#einne

[crumblesofcreation-blog]

Alive

Both of them had forgotten to turn on the lights as the sun sinks, washing the apartment with dim purples as she pulls back just enough to tug his loose t-shirt up over his curls.

He grins at her, lip ring shifting across his teeth. “Forward, aren’t we?”

“Shut up. It was in my way.” She presses him against the counter again, fingers drifting across his ribcage, feeling his beating heart, hooking in the leather string around his neck.

She prides herself on her impeccable timing, feeling his chest press against her and waiting until the right moment to shift, both of them sucking air in before their lips meet again.

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s dark. Just enough moonlight filters through the kitchen window to make her eyes sparkle when she looks up at him.

“We seem to have lost track of time, starling.”

“Oh no, angel. You lost track of time. I just didn’t care.”

He laughs, a soft, simple thing, and when she kisses him again, he marvels at the fact that he is truly alive.

[crumblesofcreation-blog]

Lost

Dark, blurred, streaked with scarlet — her life, her head, her arms.

She set a date. She didn’t have anyone to tell, so it’s not like she could be found out.

For now, she had a bag to pound the hell out of, until her knuckles broke open and she went home sufficiently bloodied.

Down to a week. Not so bad. At least she had something to look forward to. She broke the skin of her fingers open again every day. Not like they’d hurt once she was gone.

But then there he was. She was angry, at first. She’d had it planned. There was light at the end of the tunnel. And he kept telling her that she was lost. Like some damned preacher.

She knew she wasn’t lost. She knew exactly where it ended for her, down to the minute. If that’s not satisfying —

Oh. His lips, brushing hers.

Damn. Fingers, on her hips.

He doesn’t talk like an angel. But he sure as hell kisses like one.

[crumblesofcreation-blog]

Angel's Service

She wanted to tear the letter into a thousand different pieces as soon as it arrived.

He kept it hidden, once he read it, just to make sure.

Everything was done by the book. The exam, the short bout of training. And before she even realized how long it’d been, he was emerging from the bedroom dressed in his uniform, combat boots laced crookedly, and she wanted to scream.

No, no. This was wrong. She was supposed to be beside him. He was supposed to hang around until he couldn’t any longer, he wasn’t supposed to go off and get himself shot. The bastard.

He tells her that he’ll call her. He promises, and she tries hard to memorize the feeling of his fingers under her shirt one last time. She finally does scream, stepping back away from him. It’s quiet because she knows he won’t like it and her nails are just long enough to dig into her arms.

His eyes are filled with pain as he catches her wrists and begs her. Please, please, Einne, please. I’m coming back, starling, please.

She can’t be angry anymore so she cries. She lets him draw her against his chest, and he’s strong like he always is, and she doesn’t want this to happen, and then --

She’s watching the clock. His plane just left. There’s no turning back now. She’d hoped beyond logic that he’d have turned around at the airport, that he’d come running back with that grin of his, fingers on her hips once more.

But no.

So she refuses to get sick and walks down the street instead, shaking shaking shaking but no, no, he asked her to keep clean until he’s back.

She finds herself in the chapel. Sun shines through the stained-glass windows and falls over her as she walks carefully between the pews, fingers trailing across the wood. She reaches the front and she kneels, where she watched him countless times. Fingers folded? Palms pressed together? She doesn’t know, so she grips the sweatshirt he left her. There’s too much in her head so she says it out loud.

Please bring him back.