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hiddencaitSo this was a prompt by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
whuffle who was sweet enough to feed my temporary steampunk addiction with a request for a Steampunk mechanic!Emily. Which seriously, the whole concept is made of awesome. Unfortunately, it went a bit askew from the original prompt, I guess, plus there's some angst. *shrug* What can ya do?
Emily drew her father’s battered pocket watch from the bag she’d set on the bedside table and checked the time, sighing as she did so. Matt was late again, as he had been for most of the months since New Dawn and the war she’d thought they’d won together. She’d been so sure he might… No matter what she’d been sure of, she thought bitterly. He was keeping secrets again and forcing her further away from him with every passing day.
She sighed again and pulled herself to her feet, habit forcing her to straighten up the bed before she moved away. Clearly she wouldn’t be getting to sleep anytime soon, so she might as well make use of her time. She pulled on the worn garb she used to work in, and the slipped out of her room and out into the dark and nearly silent halls of the ARC. It was something she’d been surprised she’d gotten used to: really feeling at home here in what she’d once thought to be a prison of sorts. Still, after her return, she’d admitted to Matt she could not feel comfortable in his bright flat in the city; not after Ethan had so easily breached its defenses.
No, Emily much preferred her little room, particularly when she was not the only resident. She forced her mind away from that particular path, and instead moved her thoughts to her destination. This was yet another bonus to living onsite, one she’d stumbled upon all by accident. She still wasn’t sure what had drawn her to the machine shop that strangely dull afternoon or what had possessed the rather terrifying head mechanic to welcome her with open arms into his domain, but she was certainly grateful.
Mr. Trenton had taken one look at the out-of-time Victorian lady and apparently decided she’d make him a fine assistant. Bob, as he’d insisted she call him, had taken her under his wing and in between anomalies had taught her patiently until she was almost comfortable working on any vehicle in the ARC’s fleet. Then, oh bless the man, then he’d shown her his other hobby. The massive mechanic who looked like nothing so much as some ancient Viking warrior was a craftsman. Using most of the same tools he used as a mechanic, he made jewelry. Absolutely lovely and delicate pieces out of iron and copper and whatever scraps he had lying about from left over parts and the like. It was fascinating. In exchange for her modeling a few of the pieces for his catalogue, he’d agreed to show her how to build her own creations out of the seemingly useless metal bits scattered about. She’d actually tried an article of jewelry or two, but in the end, she’d been drawn to a different sort of assemblage.
She turned the last corner to the machine shop and pushed through the door, turning on the lights as she went and headed over to the corner she’d claimed for her work. A corner that was growing increasingly cluttered as the months passed. Lester had made rather snide remarks about finding her another place to display her creations, and Emily had almost been offended until Jess revealed the bureaucrat was apparently looking about for gallery space. It was a shocking bit of sweetness, but Jess hadn’t seemed terribly surprised.
Emily reached her work bench and set about gathering up the materials she needed for her current project. Depending on how long her restlessness lasted, she just might finish it tonight, she mused. Satisfied she had all she needed, she dusted her already grimy hands off on her trousers. She had a moment’s surge of shame to be so decidedly improper, wearing a man’s ragged old shirt and trousers of all things and certain to be covered in grit and soot in only a little while, but she pushed it aside with a toss of her head. Mother and her strict adherence to propriety were near a century gone, and Emily’s unlamented husband was no longer alive to force his own restrictive opinions upon her. She had no one to answer to but herself. No one to mock this decidedly unladylike pastime she’d taken too.
Still, she thought, smiling a little as she tugged on the goggles Connor had provided to her with their dark protective lenses, her work here had more than a little in common with the proper pursuits her mother had foisted upon her. Surprisingly considering Bob’s artistic inclinations, it had actually been Captain Becker who had been the first to assure her that her new hobby was most assuredly an art form, and the honest admiration in his eyes had convinced her to believe him. He too had proven to be almost painfully sweet underneath all the weaponry and military bearing.
She shook her head again and pulled on her leather gloves, then turned and made one last check to be sure all of her equipment was in order. It was, and she turned back to the sculpture settled on the low table before her. It was decidedly more abstract than her previous pieces, and she’d worried a little that it might not be as well received as the last two. Surprisingly well received, actually. “Spring heeled Jack” had some of the soldiers raving at the menace in the draping cloak of iron and vicious steel teeth and claws, and “Defiance” with its impression of curls and corset coupled with boots and blades had Abby staring for hours.
But her current project was different. She’d first conceived of the concept it while reading a book of poetry Jess had bought for her as it was by “another Emily.” The poem was one of her favorites now, and as soon as she’d read it, the image before her had all but begged to be brought into existence.
It had bloody taken longer to complete than she’d expected, however. The first delay had been her muse’s insistence that the thing actually be completed primarily in bronze, pushing this single sculpture to cost far more to create than any of the others combined. She was lucky to have Bob in her corner; he’d managed to swing connections for scrap bronze at a fraction of the price it might have otherwise cost. That was still more than she’d planned to spend, but there was little she could do about it when the project so totally demanded that medium. Oh well; at least she wasn’t paying room or board what with her quarters being part of the ARC and all. Her salary wasn’t being spent all that often; she might as well put it to use purchasing copious amounts of metal and tiny working music boxes.
That purchase and the requisite wait for the commissioned pieces to be completed was the final delay to her current project, and the only parts she actually had yet to affix. She’d welded the “skeleton” together over the course of nearly week, cutting and then welding and cutting and welding until the bronze spiraled up and down again in a shape almost reminiscent of a pair of wings wrapping around some hidden figure. Then she’d painstakingly milled and textured and cut smaller lengths into the hint of feathers, and that addition had only heightened the wing like appearance. Now, to add those last touches.
She went about setting the three tiny wind up music boxes into the hidden niches she’d built for them, adjusting each until very little solder would be needed to hold each in place. Considering the delicacy of the individual components, she didn’t want the torches near any longer than absolutely possible. She fiddled a moment longer, and then carefully set the long wires that Connor had helped her space and attach to the gears that would hopefully run all three music boxes simultaneously if she’d designed it properly.
Please God, let her have designed it properly, she all but begged silently, before forcing herself to step back and actually reach for the silver solder that she’d chosen for the project after more than one panicked discussion with Bob regarding that choice. It would hold better than the soft solder option, and she’d also feared brazing might put too much heat near the music boxes. She cut tiny pieces of the solder and using tweezers, positioned the specks where she hoped they might hold strongest without the resulting silver spots being too conspicuous against the burnished bronze of the rest of the statue. She carefully clamped everything into place and then let out a long breath before reaching for the soldering iron.
She lit the soldering iron, feeling almost nostalgic at the now familiar pop-hiss of the gas catching. Then Emily carefully reached in and around the statue to heat each tiny amount of solder just enough that it melted against the metal on either side, creating a solid join or so she hoped.
She finished the last join and turned off the iron with a sigh of relief that she hadn’t appeared to slip or overheat any of the components. She unwound herself and the iron from the statue and then stepped back to survey the finished project.
It was rough, and she’d left dark burns like scars against the bronze where she’d made mistakes with the welding. Those scars fit though, she realized as she took in the sheen of the bronze underneath the darker patches. It still shone, despite or perhaps because of the wounded exterior.
“Emily.” Startled, Emily spun at the sound of the quiet voice between her and the door. She wasn’t totally sure how he’d managed to enter without her being aware, but considering the source it wasn’t that surprising. Matt sat slouched in the tattered lawn chair Bob often used, his posture both comfortable and patient. “Sorry to startle you.”
“It’s alright. I just… didn’t expect to see you tonight. Or- not down here, I mean,” she nearly stuttered, trying to back track at the flash of hurt she’d barely seen on his face before he hid it again.
“Neither did I,” he admitted, quietly. He stood slowly, his body creaking. “I missed you.”
In some dark part of her, Emily had the urge to scoff at the words, but as he approached and she could see the exhausted look in his eyes, she buried that urge. Whatever her disappointment with his continued absences, she couldn’t deny one constant about her lover: he didn’t lie to her. He might keep information from her, hide any number of truths for as long as he saw fit, but the fact remained that he would always choose silence over an outright deception. If he said something out loud, he meant it.
He missed her. She let out a shuddering sigh at the thought and turned away from him, hardly able to stand the sight of him.
“I haven’t gone anywhere. You knew where to find me.” She hated knowing that her voice trembled over the words, but she held herself tall and strong. The sound of his footsteps behind her gave her only a moment of warning before his strong hands settled on her hips, and he leaned his head to rest against her shoulder.
“I did. Emily, I’m sorry I’ve stayed away but-” he faltered and drew silent, his hands clenching her hips so tightly it was almost painful. After a moment he spoke again, and she almost burst into tears at the hesitant sound of his voice, so close to broken and begging. “Come to bed. Please.”
“I will,” she finally answered, his need almost dragging her assent out of her, “but I need to finish this. It’ll take just one more moment.” She felt him nod silently against her shoulder, and she stepped forward, cringing at the feel of his hands dropping away. She pulled the last piece of the statute, a tiny clock key, from her pocket and reached forward to carefully slide it into the key hole hidden beneath one tarnished feather. She wound it only a few times, and then let go.
Immediately the soft sound of tinkling music drifted up from the depths of her creation, the familiar tune lifting her spirits. She stepped back carefully until she felt her back come to rest against her lover’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and they each sighed again at the sense of being together once more.
“It’s lovely,” he whispered against her hair. “What’s it called?”
“Hope,” she replied. “Just Hope.”
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all..”
-Emily Dickinson
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no subject
Date: 2011-08-01 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-01 10:31 am (UTC)BTW, would you like to know how to do the link as a click through? It might make it easier for readers to pop along without having to cut and paste the links. If you pop over to the Daily thread sometime and give me a nudge, I'll do my best to talk you through it.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-01 06:00 pm (UTC)And drat... I thought I actually had! *headdesk* Sometimes LJ seriously hates me I'm afraid...
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Date: 2011-08-01 05:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-01 02:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-01 05:37 pm (UTC)Just glad it worked really. I wasn't sure I could get inside Emily's head...
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Date: 2011-08-01 11:57 pm (UTC)That came out beautifully. I love how well you've captured Emily's strength and at the same time, her weakness. And Matt's uncertainty is so clearly written.
Truly marvelous.
Did you work in something with a quote intentionally? Because, um, I have something of a weakness for using them......
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:08 am (UTC)And the quote came about sort of round about. I was only part of the way into the introduction when the title just burst into my head followed closely by the image of the sculpture itself and Emily's voice reading the poem. As it's one of my faves, I couldn't resist.
But no, I didn't acutally plan the quote because you're fond of them.. unless you'll like it better if it was intentional... in which case, it was all for you. On purpose and stuffs!
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:15 am (UTC)I actually prefer that it was just a nice bit if synchronicity. But seriously? Almost everything I've written has incorporated or used a quote for the name. I blame it all on the fact that I'm TERRIBLY at title. Give me a rabbit to name and it's easy. A title? Ha!
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:41 am (UTC)And yeah, I hate hate HATE titles... they tend to be the very last thing I write unless something bizarre happens.
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:45 am (UTC)As for the coding *shrug* I'm an old fart, what can I say. I've been coding shit by hand for 2 decades so it's really a hard habit to break even when offered the easy way.
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:47 am (UTC)Ahh gotcha. Yeah, I imagine that would make it difficult.
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-03 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-02 12:01 am (UTC)(a href="[put your web URL here]")Follow this link....(/a)
You can put any wording you like where I've written "Follow this link" So long as you close with the (/a) replacing carats for parenthesis yet again, you'll be good to go. Format is actually quite a lot like coding an LJ cut tag.
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:12 am (UTC)I did manage to figure out what I did wrong though, so it's fixed now thank goodness.
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Date: 2011-08-02 12:17 am (UTC)I don't ever bother using the auto-code thingies. I've always coded by hand. It's just second nature after all this time. Could even still tell you the protocol code for getting a dial tone out of a modem and having it successfully dial into a server.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-02 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-25 07:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-26 12:25 am (UTC)