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Our Time Machines

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This is utterly off-topic, but I just wanted you to know that there are no hard J's in French. They're all pronounced softly, like ZH in our alphabet's spelling of Chinese names, for instance. Now think of how Laurence must say June's name. Now try to stop laughing.

Previously on:

(Though really, you should be up to date on just about everything we've ever written. :XD:)


"We all have our time machines. Some take us back; they're called memories. Some take us forward; they're called dreams."
--Jeremy Irons


January dawned busy and bright on the Brazen Fields shed row. Corvus, though still making little to no progress, dominated much of the two trainers' attention, while Ephialtes was completing preparations for a stint at the Hal's Hope and Donn early in the year, and the new filly was warming up for the Sunshine Millions (for which she was eligible by the stroke of blind luck that Mr. Tseng had stood in California for long enough to cover Supercharger).

After the banner year the Fields had enjoyed the previous season and with so many promising horses lined up for this one, one would have expected the mood to be high and light, but it was hardly that. Corvus was frustrating Chloe and Tom. Frankie was the recipient of Chloe's second-hand stress. June had turned Ellie into a bundle of moods and nerves (although Poltergeist's departure surely had its hand in that, as well). Only Laurence was enjoying any particularly long-lived high spirits.

Well, Laurence and C'est Impossible. Ephialtes and Corvus were always sour and Manit tended to feed on the moods of the people around him, so he had taken to sulking in the far corner of his stall, but the Imp was, as always, unflappable. The black filly seemed never to be unhappy; she constantly found a way to amuse herself, whether by playing with the local barn cats or trying to take a second bite out of a certain always-wary journalist. Once, June suggested that perhaps she should be wearing Cory's muzzle, and Ellie broke her no-talking-to-June rule for long enough to merrily inform her that the Imp had made no violent move toward anyone else.

In fact, anything to do with C'est Impossible rapidly became Ellie's most treasured entertainment. She found that she and the new filly saw eye to eye on a great many things, not least of which June.

The Imp adored Laurence; it was becoming abundantly clear. In addition to the initial shirt-chewing introduction she'd made, the slight black daughter of Mr. Tseng took every opportunity to smother him with her considerable affections. She'd walk off course when cooling out in the mornings just to go say hello, she'd whinny and snort if she saw him at the barn and he wasn't immediately comign to see her, and when he did come she would lean her head on his shoulders and go to sleep if he didn't make her move.

For Ellie, at least, watching the filly interact with one of her surrogate big brothers, pouring her love all over him, and then immediately turn and try to take off a piece of June's scalp was intensely satisfying in the worst, most sadistic way. Sometimes she felt bad for wanting the Imp to get her again. Mostly, not. Her reasoning: if, despite the emotional void left by Poltergeist, she was going to be the bigger person and not cause a June-related scene, she was allowed her little piece of schadenfreude.

That wasn't to say that Ellie's life was completely ruined by Poltergeist's absence and Laurence's unfortunate taste in women, however. She had Manit, and she had Bob--the chestnut track pony who'd once been Ellie's first race mount--and they cheered her up greatly. When Ellie saw Manny tacked up for her in the morning, she was genuinely happy, which was a good thing considerin the red bull's penchant for feeding off of people's emotions. Since Manit's Turf loss, he'd turned around beautifully, bounced out of the effort roaring for more and trained like a beast on turf or dirt (as long as the person on his back was in something resembling a good mood). Anyone who saw him could only speak of how physically imposing he'd become, and how well he carried all that muscle weight. His action was smooth and his head was in the right place. Ellie had high hopes for him this year.

But it wasn't Manit's turn yet. The honour of first run for Brazen Fields in the new year wouldn't go to Manit, or even C'est Impossible, but rather Ephialtes, whose loss in the Classic and encounter with Corvus had left breathing fire. The plan had been to slacken his training a bit, give him a breather before coming back in spring and summer, but he would have none of that. Climbing up the walls any time Chloe and Tom tried to let him down gently, Bolt had forced them to keep him happy by turning him loose every few days and allowing him to run his heart out. For a horse that typically played the closer's role in his races, the son of Cagar and Anemoi was a vicious, unrelenting speedball in the mornings, practically impossible to control. Through December, he'd put together such a string of half-mile work times--:46 3/5, :47, :47 1/5, :46 2/5--spaced only four days apart that some were already predicting a Horse of the Year campaign.

Chloe certainly wouldn't contradict them, though somehow she suspected that he would have a little competition from certain just-turning-three-year-olds.

Rippling and chiseled at the beginning of January was not the norm, but so Ephialtes made his appearance in the Gulfstream Paddock just a few days after the turn of the new year. Frankie got a leg up into his saddle as he pranced and snorted, dark boiling gold, and could only hold on when the huge colt timed his own move near the end of the backstretch.

The eight other horses on the racetrack that day served only as props to the theatre of Bolt's run. A high-quality Hal's Hope field suddenly looked like claimers. Ephialtes stretched and bounded, releasing his tension through the outlet in which he'd been bred and groomed to delight. As the Fields had ended their last season, so they would begin it: with a powerful painted horse standing proud in the winner's circle.

-----

Dead silence reigned in the jockeys' room at Gulfstream Park. They'd all seen it, clear as day: the Saint had just smashed Remy Daigle's nose in... with a chair.

The first sound to break the silence was Ellie's joyful shriek. Laurence and Eddie's altercation completely forgotten, she jumped and pumped her fist in the air, screaming like a barely pubescent girl at a Bieber concert. She was vaguely aware of Eddie's laughter, and a glance at Laurence showed both of his eyebrows threatening to take a vacation in his hairline. She couldn't help the flash of her eyes toward June, whose expression was pinched. Ellie rolled her eyes and turned back to the screen, where several burly men had appeared from nowhere to restrain Santa and Daigle, who was struggling with one arm while the other clasped his nose. The ones holding Santa's arms appeared to be unnecessary; she made no move to inflict any further damage but just stood there, looking satisfied.

Goddamn, Ellie adored this woman. Barely met her, but whatever. She had just smacked Remy Daigle, the bane of Ellie's existence, across the face with a chair.

Ellie was suddenly in such a good mood that the prospect of having to tolerate June while Laurence was riding the Imp in the next race wasn't quite so bad anymore.

-----

Just as Laurence was about to leave for the Imp's race, June cornered him in the hall just outside the jocks' room. She was wearing that expression again; the one that said, "I'm concerned, let me help," but for some reason he had the hardest time doing that. He tried to school his features, tried to tell her with body language that he was fine, it was nothing, Eddie was a jerk, nothing new. She didn't buy it.

"What he called you," she said, looking down at her hands. "That bothered you."

"It's not a big deal, chère," he said softly. "Us jocks, we fight all de time, is never a big deal."

"No, it was," she insisted, making hesitant eye contact. "I've seen you not-a-big-deal fight, and that was different."

Dread coiled in Laurence's gut. Memories threatened to break free of the walls he'd carefully built around them; he hated to remember, and June wouldn't understand. None of them really could, except maybe Frankie, but Frankie had grown up in the city, it was different in the city. He'd been stupid, he got that now, it was over and he never wanted to revisit it.

Laurence broke eye contact. "Ol' wounds," he muttered, almost too quietly to hear. "Tha's all. Eddie din't... probably he din't even know."

It was several seconds before he dared to meet June's eyes again, and when he did her brow was knit together and her expression was soft. "I'm concerned, let me help," it said. Again. Still.

He couldn't.

"Dere's notting you can do, June," he said. "Je vais survivre, comme toujours, I'll be fine. Le passé, c'est passé."

"What's past is past," she echoed, her eyes darting to the wall. Her shoulders slumped. "You still won't tell me."

"Dere's notting you can do," he repeated. "If dere was, I would tell you."

She nodded, but her arms were folded over her chest and she wasn't looking at him. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, make her believe him, but a glance at the clock told him he was already late. He couldn't stay. He said as much, pulled her in for a kiss too quickly for her to resist, and jogged off toward the paddock with a black cloud shading his thoughts.

It should have been ironic that it was a black filly to dissipate them, but it wasn't. For all the black devils which had thundered over the racetrack in recent years, Brazen Fields appeared determined to match them with little black rays of sunshine: the Imp spotted Luarence from across the paddock and whistled loud enough to pause the buzz of the crowd, and several photographers captured her straining against her groom's hold as her jockey approached.

"You're late," Tom said gruffly.

"Non, chu arrivé juste à temps," Laurence countered, and as if on cue, the call came for riders up.

-----

Laurence knew that he should probably still be feeling the sting of old humiliations, but he couldn't quite bring himself to feel them. Not when there was an arab-framed filly beneath him, bounding along in midpack, ears flitting about as she effortlessly kept pace with a field of barely-three-year-olds. If Manit had become a mirror of human emotion, the Imp was a heavy influence on it; her constant giddy pleasure in everything was contagious. Laurence let it flood him, let the river of joy wash away his doubts. Just to feel the connection more intensely, he gathered the reins and whip in his left hand and flattened his right on her neck.

Even in full flight, he could feel her vibrate with happiness, and at once she accelerated, darting toward the rail and slipping through a tiny whole most horses would fear but she with her narrow body fit through easily. After a half, run by the dueling leaders in a swift :44 1/5, the Imp was gaining ground, cutting the margin between herself and the front of the pack with great bounding strides disproportionate to her size.

She would never judge him. That was probably why Laurence balanced so easily in the stirrups, his hand gently stroking her crest. She would never try to tease those memories out of him, and if he did tell her she would think no less of him for it. Laurence bent low over her neck and gave her her cue to go to the lead.

The pair of them swung out a path or two to clear the last remaining pacesetter, and the Imp never hesitated to bound past her and into the wide open nothingness ahead. The only sounds were the whisper of wind in their ears, the rhythmic thud of hooves and the snorting breaths the filly took with every stride.

In that moment, Laurence didn't want to be alone with anyone else.


Shown:
Name: C'est Impossible
Barn name: The Imp, Imp, Impie, Impsie, Impster, The Impster, etc.
Gender: Filly
Breed: Thoroughbred
Age: 3
Height: 15.2hh
Color: Jet Black
Genotype: EE aa
Markings: Star, half-stripe; LF stocking
Temperament: A darling and a schmooze, the Imp is kind, gentle, affectionate and completely unflappable. Despite her age and breed, she behaves as though she's seen and done everything.
Discipline: Racing
Preferred distance: Unknown
Running style: Unknown
Bloodlines: Mr. Tseng x Supercharger
Offspring: N/A
For stud/lease: Unavailable - too young

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Sierra6's avatar
Seatle slew is my horse's great-grandsire irl O.O