[writing] a belated WIP wednesday

[nukawhit]

I wanted to start doing WIP wednesday, but I keep missing wednesday, so I'm just gonna do it now! And then do it on wednesdays! Maybe!

Anyway, I'm plodding away at some Catherine/Madison because that's what my heart wants right now, and here is a very rough snip of Madison getting ready:

Madison rises from the mattress, springs creaking against the flat of her palms. Rolls her shoulders, rubs the sleep from her eyes.

A moment alone, sleep-addled and pensive, and Madison collects her thoughts, prepares herself for the day. It takes discipline to do it right — to clear her head, leave her nightmares here, in this bed; to assemble herself, inside and out.

Madison removes her nightshirt first, hangs it over the back of the headboard. Hums, thinking about what shirt to wear, scanning the clothes rail her and Catherine share. Leathers on Cathy’s side, mostly, and more scavenged military gear on hers. Madison settles for a plain, off-white button up shirt she got from Underworld Outfitters. Pairs it with her combat pants; faded green, marked with stitches and laser burns, bullet holes. Utilitarian, practical. Pants to one side, and she slips the shirt over her shoulders.

She swings her legs to the side and pulls on her pants, toes bristling the cold, cracked marble.

Her hair falls forward as she leans, an inky-black spill in her vision, and Madison shoves it behind her ears. Pants on, buttons and tucks her shirt. She secures her trousers with a belt; straightens her collar.

Almost there.

Her hair is last in her routine, sets time aside for it. Always is. It’s what she spends her time on. Madison angles herself toward her vanity — to use the word loosely, because it’s just a cracked mirror propped against a stack of well-read science journals; already picked clean by her, read page to page. But it works. This is one of the few moments she decides to spend time on herself, for herself; a process that calms her, brings everything together. Where she tries to expel anything ruminating in her psyche, some catch of anxiety that might trip her up for the day.

Madison brushes her hair through, careful on the tangles. Brushes until it’s smooth, just hitting past her shoulders. Leans to the bedside table and pops her case of bobby pins; takes some in her hand, some in her teeth. Starts pinning at the back of her head, bringing her hair into a bun. Leaves a front piece of hair, and twists it into a small O-shape to the left side of her middle-parting. Pins it, blends the victory roll flawlessly with the rest of her hair, pins invisible.

Secures it with a spritz of hairspray, sparing; it’s a luxury out here.

Madison gazes into the mirror, taking a small moment to observe herself. She has fine lines at the edges of her eyes and a small flurry of gray hairs at her widow’s peak, but that doesn’t matter. Instead, Madison touches her face, noting her complexion; she looks healthy enough, if a little tired. She is just shy of twenty-six, but god, it feels like she’s already lived a lifetime. It’d be easy to let that show, let her fatigue spill out, but — that’s not who she is. She turns her head, checks the sides of her hair, mindful of any stray hairs poking free.