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Which has been lurking on my laptop for weeks, apparently. *shrugs sheepishly*
Title: Bare
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Characters/Pairings: Ezra, Maude
Summary: Ezra had never seen his mother naked before. Not unclothed. Naked
Wordcount: 883
Warnings/Notes: Little character study, I think. Their relationship always fascinated me
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Bare
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Characters/Pairings: Ezra, Maude
Summary: Ezra had never seen his mother naked before. Not unclothed. Naked
Wordcount: 883
Warnings/Notes: Little character study, I think. Their relationship always fascinated me
Disclaimer: Not mine
Bare
Ezra had never seen his mother naked. And he meant that in more than just the traditional sense. To see Maude Standish unclothed was not the same as to see her naked. Ezra may, a time or two, when decidedly unfavourable circumstances fell upon them, have seen her unclothed. He had never, not once, seen her naked.
His mother used appearances as ... as a stock in trade, as a livelihood, as a shield and a weapon, a lure and a ward, all at once, all the time. Her every appearance was calculated for that moment in time, whether disheveled or pristine, clothed or unclothed. Calculated to effect, played for maximum gain. She was never bare, never without artifice, never naked.
To see her so now was ... It stunned him stupid. Shot a bolt of raw, indefinable wrongness through him. To see her on her sickbed was one thing, a temporary setback, he'd been sure. To see her like this, scrambling for her valise, for her make-up, for a comb, unaware that he had already reached her door, not realising that he was there to see her hands fumble desperately, all skill lost, their tremble her undoing ...
He stepped back. A creak of his heel on the floorboards, a hollow swallow in his throat, and she froze. Maude Standish, who should never show a second's fear, save in artifice, froze before him. Her smile, when she raised her face to the doorway, to him, was only tremulously confident, hastily prepared, sitting badly over the illness and shaken confidence of her face. Wrong.
"... Mother," he whispered. Rasped, maybe. Shocked clean through, and she saw. She always saw. She could read a mark at fifty paces, his mother, illness or no illness. She looked at him, and she saw that he saw. Saw that it stunned him.
And for a second, while she was naked, a flicker of regret, pain, crossed her features. That he was seeing now, when she hadn't wanted him to? Or that he was shocked, having never seen before, having never ... never been allowed to?
His mother used appearances as a shield. He had always known it. He had never ... never thought to wonder, if she regretted that even he, her own son, had never seen the truth of her.
"Ezra," she said, drawing some more confident smile from somewhere, some flicker of veiling annoyance to disguise her vulnerability. "Darling boy. Did I not teach you to knock? A woman must make herself presentable, you know."
He could have apologised. Made it his blunder, made it his mistake. Disappeared back down the stairs, letting her put herself together in privacy, letting her draw her shields back in place, and disavow her nakedness. He could have. He could.
But ... Her hands still trembled. In her sickness. Her hands still shook. Her hair was limp and uncared for, her skin sweat-streaked and paper-thin, her eyes still bright and feverish. She looked ... frail, suddenly. Wrung out, unwell. Fragile, in a way Maude Standish had never been, in a way Ezra had never seen her. And she looked ... uncertain. As if, having seen, she could not be sure what he would do. What he would think. Of her. And he could not ... Ezra couldn't let that be.
"I could help you with that," he said instead. Cautiously, uncertainly. Gently. She had never ... Never let him before. It would have been ... far too much vulnerability. She had always had to be strong. Stronger than him, stronger than anyone. His mother, who would take on the world for them both, take on him, if he dared. To train him, maybe. To simply prove she still could, possibly. But she had always been strong. She had never let him see.
She had never ... let him help.
"D-dearest?" She stuttered, a little. How hard must this illness have hit her? How far had she fallen to it, that she could look at him now, and be visibly uncertain? "Whatever do you mean, Ezra?"
He smiled, a little crookedly, coming inside the room. Moving, cautiously, to her side. That hadn't been a 'no', after all. Only ... a question.
"I understand, Mother," he said, quietly, reaching down to take the comb gently from her hand, brush the valise aside to sit beside her. His crooked smile still in place. "Appearances are everything, after all." And for some reason, it came out so much more gently than he'd intended.
Then, as she stared at him in mute surprise, in some glimmer of challenge -she was, after all, still his mother, Maude Standish, who could not be perturbed for long- he gathered her limp, damp hair in skilled hands, hands she had trained, and carefully, gently, set about remaking the woman Maude presented to the world. The only mother he had ever known. The only mother she had ever shown him. He had never seen her naked. She had never let herself be so weak. And in truth, though it may have been selfish ... he was glad, in his way, of that.
And, strangely, as he set her to rights, as he watched the smile grow stronger, more daring, and more artificial, he thought he saw a glimmer in her eyes, of something real. Something, he dared think, that looked a little like gratitude.
Ezra had never seen his mother naked. And he meant that in more than just the traditional sense. To see Maude Standish unclothed was not the same as to see her naked. Ezra may, a time or two, when decidedly unfavourable circumstances fell upon them, have seen her unclothed. He had never, not once, seen her naked.
His mother used appearances as ... as a stock in trade, as a livelihood, as a shield and a weapon, a lure and a ward, all at once, all the time. Her every appearance was calculated for that moment in time, whether disheveled or pristine, clothed or unclothed. Calculated to effect, played for maximum gain. She was never bare, never without artifice, never naked.
To see her so now was ... It stunned him stupid. Shot a bolt of raw, indefinable wrongness through him. To see her on her sickbed was one thing, a temporary setback, he'd been sure. To see her like this, scrambling for her valise, for her make-up, for a comb, unaware that he had already reached her door, not realising that he was there to see her hands fumble desperately, all skill lost, their tremble her undoing ...
He stepped back. A creak of his heel on the floorboards, a hollow swallow in his throat, and she froze. Maude Standish, who should never show a second's fear, save in artifice, froze before him. Her smile, when she raised her face to the doorway, to him, was only tremulously confident, hastily prepared, sitting badly over the illness and shaken confidence of her face. Wrong.
"... Mother," he whispered. Rasped, maybe. Shocked clean through, and she saw. She always saw. She could read a mark at fifty paces, his mother, illness or no illness. She looked at him, and she saw that he saw. Saw that it stunned him.
And for a second, while she was naked, a flicker of regret, pain, crossed her features. That he was seeing now, when she hadn't wanted him to? Or that he was shocked, having never seen before, having never ... never been allowed to?
His mother used appearances as a shield. He had always known it. He had never ... never thought to wonder, if she regretted that even he, her own son, had never seen the truth of her.
"Ezra," she said, drawing some more confident smile from somewhere, some flicker of veiling annoyance to disguise her vulnerability. "Darling boy. Did I not teach you to knock? A woman must make herself presentable, you know."
He could have apologised. Made it his blunder, made it his mistake. Disappeared back down the stairs, letting her put herself together in privacy, letting her draw her shields back in place, and disavow her nakedness. He could have. He could.
But ... Her hands still trembled. In her sickness. Her hands still shook. Her hair was limp and uncared for, her skin sweat-streaked and paper-thin, her eyes still bright and feverish. She looked ... frail, suddenly. Wrung out, unwell. Fragile, in a way Maude Standish had never been, in a way Ezra had never seen her. And she looked ... uncertain. As if, having seen, she could not be sure what he would do. What he would think. Of her. And he could not ... Ezra couldn't let that be.
"I could help you with that," he said instead. Cautiously, uncertainly. Gently. She had never ... Never let him before. It would have been ... far too much vulnerability. She had always had to be strong. Stronger than him, stronger than anyone. His mother, who would take on the world for them both, take on him, if he dared. To train him, maybe. To simply prove she still could, possibly. But she had always been strong. She had never let him see.
She had never ... let him help.
"D-dearest?" She stuttered, a little. How hard must this illness have hit her? How far had she fallen to it, that she could look at him now, and be visibly uncertain? "Whatever do you mean, Ezra?"
He smiled, a little crookedly, coming inside the room. Moving, cautiously, to her side. That hadn't been a 'no', after all. Only ... a question.
"I understand, Mother," he said, quietly, reaching down to take the comb gently from her hand, brush the valise aside to sit beside her. His crooked smile still in place. "Appearances are everything, after all." And for some reason, it came out so much more gently than he'd intended.
Then, as she stared at him in mute surprise, in some glimmer of challenge -she was, after all, still his mother, Maude Standish, who could not be perturbed for long- he gathered her limp, damp hair in skilled hands, hands she had trained, and carefully, gently, set about remaking the woman Maude presented to the world. The only mother he had ever known. The only mother she had ever shown him. He had never seen her naked. She had never let herself be so weak. And in truth, though it may have been selfish ... he was glad, in his way, of that.
And, strangely, as he set her to rights, as he watched the smile grow stronger, more daring, and more artificial, he thought he saw a glimmer in her eyes, of something real. Something, he dared think, that looked a little like gratitude.
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