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Fic - Like Diamonds in the Sky - 1/1
Title: Like Diamonds in the Sky
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Ocean's 8
Rating: G
Genre: Gen
Pairing: Pre-Daphne Kluger/Rose Weil
Disclaimer: I do not own Ocean's 8 and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: She didn’t become a criminal to drift away from her co-conspirators, but there’s only so many ways that they can realistically cross paths in the aftermath of the Met Gala without drawing some kind of suspicion. Rose is the one she sees the most; has become the best friend Daphne's always wanted. And, just possibly, something more.
AN: This was my fic for Yuletide 2018. My recipient asked for an introspective of Daphne Kluger and why she would join a heist for the sake of finding friends. The pairing is because I left the cinema shipping the hell out of these two.
It’s not a Stich-and-Bitch, thank God. One ghastly foray into that had told Daphne that, for all of her other talents, knitting and sewing were beyond her. A fortune spent on yarn, only for a scarf to become irredeemable in seven lines.
Rose is stitching, though. It’s something involving pale blue satin and zirconia; she’s got glasses on that make her already large eyes look huge, and there’s crystals scattered over a small plate on the end-table beside her. Whatever she’s doing looks delightful, and as she watches, Daphne wonders idly what it would take to get Rose to let her try it on.
It’s not another book club, despite the fact that Daphne has spent most of their evening trying to read. It’s a script, not a book, and there isn’t a team of slack-jawed idiots struggling to comprehend the death of the author while tittering over dubious sex scenes.
Not to say that there isn’t a dubious sex scene. There is, and it’s hideous, and just reading it makes her glad that she’s now behind the camera instead of in front of it.
The script in her lap, sent by her agent, is far less enthralling than the sight of her friend’s concentration. She’s been trying to imagine appropriate camera angles and picturing appropriate actors to approach, but the script is stupid. Vapid. Annoying. Everything she’s always hated about being the pretty girl with doe-eyes and a fuck-me pout. It’s infuriating that she’s still being handed this slush even now she’s broken into directing, and watching Rose is always an excellent distraction.
The truth is, though, she’s bored.
She didn’t become a criminal to drift away from her co-conspirators, but there’s only so many ways that they can realistically cross paths in the aftermath of the Met Gala without drawing some kind of suspicion. Debbie, in particular – though she seems to know that, as she flew out to California to meet Lou at the end of her road-trip. They posted a photo to the group WhatsApp, arms slung around each other and Lou’s lips pressed to Debbie’s cheek. It’s cute. Daphne’s studied it more than once, envious of the happiness in their eyes as much as she’s happy for them.
Rose is the one she sees the most. She has a reason to see her. Fashion designers and movie stars move in similar circles, after all, and without the threat of jail hanging over her head, Rose has got her verve back. So, they hang out in each other’s homes with tea and scones and whatever projects they’re working on at the time; they have dinner in fancy restaurants in full view of the paparazzi, who gossip endlessly about Daphne’s new role as Rose’s muse. Daphne visits Rose at work and she smiles every time she spots the safety-pin necklace in Rose’s shop window, remembers the bad acting and the gentle hand that swept her hair up. It’s unfair on Rose to say that she was acting in that moment, exactly, especially now that she knows her better, but she’s not a subtle con-woman by any stretch of the imagination.
It’s honestly, and she can say this with absolute confidence, the most fulfilling relationship she’s ever actually had. Because while Rose isn’t as smart as she is, she’s a listener and she cares. She dotes, actually, which is a fabulous change from the rest of the planet, which seems to be populated by people who think Daphne should be a brainless airhead in a lovely glass bubble, separate, somehow, from the rest of the population.
She tosses the script to one side with a huff and twists in her seat to watch Rose more closely. Dark eyes flick up, glancing in her directing, and the magnification of the glasses means she can pick out every single one of Rose’s long lashes. She looks ridiculous like this, but there’s a sharpness to her gaze that reminds Daphne that while Rose may not be as intelligent as her, or as street-smart and wily as some of the others, that she’s as sharp as a tack when it comes to other people.
“Crap, is it?” she asks.
Daphne hums. She reaches for her tea and takes a long sip. It’s cool enough not to burn her mouth, but not so cold that it’s turned bitter and repulsive. “Why can men not write women?” she asks. “I mean, I know they’re stunning, but I’ve never stood and looked at my tits for half as long as most writers seem to think I should have.”
Rose laughs – a soft, girlish titter that on anyone else would have been annoying. For a brief moment she glances at Daphne’s chest, and not for the first time, Daphne wonders what Rose sees when she looks at her. A model? A muse? A friend, surely, for the amount of time they spend together. Rose is the kind of friend she’s always wanted – someone she can sit in silence with and do completely different things from, but still have a sense of companionship. Of camaraderie. Rose is the kind of friend she wants to wrap herself in forever, like some kind of warm blanket of female assurance. Not a mother - God, no – nor a sister, but something more important.
She’s thought about offering more than that. As much as she likes men, Daphne’s not exactly opposed to women either, and the way Rose glances at her, ah, assets at times makes her wonder if her advances would be welcome.
“It’s that old ‘write what you know’ adage, isn’t it,” Rose murmurs. “The nuns were always on at it, when I was in school – we all thought that it was an attempt to crush creativity, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, but.” She fixes Daphne with another look. There’s a glimmer of something in her magnified eyes that Daphne can’t quite identify. “But I can guarantee that your writer boy there hasn’t thought once to ask a girl what she sees when she looks in the mirror, or what’s going through her head in general. That he hasn’t thought he needed to care to.”
Daphne licks her lips. It has occurred to her that, like the idiot whose script she is definitely turning down, she hasn’t thought to put any of her ponderings into words. She looks at Rose and wonders; looks at her and puzzles over the sharpness of her eyes and the details they can pick out even as her mind whirls from one distraction to another, but she’s never asked. For all her self-confidence, she’s never quite managed to work up the courage in case she disrupts the quiet, wonderful thing they’ve grown between them.
She watches as Rose’s attention returns to the satin in her lap, and the crystal beading that’s been steadily growing more elaborate. She watches her as the needle dips into the fabric and withdraws – in and out with the rise and fall of Rose’s chest. She watches careful fingers select another bead, examine, thread and secure in place with a careful stitch. She watches and wants and hides the smile that twists her mouth behind her tea cup.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
Rose looks up from her sewing and pushes her glasses up into the nest of her hair. Features returned to normal, she looks pleased and wary all at once, and Daphne catches a glimpse of the wild girl she must have been, terrorising the nuns of her long-ago convent school.
“I’m thinking how lovely you’ll look, when it’s done,” she replies.
There’s a thrill of possibility there. Daphne, no longer bored, uncurls from her position on the couch. She leans forward to twitch at a corner of the fabric tumbling from Rose’s lap and fixes her friend – her friend? – with the most dazzling smile in her repertoire. The real one, the one that only Rose really gets to see.
“Tell me more,” she says.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Ocean's 8
Rating: G
Genre: Gen
Pairing: Pre-Daphne Kluger/Rose Weil
Disclaimer: I do not own Ocean's 8 and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: She didn’t become a criminal to drift away from her co-conspirators, but there’s only so many ways that they can realistically cross paths in the aftermath of the Met Gala without drawing some kind of suspicion. Rose is the one she sees the most; has become the best friend Daphne's always wanted. And, just possibly, something more.
AN: This was my fic for Yuletide 2018. My recipient asked for an introspective of Daphne Kluger and why she would join a heist for the sake of finding friends. The pairing is because I left the cinema shipping the hell out of these two.
It’s not a Stich-and-Bitch, thank God. One ghastly foray into that had told Daphne that, for all of her other talents, knitting and sewing were beyond her. A fortune spent on yarn, only for a scarf to become irredeemable in seven lines.
Rose is stitching, though. It’s something involving pale blue satin and zirconia; she’s got glasses on that make her already large eyes look huge, and there’s crystals scattered over a small plate on the end-table beside her. Whatever she’s doing looks delightful, and as she watches, Daphne wonders idly what it would take to get Rose to let her try it on.
It’s not another book club, despite the fact that Daphne has spent most of their evening trying to read. It’s a script, not a book, and there isn’t a team of slack-jawed idiots struggling to comprehend the death of the author while tittering over dubious sex scenes.
Not to say that there isn’t a dubious sex scene. There is, and it’s hideous, and just reading it makes her glad that she’s now behind the camera instead of in front of it.
The script in her lap, sent by her agent, is far less enthralling than the sight of her friend’s concentration. She’s been trying to imagine appropriate camera angles and picturing appropriate actors to approach, but the script is stupid. Vapid. Annoying. Everything she’s always hated about being the pretty girl with doe-eyes and a fuck-me pout. It’s infuriating that she’s still being handed this slush even now she’s broken into directing, and watching Rose is always an excellent distraction.
The truth is, though, she’s bored.
She didn’t become a criminal to drift away from her co-conspirators, but there’s only so many ways that they can realistically cross paths in the aftermath of the Met Gala without drawing some kind of suspicion. Debbie, in particular – though she seems to know that, as she flew out to California to meet Lou at the end of her road-trip. They posted a photo to the group WhatsApp, arms slung around each other and Lou’s lips pressed to Debbie’s cheek. It’s cute. Daphne’s studied it more than once, envious of the happiness in their eyes as much as she’s happy for them.
Rose is the one she sees the most. She has a reason to see her. Fashion designers and movie stars move in similar circles, after all, and without the threat of jail hanging over her head, Rose has got her verve back. So, they hang out in each other’s homes with tea and scones and whatever projects they’re working on at the time; they have dinner in fancy restaurants in full view of the paparazzi, who gossip endlessly about Daphne’s new role as Rose’s muse. Daphne visits Rose at work and she smiles every time she spots the safety-pin necklace in Rose’s shop window, remembers the bad acting and the gentle hand that swept her hair up. It’s unfair on Rose to say that she was acting in that moment, exactly, especially now that she knows her better, but she’s not a subtle con-woman by any stretch of the imagination.
It’s honestly, and she can say this with absolute confidence, the most fulfilling relationship she’s ever actually had. Because while Rose isn’t as smart as she is, she’s a listener and she cares. She dotes, actually, which is a fabulous change from the rest of the planet, which seems to be populated by people who think Daphne should be a brainless airhead in a lovely glass bubble, separate, somehow, from the rest of the population.
She tosses the script to one side with a huff and twists in her seat to watch Rose more closely. Dark eyes flick up, glancing in her directing, and the magnification of the glasses means she can pick out every single one of Rose’s long lashes. She looks ridiculous like this, but there’s a sharpness to her gaze that reminds Daphne that while Rose may not be as intelligent as her, or as street-smart and wily as some of the others, that she’s as sharp as a tack when it comes to other people.
“Crap, is it?” she asks.
Daphne hums. She reaches for her tea and takes a long sip. It’s cool enough not to burn her mouth, but not so cold that it’s turned bitter and repulsive. “Why can men not write women?” she asks. “I mean, I know they’re stunning, but I’ve never stood and looked at my tits for half as long as most writers seem to think I should have.”
Rose laughs – a soft, girlish titter that on anyone else would have been annoying. For a brief moment she glances at Daphne’s chest, and not for the first time, Daphne wonders what Rose sees when she looks at her. A model? A muse? A friend, surely, for the amount of time they spend together. Rose is the kind of friend she’s always wanted – someone she can sit in silence with and do completely different things from, but still have a sense of companionship. Of camaraderie. Rose is the kind of friend she wants to wrap herself in forever, like some kind of warm blanket of female assurance. Not a mother - God, no – nor a sister, but something more important.
She’s thought about offering more than that. As much as she likes men, Daphne’s not exactly opposed to women either, and the way Rose glances at her, ah, assets at times makes her wonder if her advances would be welcome.
“It’s that old ‘write what you know’ adage, isn’t it,” Rose murmurs. “The nuns were always on at it, when I was in school – we all thought that it was an attempt to crush creativity, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, but.” She fixes Daphne with another look. There’s a glimmer of something in her magnified eyes that Daphne can’t quite identify. “But I can guarantee that your writer boy there hasn’t thought once to ask a girl what she sees when she looks in the mirror, or what’s going through her head in general. That he hasn’t thought he needed to care to.”
Daphne licks her lips. It has occurred to her that, like the idiot whose script she is definitely turning down, she hasn’t thought to put any of her ponderings into words. She looks at Rose and wonders; looks at her and puzzles over the sharpness of her eyes and the details they can pick out even as her mind whirls from one distraction to another, but she’s never asked. For all her self-confidence, she’s never quite managed to work up the courage in case she disrupts the quiet, wonderful thing they’ve grown between them.
She watches as Rose’s attention returns to the satin in her lap, and the crystal beading that’s been steadily growing more elaborate. She watches her as the needle dips into the fabric and withdraws – in and out with the rise and fall of Rose’s chest. She watches careful fingers select another bead, examine, thread and secure in place with a careful stitch. She watches and wants and hides the smile that twists her mouth behind her tea cup.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
Rose looks up from her sewing and pushes her glasses up into the nest of her hair. Features returned to normal, she looks pleased and wary all at once, and Daphne catches a glimpse of the wild girl she must have been, terrorising the nuns of her long-ago convent school.
“I’m thinking how lovely you’ll look, when it’s done,” she replies.
There’s a thrill of possibility there. Daphne, no longer bored, uncurls from her position on the couch. She leans forward to twitch at a corner of the fabric tumbling from Rose’s lap and fixes her friend – her friend? – with the most dazzling smile in her repertoire. The real one, the one that only Rose really gets to see.
“Tell me more,” she says.