Disclaimer: I don't own Steven Universe!

Title: Stance

Summary: Priyanka knows her daughter. And now she's learning about Connie; the girl who both is and isn't the child she thought she knew.

...

Priyanka knows the way her daughter stands, the way she always averts her eyes, and the way she holds her hands in front of her, feet close together. She knows she's painfully shy, and she knows how fascinated she is by Steven's family, the magic that keeps them together and allows them to transform into bigger women with lots of arms. (Fusion, they call it; strictly a gem thing. But she's not a fool- just blind to what's in front of her. She notices the look Steven gives her when she says that, but says nothing. Pushing for answers, she's found, doesn't really work.)

She knows her daughter.

At least, she thought she did.

It's the little things.

There's a solidness to her shoulders, as though she's always prepared to block or take a blow. Her hands, rough and calloused, are usually covered in new bruises and scratches, which, far from babying them, she instead lets hang out in the open air, wincing as she reopens them periodically. She doesn't forgo keeping them clean of infection, she's happy to report.

("Practice." She'd stated, the one time she thought to mention maybe getting some band-aids; which was, of course, the first time. "I don't know if you can store medical supplies in a suit of armor, but I doubt I'll have the time to help myself, even if I can.")

("Armor?")

("Well, yeah. I can't charge into battle in my day clothes, you know?" Then, as an afterthought; "Ma'am.")

Priyanka notices she wears her glasses at home less and less, but keeps up appearances in places her classmates may be roaming. She doesn't know which of them is the stranger; the beautiful girl with smooth skin and empty face, or the nerdy beautiful girl who keeps adjusting her spectacles as though making sure they haven't disappeared into thin air.

(Neither; both are her Connie. Her beautiful, brave daughter.)

Little truths, drawn out over time, through eating snacks together or checking homework, disrupting the schedule or a violin session to maybe watch some TV as a family or just read. Connie's words are blunt, unsure; it breaks her heart to know she can't talk to her in a way that's as comfortable as the way she flings her arms around her friend's neck for a platonic hug. (Too young yet; she holds onto those words almost desperately.)

"I'm not the first." She assures them once, over dinner. "Humans have fought with gems before." She doesn't say "in the war", because she hasn't told them of that quite yet. You don't blurt something like that out so close to bed. It's rude to give someone nightmares, after all.

"And what happened to them?" Doug demanded.

"They were outlived, I suppose." She bites her tongue, eyes on her plate. "But they knew that was their destiny, and accepted it."

(Killed in combat, she admits later. Priyanka is thankful she didn't say as much while they were eating.)

Another time, while they were sharing a snack, Connie fiddles with a straw in her juice box. "Steven has healing spit. It fixed my eyes."

"Oh." She answers, intelligently. Priyanka had always assumed there was something less intimate involved. A potion drunk under the light of the moon. Or a sacrifice. "How does that even work? Did he kiss your eyelids?" She certainly hopes he didn't lick them.

"N-No, ma'am! Nothing like that." Her cheeks burn at the thought. Still so young, even now. "I took a sip of his juice box. That's all."

"Oh." She says again, with a hint of disgust, nose wrinkling. "Magic backwash, then."

"Yes, ma'am." Connie murmurs, less enthusiastically.

"That... sounds unpleasant."

"I didn't notice at the time. Steven was telling me a story."

(There's more to it than that, of course, but there always is, these days.)

She sees how her stance melts into something softer around that boy; something almost feminine. There's a simple delighted sheepishness she has around him, cemented by a loyalty that could bring someone to trample graves and wade rivers, that spoke of the future as clear as day.

She knows Steven's a nice enough lad, objectively speaking. She also knows that her daughter wouldn't lie down and take it should something in their relationship go sour. She knows her daughter can take care of herself, at least to a certain degree. But the thought of her falling deeper- she doubts that magic rocks have an interest in earth marriage, Steven included, especially considering that their distant brothers and sisters are given as prizes, but the thought is still there; that mentality of for life, or as long as it lasts- into that world of wars and destruction scares her.

She knows Steven is older than he looks. She knows, from a half-sleep conversation as Connie rode back from the barn, phone pressed against the glass of the van window, that he'll grow up, someday, but it will take longer than normal. It may take thousands of years. They just don't know.

Priyanka knows she'll wait as long as it takes.

She doesn't know how she looks before racing into battle, but she's seen her practice, which is close enough. Connie had been adamant that Steven stay by her side, and she promise not to intervene.

"You'd put me in more danger if you did, mom. An uncontrolled variable can ruin an experiment, after all."

Priyanka watches her daughter become clay, letting her teacher mold her into different forms and positions. Some of them look painful, but her eyes never water. There's a primal level of determination written on her face.

She learns practice doesn't involve whacking training dummies, but actual combat, and sees her child get flung around on stone floors, holding her breath without meaning to; attacking and slicing and suddenly those long t-shirts she sometimes wear make sense.

Steven seems much more okay with it- "She can take care of herself, Mrs. Maheswaran. And Pearl can stop it at any time."- but he's leaned forward, hands on his knees attentively. Later, she finds out they've been training together, and, for him, watching her fight alone was akin to the worst torture. The rock-hard loyalty went both ways.

Despite this, Connie never once panics. She hardly lets out a whimper of pain. Sometimes its of her own will that her body scrapes against stones, ducking and dodging and stabbing. She wonders if killing her mentor- even as a hologram- is a traumatizing experience. Probably at first, but she's numb to it now.

This is it, she thinks. This is who she is, who she wants to be, and who she'll grow up to become.

She bows her head to Pearl once all was said and done, sword clenched between her fists, and Priyanka has a sense of deja-vu. Connie had done that same sort of motion to her, once; but this was different. It was lacking something.

It was lacking fear.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" Doug frets, once Connie has gone to bed. Or, to her room. She supposes it's extremely possible that her daughter can sneak around without being noticed. And pretend to be asleep. She's had plenty of practice. "I feel like we're sending her off to die."

Priyanka breathes out slowly. They can't let themselves fall back on their old ways. She'd promised her that. No matter how much it hurt to let her go; she sees her blossoming into something stronger as the days go by. Amazing.

"She's happy this way. You can tell. Just look at how she stands."

Author's Note: I relate to Connie a lot, I'm finding. And her folks. I know a lot of people don't like Dr. Maheswaran, but I find her incredibly realistic. She loves her daughter, and she wants her to be safe, and, like many others, she gets carried away doing so.

-Mandaree1