We're paper dolls all aflame
Title: We're paper dolls all aflame
Rating: PG
Summary: She knows that it's all long gone. Post-The Incident.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers up to end of S5, speculation on S6 spoilers; references to character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written in response to vague speculation about these filming spoilers. (I got mad, and then I wrote fic.) Also inspired by one of the most depressing songs in the world -- and where I ganked the title -- Blackwinged Bird by Emm Gryner.
----
She sees scars that aren't there, rust-red when she closes her eyes, fleeting impressions just beyond, just out of her grasp.
The bathroom mirror's unforgiving -- dark circles stretching into sallow skin stretching into endless lines, ones that say she doesn't sleep anymore, because sleep means remembering; remembering him (a dark-haired ghost; tentative flicker of touch at the nape of her neck, the small of her back) and her, too perfect, revered, and a head full of new memories and a maybe-real place she can't (won't) reach.
The lights flicker and ebb, yellow wash almost deathly; water hits porcelain -- looks like tears, running rivulets down her face -- and she turns the tap, so hot it almost blisters, mirror sweating steam and her hands raw, rubbed clean.
"Come back to bed."
His grasp frames her hips, still clumsy, unfamiliar, looks at him and knows, knows pale fingers, twined and then gone, are against his eyelids every night. He tugs her back, into the bedroom's swelling darkness; crisp hotel sheets whisper against her skin and she curls into the crook of his elbow (this is not a soggy airline blanket and a half-collapsing shelter and the ends of his hair brushing the hollow of her throat, warm weight against her shoulder) and knows that it's all long gone.
It's someone else's name that drops from his lips as he slides into sleep beside her.
(She doesn't bother feeling guilty --
-- this is all that's left; she knows that too.)
Rating: PG
Summary: She knows that it's all long gone. Post-The Incident.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers up to end of S5, speculation on S6 spoilers; references to character death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written in response to vague speculation about these filming spoilers. (I got mad, and then I wrote fic.) Also inspired by one of the most depressing songs in the world -- and where I ganked the title -- Blackwinged Bird by Emm Gryner.
----
She sees scars that aren't there, rust-red when she closes her eyes, fleeting impressions just beyond, just out of her grasp.
The bathroom mirror's unforgiving -- dark circles stretching into sallow skin stretching into endless lines, ones that say she doesn't sleep anymore, because sleep means remembering; remembering him (a dark-haired ghost; tentative flicker of touch at the nape of her neck, the small of her back) and her, too perfect, revered, and a head full of new memories and a maybe-real place she can't (won't) reach.
The lights flicker and ebb, yellow wash almost deathly; water hits porcelain -- looks like tears, running rivulets down her face -- and she turns the tap, so hot it almost blisters, mirror sweating steam and her hands raw, rubbed clean.
"Come back to bed."
His grasp frames her hips, still clumsy, unfamiliar, looks at him and knows, knows pale fingers, twined and then gone, are against his eyelids every night. He tugs her back, into the bedroom's swelling darkness; crisp hotel sheets whisper against her skin and she curls into the crook of his elbow (this is not a soggy airline blanket and a half-collapsing shelter and the ends of his hair brushing the hollow of her throat, warm weight against her shoulder) and knows that it's all long gone.
It's someone else's name that drops from his lips as he slides into sleep beside her.
(She doesn't bother feeling guilty --
-- this is all that's left; she knows that too.)