Cheer me up? Or, alternatively, let me write you something.
I have had a fantastically crappy week or so, yesterday being the cap of it. In short, it sucked.
Which pretty much means that it's time for Comment Fic! Hit me up with a pairing and a fandom and a prompt. And I can't promise that whatever it is that I write won't be a weird hybrid of fluff and angst and oh-the-drama!, because I've been listening ( Read more... )
Which pretty much means that it's time for Comment Fic! Hit me up with a pairing and a fandom and a prompt. And I can't promise that whatever it is that I write won't be a weird hybrid of fluff and angst and oh-the-drama!, because I've been listening ( Read more... )
He’s died a few times before this (so has she).
He feels her fingertips on his face-cold and soft and lightly pressed to his cheek. She smiles and he wonders if it’s weird to have his own personal savior who keeps bringing him back to life, over and over. Well, one that’s not an angel. And he guesses that maybe she could be, because he’s never actually checked for wings. (The next time he has her bent over the hood of his car, he should make a note to check for scars or feathers or something.)
“You gotta stop with this hero crap,” she says. She stretches out next to him, puts her chin on his shoulder, and yawns. She blinks tiredly a couple of times, then closes her eyes. “It’s killing me.”
He laughs.
She gives another small smile and sighs, her breath getting slow and shallow. He looks around-sees nothing but fields of wheat and corn and kind of starts to hate that they always end up back in Kansas. It’s starting to feel like they’re trapped in some twisted version of the Wizard of Oz , except that neither of them really wants to go home and he’s heard that the real version is pretty twisted already.
He picks her up, a literal dead weight in his arms, and walks through the field-wheat stalks scratching at his bare arms.
He lays beside her, pushes his fingers over the wide scar that’s cut into his skin. He puts the tip of his pinky on one end and stretches his hand to make his thumb touch the other side. New girl, new scars, new life.
It takes her about two days to wake up, longer each time. She kisses his cheek and carefully strips off her clothes, spends hours under the hot spray of the shower. One time, probably the first time, she said that when she opened her eyes it was like being reborn and the water was her baptism. And then underneath the sheets with her legs hooked around his and his hand cupped around her breast, she smiled and said that she was just fucking with him. It’s the second time in his life that he falls in love.
“Hey,” he says.
She flops onto the bed and folds herself around him, still wet from the water. His hand moves in between her shoulder blades, fingers feeling and searching. His thumb presses down hard and he doesn’t feel anything. He frowns. She looks up at him with a smirk, pretty similar to his own, on her lips.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs, smoothes out the top of her hair and kisses her forehead. “Nothing.”
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