Dawn.
Just keep me where the sun is.
Talon is awake when the dawn breaks through their window. The rays of the sun spill over rooftops, slip through their balcony, and kiss her shoulder. There in the delicate rise and fall of her collarbone, the night's shadows are chased away by the rose and orange glow, bringing warmth to her already golden skin. About her throat is the simple mithril chain he gave her, and from that the loosely knotted ring dangles, merely a breath away from being bathed in the light. He does not wish to disturb her rest -- she needs it -- and so for awhile he only watches, admires, and thinks.
They fell asleep in the living room, reading through files, discussing their contents and the evidence, however meagre it is, of what might have led to the Lieutenant's murder. It has never been their way to leave work at work; sometimes, their home is an extension of her office. They usually make it back to bed, though, for their rest. This is hardly restful, and he is awake not only because the day is arriving, but because he can feel an ache in his knees and hips from falling asleep sitting up against the side of the couch, and a muscle in his neck is tight from being tilted against her knee for the entire night. It is all a price worth paying, he thinks.
There was a time when he could hardly do this, watch her rest. He would either find himself getting lost in thoughts that led him to places he did not want to go, or she would wake up and tease him for it. They were both so unsettled with one another in those days -- not uncomfortable, necessarily, but living in a sort of denial. Neither of them were looking for this, nor even wanted it.
Now, it is all he wants. Now, to see her threatened as she was tonight sets him on edge in a way that he has not experienced in many years. He has found himself caught in anger and indignance so deep that they steal his breath, and it is that same depth of emotion which resulted in striking his brother. That was a mistake he witnesses the consequences of nearly every weekend, and thinks about every day.
Tonight, a man caught in sorrow and the madness of losing a loved one spoke words and made gestures fueled by those emotions, and rather than react with sympathy or silence, Talon snapped at him in turn. It was a thing ill-done. It is not for Harlo that he says and feels and thinks these things; to believe such would be putting the mantle of responsibility on her shoulders. It is because he is a man, flawed.
The sunlight warms her skin, creeps with a lover's tenderness over her breastbone and neck. The chain gleams, and he leans forward to kiss that place where her heartbeat is visible beneath the skin, a steady, subdued pulsing.
When his lips touch her skin, her heart flutters.
And so does his.
Talon is awake when the dawn breaks through their window. The rays of the sun spill over rooftops, slip through their balcony, and kiss her shoulder. There in the delicate rise and fall of her collarbone, the night's shadows are chased away by the rose and orange glow, bringing warmth to her already golden skin. About her throat is the simple mithril chain he gave her, and from that the loosely knotted ring dangles, merely a breath away from being bathed in the light. He does not wish to disturb her rest -- she needs it -- and so for awhile he only watches, admires, and thinks.
They fell asleep in the living room, reading through files, discussing their contents and the evidence, however meagre it is, of what might have led to the Lieutenant's murder. It has never been their way to leave work at work; sometimes, their home is an extension of her office. They usually make it back to bed, though, for their rest. This is hardly restful, and he is awake not only because the day is arriving, but because he can feel an ache in his knees and hips from falling asleep sitting up against the side of the couch, and a muscle in his neck is tight from being tilted against her knee for the entire night. It is all a price worth paying, he thinks.
There was a time when he could hardly do this, watch her rest. He would either find himself getting lost in thoughts that led him to places he did not want to go, or she would wake up and tease him for it. They were both so unsettled with one another in those days -- not uncomfortable, necessarily, but living in a sort of denial. Neither of them were looking for this, nor even wanted it.
Now, it is all he wants. Now, to see her threatened as she was tonight sets him on edge in a way that he has not experienced in many years. He has found himself caught in anger and indignance so deep that they steal his breath, and it is that same depth of emotion which resulted in striking his brother. That was a mistake he witnesses the consequences of nearly every weekend, and thinks about every day.
Tonight, a man caught in sorrow and the madness of losing a loved one spoke words and made gestures fueled by those emotions, and rather than react with sympathy or silence, Talon snapped at him in turn. It was a thing ill-done. It is not for Harlo that he says and feels and thinks these things; to believe such would be putting the mantle of responsibility on her shoulders. It is because he is a man, flawed.
The sunlight warms her skin, creeps with a lover's tenderness over her breastbone and neck. The chain gleams, and he leans forward to kiss that place where her heartbeat is visible beneath the skin, a steady, subdued pulsing.
When his lips touch her skin, her heart flutters.
And so does his.