send me a ♫ ; i will put my music on shuffle and write a drabble about our characters based on the first song that comes up !
[song] “And if you say you’re okay / I’m gonna heal you anyway.”
Knuckles rapped on the door of Imogen’s dorm room–or at least he hoped this was her room. The person he’d asked for directions was intoxicated, to put it lightly. His reason for being at her room? Surprisingly, he was ready to talk. Sleepless nights left him frustrated and more prickly than ever, the latter feeling he equated to his new power.
“Imogen?” he asked through the door. “Are you in? I’ve got to talk to you.”
There was no immediate answer, but something seemed peculiar. Solo pressed a fingertip against the door, close to the frame, apprehensively. With this new power, he never knew what was an invasion of privacy and what wasn’t. Socially awkward himself, he wasn’t adept enough to navigate this new territory with the added issues of intruding into others emotions. Still….
He could pick up on something behind the door, and it had him buzzing. Another finger pressed against the grain, followed by another, then his entire palm. Frustration. His brows furrowed against his will, a symptom of the emotion crawling beneath his skin.
Solo backed away at the sound of glass breaking behind the door. “Shit,” he could hear her say.
“Imogen.” He stepped toward the door, slowly, placed his hand on the doorknob. “Please…”
“Not now Solo,” she said from inside the room. A palpable anger hung on the edge of her vowels.
Normally he would take no for an answer, but his insistence on silence over the past few days brewed an anger of his own. That, mixed with the emotions he was picking up on, caused his wrist to turn the doorknob in his hand; something he would never have done with a right mind.
What Solo found was the young woman, kneeling over a large puddle of tea and the shards of a broken mug.
“Whoa,” he breathed.
Imogen was shocked to see he’d actually had the nerve to open her door. “I’m fine Solo. I don’t need anyone’s help.” She scrambled to pick up all the sharp pieces with her thin fingers, but quickly drew back when she sliced her hand on a larger piece. “Shit!”
Solo didn’t need his new superpowers to know that she was a very prideful young woman. He was surrounded by a lot of them, but Imogen always stood out to him–he supposed that was because she worked hard to make sure she stood out. Despite her words, he could feel her emotions much stronger now. The frustration made his skin feel live and there was a hint of something else. Something below the surface, something she was burying deep that she worked hard to suppress. Solo couldn’t tell what it was, and he never could understand the types of peers he held that put such pressure on themselves, but he felt for her.
Solo knelt too. Carefully he picked up the pieces of the broken mug and dropped them in a nearby wastebasket before reaching for her hand. “May I?” he asked quietly.
Imogen stared at his hand, brows furrowed with contempt. She hated being the damsel. She wasn’t the damsel. However, she was tired. So tired.
“Please,” Solo said, “I know you don’t need the help, but I can make it better.”
She was hesitant, but Imogen held out her hand for Solo, who took it in his own, carefully. He smiled. The powers he held were still developing, and truth be told he had no idea what their extent was, or how to control it, but he’d recently found out that the emotions could go two ways. Solo held her little hand between his own and closed his eyes, focusing hard to remove himself from the awkward situation, and place himself in a happier memory. He thought of a video he had seen earlier on Facebook featuring a dog standing on a piano bench pounding away at the keys with its front paws. Granted, he was high at the time, but the video made him laugh like mad. He could feel a laugh bubbling up from his center, and he focused, imagining moving that energy from his gut up his middle, down his arm, into his hands and into Imogen’s. He felt… yellow. Happy. Effervescent.
Solo opened his eyes and became ecstatic when he saw the corners of Imogen’s lips curling upwards into a little smile.
“Do you have a Band-Aid?” he asked, releasing her hand.
“In the bottom drawer of my desk,” she said after a moment or two had passed. She clutched her hand to her chest, awestruck and smiling.
