The Fox and the Butterfly
In a version of events where Pirate Fairy ended badly, Hook has nearly overrun Pixie Hollow, and two baking-talents that used to be rivals have hushed conversations at daybreak.
"So, do you hate me or what?"
Ginger's question is so casually spoken Dulcie can't facilitate any other reaction than looking up from the bottom of her tea mug. She's been lost in it a while, looking for hidden patterns, like letters or symbols. Taeri says it's supposed to be an omen, a sign of fortunes to come. Dulcie, who has known about magic and wings of starlight and flying ships all her life, doesn't doubt fate, per say.
She just isn't inclined to know hers.
The sound of Ginger's fingers drumming against the rickety old table snaps her out of her thoughts. Whatever half-coherent form they take. Ginger is leaning precariously backwards, chair tipped over until it balances only on its two legs. One wrong move and she'll go sprawling, Dulcie knows. Just as she knows that she's seen Ginger pull this move off a thousand times, maybe even more, and she's never tipped over.
She blinks, mind still sluggish from another night's total lack of sleep as she processes the question.
"Well, you're not very nice to me." Is what she lands on, voice just a tad too careful, too wary. There doesn't seem to be a reason for it, though, (not this time, at least) because Ginger only hums in the back of her throat and turns back to her nails.
She's painting them a teal blue, left hand steady and unwavering as she applies a second coating of paint with that little brush. None of her strokes ever mess up or stain the table or the skin around her fingers, despite Ginger being right-handed.
Dulcie feels a flash of irritation at it. Part of her wishes Ginger would knock the whole bottle with her elbow and spill the contents all over. Or that she'd slip and leave a stain behind that would soak through the termite-eaten wood of the table before they could clear it. Perhaps Dulcie wouldn't have to constantly question herself as to whether she'd finally cracked, whether her memory was faulty, whether her brain had merely conjured a figment of Ginger to banter with so she wouldn't die of loneliness.
That last thread of thinking is so absurd Dulcie has to fight back an amused snort. Ginger has always made Dulcie feel a lot of things, more than she's comfortable with, fine. But a remedy for loneliness she's never been, not to her, not to anyone.
As previously stated, Ginger isn't very nice.
"You don't want me to be." Ginger speaks up after a while, done with her forefinger and moving onto her pinky. She looks up again, hair that matches her name to perfection tied in a braid that shifts with the movement. "Do you?" she asks after a bit, as though to confirm it.
Dulcie has to think about it, but not for too long.
"I don't think so. No." she replies, eyebrows furrowed. "I don't think I'd trust it. If you suddenly started being nice to me."
"Huh. That's not entirely moronic of you."
It's rare that Ginger hands out compliments. It's even rarer that Dulcie offers thanks. Silence falls again, and Dulcie busies herself with watching what must be the final rays of moonlight filter through the dusty window, casting shadows on the wooden floorboards. Taeri says the moon doesn't actually produce its own light. That what everyone thinks as moonlight is actually the light of the sun reflected off it. That even though the sun disappears during the day, it cares too much about the people and the animals and the other living things to leave them without a source of light for sometimes up to 12 hours.
Taeri likes to talk about things like they have feelings. All things. Celestial bodies. Oak trees. Music sheets.
Dulcie doesn't often think about the light-talents, but she does know Iridessa would have been pissed at Taeri's theory. Or perhaps she would have secretly loved it and it would have sparked a debate for years to come, the words eventually growing old and familiar on their tongues.
Pixie Hollow fairies never lacked a subject when they wanted to talk. And most of them wanted to talk a lot.
As if reading her thoughts and knowing Dulcie was reminiscing, (what an appalling thought) Ginger spoke up, green eyes not shifting away from her freshly-painted nails, examining them as studiously as Dulcie did her tea dregs.
"I would have been nicer to some of them if I had known they'd die so soon. Fighting is all well and nice, but I would have spent less time doing it if I knew they wouldn't get as long to fight back."
Dulcie couldn't relate to the sentiment, although she supposed it was fair. A bit awful, regretting not being nice enough only because the objects of your ire are dead, but it was rather strange to hear the fairy who'd sided with Hook regret her cruelty.
"Sometimes I tell myself that if I hadn't known they'd die, I would have cared a little less about pleasing them." Dulcie says, dully aware that this is something she hasn't told Taeri. Maybe because Taeri never really met the Dulcie who used to think a fresh batch of honeycomb cakes could solve all troubles and heal all sorrows, who used to bake because she wanted to make the fairies happy, who never even dreamed of leaving Pixie Hollow.
That Dulcie still existed, but in fragments and increments. Now she didn't care about healing her sorrow, only surviving it. She still baked, true to her talent as ever, but for money, not for the sentiment. And Pixie Hollow...
Well, there was no going back, was there?
If Ginger was fazed by the- objectively horrible- statement, she doesn't show it. Then again, Ginger was rarely fazed by anything. Once, another baking-talent in the kitchen had poured double the amount of poppy seeds required into the filling for the poppy puff rolls and sent three sparrowmen to sleep before they realized. Dulcie had almost lost a decade off her life when she saw them snoring, but Ginger had huffed her trademark huff, given her trademark eyeroll, and promptly requested for a leaf-bucket of icy water to douse them in.
Still, something about this line of questioning nagged at Dulcie.
"Is Hook not nice to you?" she asked before she could regret it. It still came alarmingly fast, though. On the list of Topics she and Ginger had mutually, tacitly agreed on skirting around if they wanted this thing to work, Hook was Number One, red underlined.
We don't talk about you joining the evil pirate captain that wrecked our home and destroyed everything we built, and we don't talk about my girlfriend being the ex of one of Hook's most wanted escaped prisoners.
That was the deal. It was a good deal, written in whatever color of paint Ginger selected for her nails that day. There used to be a time they wrote things- mostly recipes, in their case- in blackberry ink, from the bushes near the heart of the Autumn Woods. Dulcie used to fly over them on route home.
"I don't really talk to Hook all that much. He's nice and then he's not." Ginger shrugged using only one shoulder. She blew on her nails a little. A sure sign the conversation was over.
Good. Dulcie didn't know what possessed her to ask. Ginger could handle not nice people. Ginger was a not nice fairy herself. Dulcie's limited time and energy should be devoted to those who really couldn't stand unkindness. Who wilted like trampled daises in the face of it. And there are plenty of those in her life. Dulcie seems to collect them like jars of nuts to use as cake toppings.
"The sun's up." Dulcie darts to her feet, stretching her wings and fighting a wince as pair flares up her spine. Keeping them folded for hours on end is always a regrettable decision, but she has little reason to fly these days.
Ginger nods impassively, freckled face unreadable. Her hair catches the light, shifting between a thousand hues at once, amber and strawberry and hazel. Dulcie knows her locks will turn crimson in the summer. It should wash her out, but it doesn't. It never did. She looks like the dying ember of an old dream from which a new one awaits to spring.
"You should go. There are people missing you."
Those are Ginger's parting words, always, since day one. Dulcie has spent an inordinate amount of time wondering if that's the reason why Ginger decided not to tell Hook about Taeri, about Michael Darling, about Dulcie's role in any of it. Because Hook wouldn't care about a lowly baking-talent causing problems, but he would care a great deal if he thought Taerie would miss Dulcie if Dulcie happened to vanish (snatched, taken). He would care because if Taeri came for Dulcie, Michael might come too. And with him, Michael would bring John, and it was only for John that Wendy would return to Neverland, eyes ablaze and voice raised.
And having Wendy in his clutches again is all that Hook ever wanted. More so than he did revenge. More so than he did Pixie Hollow, or any fairy he ever took.
So, yes, Ginger didn't say anything the first time. Or the second or the third. And despite Ginger's not-niceness, a part of Dulcie hysterically trusts that she'll keep saying just that. To Hook, to Zarina and to everyone else.
A deal is a deal, after all, even written in teal nail polish.
"Be careful. Don't fly too high."
These are Dulcie's own parting words. It used to be a running joke in Pixie Hollow. Fairies always forgot themselves and flew too high playing tag and other games. That made them easier to spot by the ever-looming hawks, even obscured by the clouds. And yet despite the warning, they'd laugh it off and dart impishly away, eager for the next game.
They'd been happy then, hadn't they? Dulcie now knows she was at least. Pity that she only found out after it was all lost.
Ginger's lips quirked upwards, smirk as wry and taunting as ever.
"Alright. Just because you asked."
@neptunesimp, @mk-writes-stuff, @strawberrymira, @dha-haree Not sure this is what you guys had in mind when you gave me prompts, but I still hope you like it, and thank you for your help!
