Rhiannon was utilized with Guine's approval.
Word Count: 963
Rhiannon was fine.
Or so it appeared. The two of them hardly spoke to one another these days. Whenever Paris tried, it was always awkward and stilted and predominantly one-side. She assumed Rhiannon still hadn't really forgiven her for pushing her away after Mom left. Paris thought the silent treatment was well deserved—a taste of her own medicine, as it were. She only had herself to blame.
But they could sit with one another peacefully enough, Paris watching re-runs of Law & Order on the television while Rhiannon read a book or sorted through photographs to put in one of her scrapbooks. Paris had learned not to pry too much and let things go at their own pace. It was enough that she could see her cousin and reassure herself that everything was alright.
For now, the traitorous thought drifted into her mind again. It had done so quite often since she'd woken from nightmares late one night a few days previously.
“Are you okay?” Paris tried anyway. She made an effort not to sound too concerned but couldn't pretend to be entirely at ease.
Rhiannon looked up from a pile of photographs she had spread over the coffee table in the living-area of the apartment in the basement of Paris's mother's townhouse. She looked moderately confused, staring seriously into Paris's face before adopting an expression that made it seem as if she thought it was a stupid question.
“Is that a 'no'?” Paris asked.
Her cousin simply shrugged and went back to her pictures.
“You can talk to me, you know,” Paris persisted.
“What would I talk about?” Rhiannon finally responded, though she did not sound entirely interested.
“I don't know. Just... stuff. Whatever you want to talk about. School. Life. Things like that.”
“You don't want to hear about school,” Rhiannon said. It didn't sound hostile, but it didn't sound inviting either. “What part of my life could possibly interest you?”
“You haven't seen your mom in a while, have you?”
Rhiannon paused and looked back up at her. This time her expression was distant and guarded. She frowned, and Paris knew she'd stumbled onto a topic best left alone.
Before, Paris might have needled Rhiannon about it, pushed at her buttons until Rhiannon had some other reaction and eventually went off to close herself in her room, but it seemed such a stupid game to play right then. Perhaps it was best to give Rhiannon her space, particularly now, when Paris was sure there was something going on. She wanted to know. So Paris showed her an open, expectant face and waited to see if Rhiannon might volunteer some information on her own.
She didn't, of course. Paris knew better than to expect as much.
Instead, Rhiannon went right back to her pictures, setting a few aside and discarding others into a shoebox already half full of older photos.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you were there in April?” Paris tried again.
“Where?” Rhiannon asked without looking up.
“At bootcamp.”
Rhiannon shrugged a second time, answering in a tone that sounded disinterested, “I was just passing through and thought it might be fun.”
“That's a lie,” Paris accused.
“Is it?”
“You're trying too hard to seem like it doesn't matter to you. I know what that sounds like. I do it all the time.”
Rhiannon pursed her lips and said nothing.
“Are you going to tell me?” Paris prodded.
“Why should I?”
“Because I was there too.”
She allowed the silence to overtake them for a little while after that, gave Rhiannon time to let that statement sink in. It was obvious that Rhiannon was somewhat intrigued by the implications. Though she did not yet raise her eyes, she stopped organizing her photographs and stared blankly at the coffee table.
“Why were you there?” Rhiannon finally asked.
Paris copied her shrug. “Thought it might be fun,” she said.
That had Rhiannon raising her eyes in a mild glare.
“What?” Paris asked, feigning innocence.
“Boot camp never seemed like your idea of fun.”
“I'm a dancer, Rhiannon,” Paris said. She rolled her eyes. “I might prance around in tights and tutus and look like a pretty princess, but that takes hard work.”
“What else do you prance around in?” Rhiannon asked.
Paris stopped and looked at her, judging the serious look on her cousin's face. She thought Rhiannon was trying to imply something else by that question. Not traditional clothes, but those of an supernatural nature.
“Tights,” Paris answered. “Boots. Gloves. A little hat.”
“Doing what?”
“Fighting evil.”
“Monsters?”
Paris shrugged again. “If you want to call 'em that.”
Rhiannon's eyes narrowed as she studied Paris for a few moments longer. Finally she tore her eyes away and shuffled through more pictures.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“Because I wanted to,” Paris said.
“Why now?”
“Because...”
Paris trailed off, unsure how to answer. She still did not know how to explain her dreams, and what memories she had from them of Rhiannon were hazy at best. All she knew was that something had happened to her.
Her's was the last face Paris had seen before waking.
“Because?” Rhiannon prompted.
“Because I wanted you to know you're not alone,” Paris finished.
Rhiannon stilled. Her eyes flicked up to Paris and away again. She dropped a photo into the shoebox, set another one on top of the small pile that was forming on her right.
Eventually, she nodded. It was an acknowledgement as much as it was a thank you.
And for now it was enough.
