missnicegirl | (no subject)

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at home

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Her best friend can fly.

Her best friend can fly.

Her best friend can fly.

Lavender can fly.

Of course, the moment she heard, after she was done with the celebratory hug, she immediately asked Lavender how it works so she could try it herself. Unfortunately, Lavender's developing vocabulary was not quite adequate to communicate the process. But they had a long conversation about their powers, with Matilda sitting in a comfy chair in her bedroom and Lavender hovering casually beside it. They both agreed that Jenny is the only grown-up who is allowed to know. Things like this are too important to trust to unqualified adults.

A day later, Matilda is still unable to get herself off the ground. She's sure there's a way; she just hasn't found it yet. Maybe if she learns, she can teach Lavender how to move things other than herself. But for now... she needs more data.

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He spends some time in passive observation, searching for the angle that might let him see any of those extra effects, if they exist at all.

Eventually, he has to concede that either they don't exist (in his case? at all? too many variables, far too small a sample size) or he just doesn't have the right tools at his disposal.

"All right," he calls.

She lowers him back to the ground.

It's odd how effortless it is. When she started out, she could barely move a Cheerio. Apparently it gets a lot easier with practice.

The second effort to raise himself is much shorter. He knows right away that nothing has changed, or least not anything he's currently able to quantify.

He shakes his head and makes his way back to Matilda.

"As far as I can tell, it's not made a difference," he says. It's a hell of a qualifier, and not a very scientific one, but this isn't exactly a lab-standard experiment, either.

"Okay."

She is not discouraged.

"Let's go back to my world and see if it's any different there."

"Let's."

That will eliminate one variable, at least.

Matilda grins and bounces to her feet.

"I really hope you figure it out," she says as she starts toward the bar, "because if you do I bet you can tell me how. I tried but I couldn't get it."

"If I do," he promises her, "I'll tell you exactly how."

And if he does, and he gets to keep it, won't that be fun?

She glances back to beam at him, trips on a bit of uneven ground, and picks herself up again a moment later with no visible injury and only a slight dent in her mood. These things happen when you're six.

Jim pauses to wait.

He doesn't ask if she's all right. The answer is, after all, obvious.

Matilda brushes dirt and grass from the knees of her jeans and keeps walking. With anyone else it would be weird that they didn't say anything, but Jim is Jim.

"We've got a really big backyard; we can go there. Have you seen my backyard?"

She's not sure if it would've been in the movie or not. It's not what she'd call plot-relevant.

It wasn't, but it did make a nice setting for an ending montage set to some bland pop tune or another.

"I have."

He doesn't ask if it's secluded enough; the answer, again, is obvious. She wouldn't suggest it if it weren't.

"What for?" she has to wonder.

"Background, mostly," he says, "and assurance that your life with Miss Honey would be a happy one."

Movies are like that.

She giggles.

"Kids' movie, huh?"

Well, it was never going to be anything else. And they do tend to be a little heavy-handed with their happily ever afters.

Jim opens the back door, holding it for Matilda before following her through.

"Of course."

The front door is conveniently close by, which Matilda appreciates.

"Oh, and Jenny's still at school," she says as she opens it. "So you probably won't see her unless this takes a really long time for some reason."

Some reason such as, for example, Jim learning to fly and deciding that now is the perfect time to experiment with the ability. Well, it would probably be more logical than trying it at home.

That would be an acceptable reason.

He lets her lead the way into the backyard.

Where, as promised, there is plenty of room and a line of tall trees screening them from the outside world. Matilda likes her backyard. When she goes out there with Jenny it's like they're the only two people who ever existed. Which she'd never want to be true, but is a nice thing to be able to pretend for a while.

It's a good space for experimenting - sheltered, but spacious and brightly lit. Jim scans it for an appropriate spot.

(Which may also involve a glance at Matilda for indications of where her favorite spot is.)

Matilda has plenty of favourite spots for different purposes. Until now she hasn't needed a good spot to try to fly from. The patch of grass that's good for picnics might work well, though; it's very slightly elevated from the surrounding area. She nods to it.

He nods agreement, already reorganizing his thoughts back into the frame of mind he'd had on the pitcher's mound.

It doesn't take long, once they've settled in, to determine two things:

First, that it isn't going to work for him here, either.

Second, that that elusive something does indeed exist. It's no more within his grasp now than it had been before, but it's brighter and more solid. He still doesn't know precisely what it is, but the idea of its being merely wishful thinking has been ruled out.

"Should I try lifting you up again?" she volunteers.

"Yes."

He doesn't think it's likely to make any more difference to his abilities than it did before, but he wants to see if it might bring that other thing into more focus. The change in setting has clearly had an influence there.

She does.

Again, it's no closer, but for the first time it offers the faint but steady impression that it could get closer.

Or, more accurately, if he can find the right angle, take the right twists

(tell the right story)

he can get himself closer to it.

Not today. Maybe not even any time soon.

But there is a way.