ice on ice.
title. ice on ice
fandom. twilight
characters. kate/garrett
rating. pg-13
One month of anxiety.
Thirty-one days of pacing, golden eyes wary, disturbed.
Seven hundred forty-four hours of shallow breathing, a false peace stretched like a rubber band to the breaking point.
Forty-four thousand six hundred four minutes, the seconds ticking, ticking, ticking by.
One month isn't long when you live forever.
It is even shorter when you believe that, at the end of it, you'll die.
-
She can feel his ruby-red eyes on her as she plays with her hair, smooth hands twisting and turning. The locks wind into braids and fall as she lets go, cascading into the same straight waterfall as before. The folds, the creases of her dress contrast with her perfection, and its color, white, murmurs (lies), purity, purity - a purity that is not really there, but no one has to know that.
She is used to stares. She has been alive for (give or take) a thousand years, after all, and her eyes are the most brilliant shade of gold, her lips rose-pink and sweet (oh so sweet). Men have always looked at her, lingering glances full of longing, lust. She has never found a reason to stare back.
Until now.
-
He leans against the wall casually as he watches her. A strand of sandy hair crosses a crimson eye like a scar that never was, like a scar that can be if he is pushed hard enough. He has always been a wanderer, a nomad, but this place - this dreary land clouded over with gray - feels like home to him, or at least closer to home than any other place he has ever been to.
Home. Honestly, he's never needed it. He loves the thrill of crossing borders, the adventure of never being in the same place twice. The people he has met: he remembers their names, their faces, their personalities, their everything. But he's never stayed put long enough to love anyone. He has never felt the desire to.
Until now.
-
She plays hard to get. He can tell. She's slightly jaded, too, her teasing words coming out sarcastic - a strange tone from an angel's soft lips. That would be fine from a fallen angel's, perhaps, which is not that far off the mark. Anything not human looks heavenly.
He returns the playfulness with confidence, gesturing openly. His questions, his endless questions, come with ease, without shame, and it is all the European beauty can do to answer him, sometimes smiling, sometimes not. All the same, he enjoys.
To onlookers, the two look good together from a distance, like a soldier and his princess, like one who protects and one who needs to be protected.
But Katrina does not need protection, and Garrett likes that.
-
He's interesting. The words are meant to be a compliment, but they sound bored, which is understandable. Kate has been after centuries of being with men and not caring about who they are, just what they are: toys, games, things to be thrown away after sleepless nights of what used to be the satisfaction of basic urges. Specifically, only one.
She sees through all of them, not taking a second look at their hair, their lips, their eyes - green, blue, brown, black, each of them is the same as the next, and the one before. The hundreds before.
But these red eyes are captivating, dangerous, a far cry from the topaz ones she has gotten so used to in her sisters. They call for a different kind of hunger, a different kind of thirst, from that she has indulged herself in.
Somehow she's drawn to that.
-
But giving in to desires in sinful, isn't it? Those who have no temperance, no self-control, have lost the game before it has even ended.
-
Now they wait on the white ground, ready to stand, ready to fall. Kate's face is set as she stands by Tanya, and Garrett senses her indecision. But when Kate glances at him surreptitiously, she sees the corners of his mouth tilt upward, hears his chuckle - and she blinks.
Until the death, he smiles.
She exhales sharply, but her mouth twitches. She tries not to pay attention as he slides one step towards her, sandy-brown hair blown by the cold wind. Nothing matters if she is to die soon, but..
There's a word for what she feels - the warmth, the friction - when he brushes her arm as he moves closer to her.
Chemistry?
Electricity?
Maybe.
END.
fandom. twilight
characters. kate/garrett
rating. pg-13
One month of anxiety.
Thirty-one days of pacing, golden eyes wary, disturbed.
Seven hundred forty-four hours of shallow breathing, a false peace stretched like a rubber band to the breaking point.
Forty-four thousand six hundred four minutes, the seconds ticking, ticking, ticking by.
One month isn't long when you live forever.
It is even shorter when you believe that, at the end of it, you'll die.
-
She can feel his ruby-red eyes on her as she plays with her hair, smooth hands twisting and turning. The locks wind into braids and fall as she lets go, cascading into the same straight waterfall as before. The folds, the creases of her dress contrast with her perfection, and its color, white, murmurs (lies), purity, purity - a purity that is not really there, but no one has to know that.
She is used to stares. She has been alive for (give or take) a thousand years, after all, and her eyes are the most brilliant shade of gold, her lips rose-pink and sweet (oh so sweet). Men have always looked at her, lingering glances full of longing, lust. She has never found a reason to stare back.
Until now.
-
He leans against the wall casually as he watches her. A strand of sandy hair crosses a crimson eye like a scar that never was, like a scar that can be if he is pushed hard enough. He has always been a wanderer, a nomad, but this place - this dreary land clouded over with gray - feels like home to him, or at least closer to home than any other place he has ever been to.
Home. Honestly, he's never needed it. He loves the thrill of crossing borders, the adventure of never being in the same place twice. The people he has met: he remembers their names, their faces, their personalities, their everything. But he's never stayed put long enough to love anyone. He has never felt the desire to.
Until now.
-
She plays hard to get. He can tell. She's slightly jaded, too, her teasing words coming out sarcastic - a strange tone from an angel's soft lips. That would be fine from a fallen angel's, perhaps, which is not that far off the mark. Anything not human looks heavenly.
He returns the playfulness with confidence, gesturing openly. His questions, his endless questions, come with ease, without shame, and it is all the European beauty can do to answer him, sometimes smiling, sometimes not. All the same, he enjoys.
To onlookers, the two look good together from a distance, like a soldier and his princess, like one who protects and one who needs to be protected.
But Katrina does not need protection, and Garrett likes that.
-
He's interesting. The words are meant to be a compliment, but they sound bored, which is understandable. Kate has been after centuries of being with men and not caring about who they are, just what they are: toys, games, things to be thrown away after sleepless nights of what used to be the satisfaction of basic urges. Specifically, only one.
She sees through all of them, not taking a second look at their hair, their lips, their eyes - green, blue, brown, black, each of them is the same as the next, and the one before. The hundreds before.
But these red eyes are captivating, dangerous, a far cry from the topaz ones she has gotten so used to in her sisters. They call for a different kind of hunger, a different kind of thirst, from that she has indulged herself in.
Somehow she's drawn to that.
-
But giving in to desires in sinful, isn't it? Those who have no temperance, no self-control, have lost the game before it has even ended.
-
Now they wait on the white ground, ready to stand, ready to fall. Kate's face is set as she stands by Tanya, and Garrett senses her indecision. But when Kate glances at him surreptitiously, she sees the corners of his mouth tilt upward, hears his chuckle - and she blinks.
Until the death, he smiles.
She exhales sharply, but her mouth twitches. She tries not to pay attention as he slides one step towards her, sandy-brown hair blown by the cold wind. Nothing matters if she is to die soon, but..
There's a word for what she feels - the warmth, the friction - when he brushes her arm as he moves closer to her.
Chemistry?
Electricity?
Maybe.
END.