#tales of
Title:Hollow Home
Rating:G
Pairing/Character:Pascal
Spoilers:Nothing in particular
Words:~2,078
Status:Complete
Summary:Home is where your heart is, but not anymore.
More headcanon oneshot goodness! This was inspired by a conversation I had with my friends. It’s set in my Graces Family Headcanon and involves one of Hubert and Pascal’s kids from that HC. Some of my theories and other headcanons are also hinted at, but it should mostly be easy to understand.
Much thanks to WelkikittyandHikari for betaing!
~Hollow Home~
It was really useful, her ability to notice the little things other people didn’t. It helped her a lot in various ways, like letting her know the general idea of how another person was feeling or things in the environment that her comrades may have missed. It was just one of her many talents that came in great use during all the trouble with Lambda and Fodra.
But there were times when it was more a curse than a blessing. She’d learned that when she was younger, when the teenagers and young adults in the Enclave refused to play with her or only went to her when they wanted her to do something for them. There were the jealous glances in their direction, the way people usually brushed off her opinions, even how her own sister would ignore her sometimes. She always pretended she never noticed the odd looks she received, or the looks of pity aimed at Fourier for having to raise someone like her on her own, or the whispering people did the moment she turned her back, but she did. She always noticed it.
However, there was no point in her life where she hated this “talent” as much as she did right now. She stood just outside the entrance teleporter to the Enclave, looking at it as if she couldn’t decide what it was or how it worked. It had been a very long time since she had last been to the Enclave. Many years, and this was her first time back.
Stewart had asked if he could go see her home. He’d never been to it before—none of their children had, really—and he babbled incessantly to Hubert about wanting to see the architecture of his mom’s side of the family. Hubert was usually the one who entertained his obsessive need to look at and examine architecture, taking him to Barona and Grayleside and all the cities in Strahta dozens of times. But never once had he been to the Enclave and he kept bringing it up so much and making so many puppy eyes that they finally conceded. Pascal elected to take him since she knew the area better.
In truth, though, that wasn’t the whole reason she’d offered to be the one to bring him. It was a little more complicated than that, and it brought her back to the reasons she hated her talent for noticing the little things. Stewart tugged at her hand and looked up at her curiously. Evidently he’d gotten bored of gazing in awe at the fairly simple, though weather-worn, arch above the teleporter. Well, it was better to get this over with, and she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her youngest when they’d made it this far.
The Enclave was, unsurprisingly, just like she remembered it being all those years ago. It was worn-down, dilapidated (yet still functioning, at least) and had a population of about twenty. Stewart was immediately awestruck at the actual entrance just past the inner-teleporter, spinning around as much as he could with his hand held and looking at the designs on the worn-out floor like he’d just discovered the world’s greatest treasure. It made her smile to see him happy, easing some of the worry and dread that was resting uncomfortably in her chest.
“Now, Stew, ya gotta stay with me, kay?”
“Kay,” was his simple reply while he went back to examining the entry archway, taking a moment to wonder at the statues of her people’s symbol.
Gently tugging on his arm so he’d follow her, she led him past the entrance and deeper into the Enclave and therein spawned the reason she had never hated her ability to notice little things more than she did right now.
Immediately upon setting foot into the actual Enclave, they were noticed by two Amarcians that stood near the central greeting statue. Stewart didn’t seem to notice them, as he was too busy examining the stonework on the bridge and the diamond designs on the floor. But she did. She especially noticed when one turned to the other and began whispering, darting glances every so often in their direction.
Of course, they immediately stopped when they grew nearer and more within ear shot. Stewart briefly looked up from following the design lines with his feet to look at them and beamed and greeted them. He didn’t seem at all fazed when they smiled back, one even waving slightly at him. But she knew better. She recognized those smiles as being the tense, ‘we’re only tolerating you right now because we know you’ll leave soon’ smiles that some of her people were fond of using, particularly whenever there were non-Amarcians in the Enclave. Or, as it was in this case, half-Amarcian.
She wondered briefly if Fourier was here. They were only part way into the Enclave and she already felt that she needed a distraction. But she brushed off the thought as soon as it came. No, if Fourier was anywhere, it would be her lab, as always. And even if she was here, it would only make the whispers and the glances worse. It was one thing with just her and Stewart, but adding Fourier would add pity glances aimed at her sister and whispers about how unfortunate it was for her, being one of the last hopes of the Enclave. No, it was better if it was just them.
If it was just them, then the majority of whispers would be aimed at her and the glances would be at him. She almost envied her son’s seemingly inability to notice the atmosphere around him. Then again, his brain was too full of architecture babble to even notice much of anything if he could. He got that trait from her and she was almost grateful for it.
She decided to show him the fountain, figuring it would be something he’d like. Thankfully he did, and she allowed him to walk around the fountain unaccompanied by her. He kneeled down by it to examine the stonework better, walked around the circumference of the base a few times and even politely asked the lady that usually stood near it if he could try the chocolate. Pascal watched carefully as she helped her son reach a reusable cup underneath a chocolate fall, not missing at all the highly disapproving glare that was sent her way when his back was turned.
There were some small blessings, at least.
“Oh my! Pascal, is this your son?” asked a middle-aged woman as she walked over to them.
“Well, he’s one of 'em, yeah.” She answered, lightly tugging on her son’s arm to coax him from where he fled behind her.
“Oh gracious, he’s so cute!” she cooed, petting the child’s head and returning his greeting.
An elderly man wandered over as well, “How old ye be, boy?”
“I’m eight years old, sir.”
“Hooh! Such politeness and eloquence for someone so young! You must make your mother proud.” Stewart blushed at this praise, not used to having this much attention showered on him.
She liked these people, because she could always tell they were being genuine. But even their brief moments of generosity wasn’t enough to completely erase the negative feelings brought on by the younger people in the Enclave. Fortunately, Stewart continued to remain oblivious to it all.
As they continued to walk around the Enclave—Stewart stopping sometimes to poke around the bases of the central statues—she began to understand Fermat more than she had previously. It had always confused her, back then, why Fermat left and never came back. Though her reasons were sound—it is kind of a headache to have to hike up and down a mountain to get to work every day—Fendel’s working conditions weren’t so harsh that there was never time to visit the Enclave. But she never came home. Not on weekends or holidays or…ever. Even when she got married and had her baby, she never once came to the Enclave, nor did she ever bring Sagan. Pascal hadn’t even known about Sagan until she visited her friend one day out of the blue. She never understood why she refused to come back at the time, but she was beginning to now.
She loved her people and she loved her origins, but sadly there were wounds that were so many generations old that they were impossible to heal. Even now, while they walked toward the Overseer’s Chamber, she could feel all the glares on her back. If she listened closely, she could almost swear she heard the constant whispering of betrayal and disappointment. It was quite ridiculous, really. It was as if she’d killed somebody! Then again…in a way, maybe she did. They were dying. All of them, living, dead and unborn. The amount of fertile females with the minute possibility of successfully conceiving and delivering could be counted on one hand, and she and Fermat had gone and subtracted it by two.
It didn’t matter that they had had kids at all. It didn’t matter that their kids were at least half-Amarcian. No, it only would’ve mattered if they had been ’pure’. Purity was all they cared about as a dying culture anymore and she and Fermat had tainted it. Nothing could ever really be done to change that. Not anymore. She was certain that, if Fermat had ever come back, she would’ve been treated the same way.
Stewart was especially ecstatic at seeing the Overseer’s Chamber. Poisson had since taken over the position of Overseer and had grown into a strong and respected young adult. She knew the child, since she had occasionally visited the Oswell home. Upon seeing them both for the first time in a while, she patted the boy’s head delightedly and let him wander around the room, periodically explaining one feature or another to him. Pascal smiled at the sight of her youngest hanging on every word of one of her oldest friends.
When he had his fill of the architecture in this room, they said their goodbyes; though Pascal caught the sympathetic smile Poisson gave her as the transporter moved away.
The stares and whispering returned once again, yet Stewart still didn’t notice it. Pascal thought of swinging by her old house, but there was really nothing of interest for them there. House structures in the Enclave were all the same and the thought of staying longer than she had to didn’t sit well with her. It was almost funny how she couldn’t recall a single time in her life when she’d been this eager to leave the Enclave. Stewart took a few more moments to examine the side of a bridge before they were finally off to return home.
Leaving the Enclave, Pascal couldn’t help but feel a little bit sad. For all the good and bad memories there, the Enclave had always been her home. And yet, with this recent trip, it hadn’t felt at all like home. Sure, it had been a little awkward when she had first brought her friends there all those years ago and people had been a little wary of the outsiders, but it wasn’t as bad as this. It was never as bad as this until more started showing up.
Truthfully, she hadn’t known what to expect. When she had the twins, Fermat had warned her about going to the Enclave. Word travels fast on Ephinea, and even faster in the Enclave. What she found there was worse than anything she had expected from her own people. It was a good thing she hadn’t let Hubert come alone with Stewart. Hubert was, in his own way, just as observant as she was and likely would’ve noticed the same things she did. And that, she reasoned, was something he didn’t really need to see or know about.
On the shuttle ride home, Stewart babbled incessantly about all he had observed about the architecture in the Enclave and rattled off different facts and figures on the age and stability of the stone types and the craftsmanship of the designs and stonework. She smiled and nodded, not really understanding what he was saying, but he sounded happy. And as long as he was happy, she figured that was worth any feelings of rejection and disappointment. Yes, she decided, it was even worth the feeling that she had, in a way, been exiled from the one place she used to call home.
Title:Silent Words
Rating:T
Pairing/Character:Huscal
Spoilers:Nothing in particular
Words:1,431
Status:Complete
Summary:The curious, and honestly the most interesting, thing about Hubert was that he didn’t really speak in words. Some of the best things he ever says are, actually, silent.
Author’s Note: Written with Dubu and I’s Hubert and Pascal in mind, but I tried to keep it relatively IC (which isn’t too hard considering we RP that way anyway). I lost sleep for this because it just WOULD NOT leave me alone to sleep in peace X_X.
I’m happy with it, though. Also somewhat part of my Graces Family Headcanon because this is what I imagine their married life is kind of like for the first few years before having kids.
And here:
Silent Words
Most people wouldn’t be able to guess it from first meeting her, but Pascal is a pretty observant person. Exceptionally observant, though of the little things. Certain things like dates and exact names are big things she tends to forget, but the little, almost inconsequential details of a situation or a person rarely escape her notice.
This observational quality tends to manifest most with people she likes, mostly her friends but namely Hubert.
It wasn’t apparently well-known (or, at least, no one else in their little motley crew had ever seemed to pick it up), but Hubert never really spoke. Or…he did, quite often and loudly in fact, but that wasn’t really talking, most of the time. Hubert was, by nature, a reserved and quiet person and the majority of anything he ever really said wasn’t spoken in words, but in actions. It had, admittedly, taken her the many months of travel and the time since their more personal relationship began to really start noticing them. But, when she found one, she soon found another and another until she could probably name off a whole list of wordless vocabulary. It was, frankly, quite fascinating, and just one of the many things that made Hubert, well…Hubert.
The first thing she’d noticed had actually taken two occasions to understand. They both worked regularly at home and away and sometimes there was stuff that came up at the Enclave or somewhere in Fendel that required her to zip on over there to try and fix it. Hubert generally had to stay behind because of his own work, but when she did arrive home after days or a week-and-a-half, he always greeted her with a long kiss at the door before running off back to his work. It had surprised her the first time, but the second time she began to hear it, and each subsequent time the message became clearer. When Hubert did that, he was effectively saying “Welcome home, I missed you,” without actually saying it. It wasn’t long after she understood the message that she began returning it for those times when he came home after a long while away on business. He seemed to understand.
After that, she noticed there were actually multiple different kisses he gave her, each with their own meaning. A kiss to her forehead when they woke up was his “Good morning,” and a peck on the lips before bed was “Good night.” Though she wasn’t sure how he knew, whenever she felt upset about something he would generally wrap his arms around her mid-section as a way of asking “Are you okay?” An affirmative answer usually got a quick kiss on her shoulder before he went back to whatever he was doing.
Normally, when they slept, his arms were a natural weight around her waist. But there were times when he’d fully wrap both arms around her and hold her closer to him. This wasn’t that abnormal, but when he held her like that she could always tell when something was upsetting him because of how tightly he was holding her. When that happened she usually tried to coax him into actually talking. Sometimes he would, sometimes he’d deny anything was wrong. Typical Hubert.
These words and messages weren’t just in kisses, though. Most of them weren’t even in physical messages. Hubert was never really a touch-y kind of guy, and that fact barely changed when they began this relationship (though she considers him actively communicating through little touches like kisses to be some progress. Very nice progress). Most of Hubert’s clearest messages, she found, came from the little things he did.
Like on those long nights, sometimes, where research kept her up way past the point where she would’ve normally gone to bed, Hubert would bring hot cocoa up to her office area. It didn’t mean anything in particular, but it was his way of showing concern and a suggestion to take a break. She wasn’t one for taking breaks, though, but answering this gesture with an update of her progress seemed to satisfy him before he’d leave her to her work. Perhaps the gesture doubled as encouragement, because he recognized the importance of her research and work. Concern or encouragement, she appreciated it nonetheless (and, hey, chocolate was really the best cure for research-related exhaustion).
There were other things too. She could always tell when he was over-thinking something because the deepness of the furrow of his eyebrows was directly proportional to how much he was worried or concerned over some internal matter. Talking or giving him a quick peck on the lips generally snapped him out of it.
When he read, he always read sitting up. A book in his lap meant he was open to being interrupted, but if he was clenching a book in both hands interrupting was the furthest from a good idea you could get.
He crossed his arms when he was angry (or being serious, depending on who he was talking to and the set of his shoulders), laced or steepled his fingers when he was brooding on something important, and he pushed his glasses up much more frequently when he was nervous.
If there was a night where she’d fallen asleep at her desk, she normally awoke to find whatever she’d been working on moved slightly out of her way and a blanket tucked around her shoulders.
When they were away from each other, they always kept in touch with the communicator. Even there, where they actually had to use words, these unspoken messages existed, mainly in the length of his messages. One word answers meant something was bothering him or otherwise wrong, two to ten words was normal and long, lengthy messages generally meant he was worried about her. She responded accordingly when she could.
He compulsively cleaned when he was anxious (like when he was waiting to hear back from the President for word on a promotion), sat close to her when relaxed (and conversely would sit far away when not) and would sometimes, unexpectedly, fix her with a certain look that effectively said “Come to bed,” with the inference that it was more a suggestion and not a command (unless he was in a particularly bossy mood that day).
Hubert didn’t normally smile. At least, if he did, he almost always did so outside of her view (he seemed to like keeping up the Stoicface McStoicer expression even when at home). However, the very few smiles he did display, even if only for a few seconds, held small messages too. A smile where both ends of his mouth were slightly upturned was the general happy smile that gave away that he was, to some kind of degree, happy and at ease with whatever made him smile. The left side of his lip curling up meant he felt smug about something; the right side doing the same was reserved for moments of amusement where he might’ve said “You dork,” or some other kind of chide remark of affection. There were smiles made only when he was looking at her, smiles for his brother, small and impartial smiles for official people, and there was a very special smile that usually accompanied the sparkle of his eyes when he spotted something Sunscreen Rangers related. It became something of a game to her to see how often she could get his more happy smiles to appear.
It had taken a lot of time and trial and error, yet there were many other words in this strange language that utilized his whole body that she was still trying to learn. But she found, with the ones she had learned, that he was a lot easier to understand than he had been before, like when they were all traveling together.
Some things, though, she just couldn’t quite figure out the meaning behind, no matter how often they happened. Like why he would randomly decide to hold her hand when they were out of the house somewhere, but would object to any other displays of public affection (well, unless they were 99.9% alone in public, then he would accept small kisses). Maybe it had no real meaning and was just something unique to Hubert.
Most other people would probably have been annoyed or driven crazy by all the silent talking he did, and normally Pascal would’ve been. However, this silent language of his was part of what made him interesting and, to her, made him seem like that much more of a puzzle to solve.
And she likedpuzzles.
