
Fandom: TSCC
Characters: Derek, Cameron
Rating: PG
Summary: He knew what it was like to always be reaching out for something, to search for answers, reasons, to long for something you don't even understand.

Derek didn't know much about ballet. He didn't know the names of the turns and positions, the correct way the arms are to be held up, shoulder to be set. He'd never even seen it performed before.

Dancing wasn't exactly a necessity in a world struggling to fight off complete destruction.

Cameron probably did though. Her cold, microchip brain probably had whole files of facts saved up. He would bet that she not only knew the terminology, but also the names of all the muscles used in any position, the exact degree of the angles in the arms, legs and neck. She probably calculated the amount of force needed for every move. Derek couldn't claim any such knowledge.

But he did know one thing: ballet was meant to be danced by humans, not machines. Their precise movements and cold grace would make a farce of the activity. Dancing was a means of expression, of emotion. It was a way to communicate, without the bonds and limitations of language, the deeper recesses of the soul, a way to share, to connect to other living beings on a purely human level.

It was hard, as Derek watched her from the doorway, to remember that she wasn't just that.

She was an outline against the afternoon sunlight pouring through the window. Her movements were soft, fluid, shifting easily from one position to the next. Her eyes followed the motion of her hand to the sky, then closed as she tipped her head back, arm curving slowly above her head. Her feet made no sounds as she swept across the room, turning swiftly here, bending smoothly there, arms extended gracefully in front of her, dainty wrists moving naturally with the motion.

It was beautiful. And terribly, painfully real. He hated that his first sight of such beauty would come from a machine, a computer.

He hated that it didn't matter.

The sunlight sifted through her fingers as she raised her arms to the ceiling, wrists crossed, palms open. Reaching. Entreating. Calling out for an embrace.

Trying to touch God.

His breath caught in his throat and he felt tears form in his eyes. He knew what it was like to always be reaching out for something, to search for answers, reasons, to long for something you don't even understand.

She paused for a second, arms still outstretched in a silent plea. Then slowly, and with such achingly gracefully movements, the arms lowered, being denied that which they asked for.

Yes, he knew what that was like as well.

She sunk slowly to the ground, wrists still crossed, head bowed in defeat.