Fic: letters
Title: letters
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Beta: Lindsay (nylana)
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, Romance
Word Count: 854
Characters: Rose/Ten II
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize? Ain't mine.
Summary: He promises he'll be back.
A/N: Written for Challenge 70 at then_theres_us
+
He holds her hands in his, sweeping his thumbs over the hills of her knuckles. She's trying not to cry, trying hard to listen to what he's saying.
I can't do this now. Not yet.
She takes a breath and raises her gaze to his face. His features swim and blur through the moisture building in her eyes.
Will you be back?
Her voice is soft, almost child-like, and she worries her bottom lip as she squeezes his hands.
Yes. I'll be back. His voice is firm and she has no choice but to believe him.
He touches a kiss to her lips and then one to the back of each hand before he lets her go and takes a step back.
She leans against the picnic table, wrapping her arms around her body as she watches him walk away, and takes another steadying breath.
I love you, she whispers into the wind.
Two weeks later she receives a letter in the mail with a postmark from Russia.
So far away, she thinks with a sigh as she tears open the envelope.
She smiles as she reads about his adventures in Moscow and his failed attempt to trek through Siberia.
It was bloody freezing. I kind of forgot about the whole human thing, he writes in his untidy scrawl, and her smile widens as she imagines his disappointment.
There's something for you in the park just outside the city. Perception filter, nobody will see it except you.
She frowns slightly, wondering what he left for her and more importantly, when he left it.
Miss you, he finishes just before the scribble of his name. I'll see you again soon.
She sighs. Like all measures of time, "soon" is relative, especially with him.
She drives to the park, the secluded area where they spent so much time together before he left, and walks towards their usual picnic table.
The sunset paints the sky orange and pink and purple as she searches for what he left, finally spotting it in the low branches of a nearby tree.
She takes the large box to the table and settles down to open it, tearing the tape off the top.
Inside is a set of elaborate Russian nesting dolls, brightly colored with jewels lining their painted robes. Tucked inside the smallest doll is a beaded bracelet, just as brightly colored as the dolls, and she pulls it out, tilting her head to the side.
She laughs, her tears splashing against the worn wooden tabletop, and the sound echoes around the otherwise empty park as she runs her fingers over the beads.
A month later she receives another letter, this time from Venice.
It's sinking, Rose, he writes. I'll have to bring you here before it disappears completely.
Her lips curve as she envisions the two of them in Venice, romantic dinners overlooking the canals and maybe a day where they don't leave their hotel room at all.
There's a glittering version of you in the park. Those people in Murano are pretty remarkable.
She returns to the park and finds the small box nestled in the table supports.
A gasp escapes her lips as she opens it, withdrawing the delicate glass rose, the edges of the petals brushed with red and the leaves with green.
I miss you too, she sighs, running her fingers along the smooth glass and watching as it sparkles in the sunlight.
Two months later a box arrives on her doorstep. She misses him so much and wants to be angry that it's been so long since he last contacted her, but she can't help the smile that crosses her face when she reads his note.
Paris, he says. Beautiful, but not more than you.
There's a pale pink bottle of exquisite-smelling perfume inside the box and she closes her eyes as she inhales the scent of lilies and roses.
Midnight tonight.
She wears his favorite dress, her skin smelling of her new perfume, the beaded bracelet circling her wrist, and sits anxiously on the edge of the picnic table.
The moon overhead is bright, bathing the small park in a brilliant white glow.
She checks her watch again and just as the hands settle on the twelve, she hears soft footsteps.
She looks around sharply for the source of the noise and then a hesitant smile curves her lips.
His smile is soft as he approaches her, his hands deep in his pockets, and she slips off the table to meet him halfway.
Are you back? she asks, her expression hopeful as she looks up at him.
He nods and her smile widens as she pulls him into a fierce hug, clinging to him and not wanting to let him go.
I missed you so much, she whispers, pulling back slightly and raising her eyes to his face.
I know, he says and lifts his hands to her cheeks, brushing away her tears.
He kisses her gently, his hands still cradling her face, and his breath is warm on her lips when the kiss breaks.
I love you too, he murmurs, and she smiles.
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Beta: Lindsay (nylana)
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, Romance
Word Count: 854
Characters: Rose/Ten II
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize? Ain't mine.
Summary: He promises he'll be back.
A/N: Written for Challenge 70 at then_theres_us
+
He holds her hands in his, sweeping his thumbs over the hills of her knuckles. She's trying not to cry, trying hard to listen to what he's saying.
I can't do this now. Not yet.
She takes a breath and raises her gaze to his face. His features swim and blur through the moisture building in her eyes.
Will you be back?
Her voice is soft, almost child-like, and she worries her bottom lip as she squeezes his hands.
Yes. I'll be back. His voice is firm and she has no choice but to believe him.
He touches a kiss to her lips and then one to the back of each hand before he lets her go and takes a step back.
She leans against the picnic table, wrapping her arms around her body as she watches him walk away, and takes another steadying breath.
I love you, she whispers into the wind.
Two weeks later she receives a letter in the mail with a postmark from Russia.
So far away, she thinks with a sigh as she tears open the envelope.
She smiles as she reads about his adventures in Moscow and his failed attempt to trek through Siberia.
It was bloody freezing. I kind of forgot about the whole human thing, he writes in his untidy scrawl, and her smile widens as she imagines his disappointment.
There's something for you in the park just outside the city. Perception filter, nobody will see it except you.
She frowns slightly, wondering what he left for her and more importantly, when he left it.
Miss you, he finishes just before the scribble of his name. I'll see you again soon.
She sighs. Like all measures of time, "soon" is relative, especially with him.
She drives to the park, the secluded area where they spent so much time together before he left, and walks towards their usual picnic table.
The sunset paints the sky orange and pink and purple as she searches for what he left, finally spotting it in the low branches of a nearby tree.
She takes the large box to the table and settles down to open it, tearing the tape off the top.
Inside is a set of elaborate Russian nesting dolls, brightly colored with jewels lining their painted robes. Tucked inside the smallest doll is a beaded bracelet, just as brightly colored as the dolls, and she pulls it out, tilting her head to the side.
She laughs, her tears splashing against the worn wooden tabletop, and the sound echoes around the otherwise empty park as she runs her fingers over the beads.
A month later she receives another letter, this time from Venice.
It's sinking, Rose, he writes. I'll have to bring you here before it disappears completely.
Her lips curve as she envisions the two of them in Venice, romantic dinners overlooking the canals and maybe a day where they don't leave their hotel room at all.
There's a glittering version of you in the park. Those people in Murano are pretty remarkable.
She returns to the park and finds the small box nestled in the table supports.
A gasp escapes her lips as she opens it, withdrawing the delicate glass rose, the edges of the petals brushed with red and the leaves with green.
I miss you too, she sighs, running her fingers along the smooth glass and watching as it sparkles in the sunlight.
Two months later a box arrives on her doorstep. She misses him so much and wants to be angry that it's been so long since he last contacted her, but she can't help the smile that crosses her face when she reads his note.
Paris, he says. Beautiful, but not more than you.
There's a pale pink bottle of exquisite-smelling perfume inside the box and she closes her eyes as she inhales the scent of lilies and roses.
Midnight tonight.
She wears his favorite dress, her skin smelling of her new perfume, the beaded bracelet circling her wrist, and sits anxiously on the edge of the picnic table.
The moon overhead is bright, bathing the small park in a brilliant white glow.
She checks her watch again and just as the hands settle on the twelve, she hears soft footsteps.
She looks around sharply for the source of the noise and then a hesitant smile curves her lips.
His smile is soft as he approaches her, his hands deep in his pockets, and she slips off the table to meet him halfway.
Are you back? she asks, her expression hopeful as she looks up at him.
He nods and her smile widens as she pulls him into a fierce hug, clinging to him and not wanting to let him go.
I missed you so much, she whispers, pulling back slightly and raising her eyes to his face.
I know, he says and lifts his hands to her cheeks, brushing away her tears.
He kisses her gently, his hands still cradling her face, and his breath is warm on her lips when the kiss breaks.
I love you too, he murmurs, and she smiles.