Blue Skies Up Ahead
He rises from the cot as she descends the stairs, and she suppresses a smile. Victorian manners die hard, even in him.
Maybe especially in him.
He says nothing, makes no move toward her. She knows why: Next move is hers, and he's simply waiting to see what she'll do. Waiting for her like he always has.
Waiting for her to make up her mind.
She's still waiting for that, too.
Deep inside her she can feel her desire for him - still there, always there, an eternal wellspring of yearning - and knows how little it would take to bring it surging to the surface, crackling along every nerve, waiting for just the right touch (his) to set it off. With a little effort she keeps it down there, where it belongs. It's not very hard, because it's not time for that yet.
No. It really isn't. Even if they have no more time than this very night, it still isn't time for that. Not yet.
Maybe someday, she'd tried to tell him but a few days ago. He'd stopped her - saved her, perhaps, from herself, from mouthing promising platitudes that he wants no part of and never did, not he. He always wants it real and true even if it's painful beyond bearing. And the real and true of what they are to each other now is not that, can't be that. Simply can not. Not yet.
But still she can't help thinking: Maybe when this is all over, we'll have time. Or - not. Maybe we'll try again and it still won't work...or maybe it'll be wonderful beyond our wildest imaginings. It could happen... I hope it does... because we're doing this the right way now, the way we should have but couldn't. Neither of us could, not then. And so, not now.
He remains silent, his expression serene, but there's a smile in his eyes, as if he knows what she's thinking. He probably does.
She moves a little closer and opens her mouth, then shuts it and smiles faintly. What was there to say? So many things, more than she has time to honor as she should. Better to say nothing than the wrong thing, or start something she cannot finish. Words aren't her thing anyway. Action suits her better.
She goes to him, stands before him looking up into his face. Slowly, she slides her hands around his slim waist and stops at the small of his back, then gently pulls herself closer until she's nestled against his chest. Ah. This is what she wants, this night. She releases a warm little sigh and snuggles closer. He makes a small sound deep in his throat and shivers, once, before his arms close around her. She feels his cheek meet the top of her head, moving tenderly back and forth over her hair, and smiles into soft black cotton.
For a first real hug, it's definitely a winner.
Later - she's not sure exactly how much - they're spooned on the cot, comfortable and familiar, with his strong forearm cuddled sweetly between her breasts and their fingers laced together under her chin.
She sighs and falls asleep wishing on Maybe, content in her regret.
The Saddest Day
When she realized it, her brush fell to the top of her vanity with a sharp clatter. The tune she'd been tunelessly humming strangled in her throat.
She hadn't looked.
During every patrol over the past four months, she'd looked, even though she knew in her head it was futile. Mostly she'd shrugged it off, with a rueful smirk or tiny shake of her head, and gone home to shower and sleep.
But tonight, she hadn't looked. Hadn't even thought of looking for the admiring half-smile, the comradely hand-up, the steadying presence to her left.
"Oh, God," she moaned and doubled over, curling around the hollow ache in her chest.
Dawn woke with a start, threw back the covers and rushed out of her room. Willow was there already, fingertips just touching the door, head bowed, listening. Dawn halted, then moved forward slowly and slid her arm around Willow's waist with a sigh, "Finally."
"Yeah." They shared a sad yet relieved smile. "We'll give her a minute, okay?" Dawn nodded and they settled in to wait, listening.
Mr. Right Now
He's like Disneyland, she thinks sometimes.
She went there once, a long time ago, and he reminds her of it: All those different attractions, each more wonderful than the last, where you can learn a bit of history or envision the future or laugh with the costumed characters or just ride brightly-colored rides and sing along with sappy tunes and gasp with delight at the fireworks. Everything is ideal, pristine, impeccable service with an ingratiating smile. Lackeys scurry everywhere to scoop up the tiniest bits of trash, to straighten a bow or garland shifted askew by the wind or a careless passerby, to correct anything that violates the standard of flawlessness.
The Happiest Place on Earth.
He's a lot like that, the Immortal. Everything about him is just right.
He always smells good. Even his sweat excites her palate like sweet liqueur. Or like perfection, distilled.
He doesn't smell of mist and marsh, or blood and leather and cigarettes.
He buys her beautiful, frivolous shoes that make her legs look fabulous, and rubs her throbbing feet after she's danced the night away in them.
His hands and voice don't tremble when he tends her scrapes and cuts. He always neatly wraps the ice in a towel, so the melt won't trickle down her back.
He's easy to be with, relaxing in so many ways. He understands everything because he's seen everything - he's lived forever, and will live forever. He knows how to make her feel young again.
He never makes her angry, or sad. He never worries or exasperates her.
He's without peer in the bedroom, a master of ecstasy so practiced and sure that she barely has to do anything save ride the superfluous pleasure, giggling and shrieking on the waves like a novice surfer.
He never comes before she does.
Yes, he's a lot like Disneyland. A magnificent construct, satisfaction guaranteed.
This time, she will be the one to leave.
Disneyland's a nice place to visit, but she can't live there. Not the way she's supposed to.
you have to go on living / so that one of us is living
She'll wake, soon, and say goodbye, without a backward glance.
Author's Chapter Notes:
What I think really happened in Chosen, and afterwards.