[Elliot] She’s been in town for a while. She’s been in the city longer than she’s been in any city since…she can’t even remember when.
Elliot does not like people, most days. They’re loud and obnoxious, and they smell. And the glaring lights of the city hurt her sensitive eyes. And yet she’s still here. She still wanders this city overflowing with human waste, that blinds and defeans her. Maybe she recognizes that it’s about that time, when she should be a part of a society. Of The Society, of the Nation. She’s been away from it for longer than she cares to remember.
She’s wandering the streets of Bronzeville. Because the one person with whom she’s held anything like a conversation in years said she lives here, and Elliot is curious. And she craves. She doesn’t know what she craves, but it’s there in her chest, and ache, like a thirst that needs to be quenched but she doesn’t know what with.
She’s dressed in fewer layers than she’s been seen in lately. The weather has been warmer than she’s felt in a while. Her overcoat is gone, left behind somewhere either to be retrieved or forgotten. Her jeans are old and incredibly white knobby knees can be seen through tears in both legs. The sun has long since set, and yet she still wears a pair of giant, oversized sunglasses. They make her look like a bug. They hide her green-grey eyes. Red hair that should fall around her shoulders is so knotted and tangled it falls just past her chin. She smells like stale sweat again, like old rain and dirth.
She’s alone, because she’s always alone. Her sneakers scuff against the pavement of the sidewalk as she shuffles along, hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans. Taking in the sights. Looking for a yellow house where she might get a hot meal, maybe a shower. Maybe some conversation.
[Maija] Her boss is gonna drive her nuts. The concern is going to send her over the edge – she’s not use to someone giving a damn, or trying to take her to the doctor every five minutes, or bringing her food and medicine. It’s weird, it’s unsettling, and she’s finally had to step away for a while.
A walk – a slow one – and it only lasted to the corner.
So here she sits, on a bus bench, with the burnt out hull of what was the corner store behind her. It’s not raining, for a change, which is good, as her hoodie is destroyed beyond all repair. Replacing it is a zip up sweater, that has more than a couple holes, and can’t be very warm – but it hides the bulk of bandages, even if it can’t quite hide the scent of dried blood.
Her jeans are worn, her boots scuffed, her hair down and loose, hanging almost to her waist. Dishwater blond – her looks neither special, nor remarkable. She could be anyone. She’s likely no one. Yet here she sits.
It’s Elliot’s passing that brings her gaze up, briefly, and the tingle of her rage that puts her instantly on alert, her shoulders tensing slightly, her spine straightening, her arm resting protectively across her torn up torso.
[Elliot] Elliot looks like anyone from the homeless population of Chicago. She looks like she has nowhere to go, nowhere to be. She looks unwanted.
And it’s all true. She’s been sleeping wherever she stops walking, tucked behind dumpsters or curled up in a bus stop vestibule. There is no one to look after her wounds. No one to feed or cloth her. The only people who gave a damn about Elliot Ferguson are long since dead and buried.
She’s been walking all day, looking for the yellow house and the jingling kinfolk that offered sanctuary. Elliot doesn’t know if she’ll find her, or either of the other Garou she met in Grant Park over a week ago. If she doesn’t, she’ll just shuffle on, continuing south. Wandering without purpose or direction.
For now, her steps carry her to a bus bench, where sits a plain-faced girl with ordinary hair and unobtrusive features. She tenses when Elliot gets near, the rage she bears reaching out with stretching, intrusive fingers to terrify and warn. This person is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, beware.
She shuffles to a stop, stooped posture making the tall woman look shorter. Her pose is that of the tired, of one exhausted from surviving, from living day to day. Her head turns to the burnt out shell where a corner store once stood. It keeps her attention for several seconds, the street corner oddly silent. Until there is the scuff of a rubber sole on concrete, and the monster is coming around the side of the bench. She drops back onto it, sending a shock through the bench.
Her head turns, and those huge, oversized sunglasses are pointed at the girl on the other side of the bench.
[Maija] She stops.
(they always stop)
And then she sits – or rather she drops to the bench which sends a shockwave through it, rattling the too-thin kinfolk who clenches her teeth and lets loose with a hiss of sudden pain. Her arm tightens around her belly, her breath is shallow, and she waits a moment. two. Maye even three.
Then she relaxes by degrees – though the tension is still there, the closeness of rage in female form keeping her spine straight, her shoulders knotted. A slow careful breath, and she is able to ease the hold on bandages where it feels her insides are determined to breathe open air.
She glances at Elliot, though it’s not a look that lingers. “Nice shades.”
[Elliot] Maija glances and looks away. Elliot continues to stare, maybe. Her head remains turned toward the girl on the bench. She looks frail. Angry. Elliot looks pale and apathetic. Behind the sunglasses, her eyes remain fixed on the kin. There is nothing about the girl that signals to Elliot that she’s kin. Nothing to make the redhead think she’s anything other than a stiff, scared human being, caught too close to the furnace of a Garou’s rage.
Maija relaxes by degrees, the hold on her abdomen easing. She smells like dried blood and gauze. There are not many, even among her kind, who could smell that on the little blonde woman from this distance. Elliot can, just like she can hear someone singing somewhere out of sight. Sometimes these senses are helpful. Most times, they’re the bane of her existence.
Elliot remains completely still as she stares at the girl on the bench. Then her head swings away. She’s probably pretty, beneath the grime and behind the sunglasses Maija comments on.
“Thanks.” The single word is low and faintly rasping. It’s the voice of someone who’s just woken, who’s vocal chords have not been used for some time. Her hands are still stuffed into the pockets of her jeans. “You smell like blood.”
[Maija] The comment brings a brief smirk, flitting across her lips, but not finding reason to stay if fades away just as quickly. She’s guarded, she’s careful, she’s so many things that so few people know. But for now, she’s almost amused. Briefly.
“Shoulda seen me a couple days ago, then. This ain’t nuthin.”
Well, it’s considerably more than nothing, but at least she doesn’t seem to be offended. Yet. She starts the ritual search through her pockets for cigarettes and a lighter, before she remembers she left the former at home next to her pipe. her hands fall still, and she shoves them into the pockets of her sweater.
“Ain’t seen you ’round afore.” Not that she normally looks, either.
[Elliot] Maija has not become offended by Elliot’s impersonal stare, by her idle comment on the smell of blood. When she says Elliot shoulda seen her a couple days ago, a corner of the redhead’s mouth twitches but does not quite turn into a grin or a smirk. The face beneath the dirt bears lines at the corners of the wide mouth, in the inside corners of her eyes. Lines of emotion that has long since died within the Philodox.
If Maija were to become offended, if she were to stand up now and rant and rave and make a fuss, it’s entirely likely she garner nothing more from the tall silent woman than a deadpan stare. Where Maija is guarded, careful, Elliot is listless and empty.
“Haven’t been this way before,” she remarks, the most words she’s said in a row all night. Probably the most she’s said in days.
And then she shoves herself up, her breath apparently caught, her strength restored from this brief respite on the bus bench.
She stops for a moment, considering something. Then her head swings those huge sunglasses Maija’s way again. “Just passing through,” she says by way of explanation. As though she has recognized that this, at least, this little chat barely begun and abruptly ended, might possibly be rude.
[Maija] “aint the nicest area a’town.”
She watches as Elliot gets up, again, and prepares to leave as quickly as she came. She arches a brow, slightly, and then nods. “‘ave a good night, then.”
Maybe Imogen’s rubbing off on her. She doesn’t seem overly offended still. It’s not unusual for folks to slip away from the kin who barely speaks. Few dig deeper. Any who does, is often surprised at what they find – perhaps Elliot doesn’t like surprises.
Either way, she simply remains where she is, and resumes watching the street.
[John Thornton] A short time later, a black Crown Victoria purrs its way slowly down the street, pausing momentarily before the building where Maija lives, before slowly moving to a spot closer to where she now sat. A few moments pass, before the panther’s purr dies… The engine goes quiet. The car rests, a still black lump of polished metal in the dark…
The driver’s door opens, and a familiar face exits the vehicle. He’s clad in a blue dress shirt open at the collar with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A striped gray tie dangles askew and loose about his neck, bouncing merrily with each step. Matching gray dress pants cover his legs, and as always, the badge and gun are ever present upon his person, it seems.
His sockets were very dark… A sign he had no sleep at all the previous night. Still, as the hazel eyes drink in the Bronzeville neighborhood streets, there is a sense that only makes him sharper, only puts him more on guard, rather than less…
As he walks toward Maija, that simple not-a-smile plays about his lips.
“Hello there.”
[Maija] The purr of the car gets her attention, as it moves closer and stops. She watches it warily – it could be any of a number of cars, though this one looks familiar. It’s when he steps out, that she finally relaxes.
He looks like he hasn’t any sleep, and is on guard. She hasn’t been sleeping well herself, but at least she’s not bleeding out on the sidewalk this time. Not yet, anyway.
For John, there’s a brief quirk of her lips, the slightest lift at the corner that suggests the expression might some day grow up into a real smile, as she watches him with dark eyes.
“Hey yaself.”
[John Thornton] John continues to approach and sits down beside her, sighing deeply. Perhaps it’s the first respite he’s had from work this day. Covering for the incident that had left Maija bleeding out on the sidewalk had been no mean feat; the paperwork alone was astounding.
Nevermind making up a cover-story that his superiors would believe. In the end, it had gone down in the books as somebody gunning for his informant. Maybe Mickey’s current employers had found out about his greed, and how it overshadowed his fear of them.
In any case, somebody had shown up and shot the area full of holes, apparently gunning for Mickey and not caring who got slain in the process otherwise… At least, that’s what his superiors had heard.
Thankfully, drug dealers were not known for their subtlety; with enough convincing, it seemed the story had stuck.
Or, so John hoped, anyway.
Hazel eyes turn to Maija, as if looking her over for signs of further injury or discomfort.
“How are you feeling?”
[Maija] She’s still hurt. To his trained eye, he can see that she is sitting carefully, that the drape of her arm over her torso is deliberately placed, supportive and protective at once. There is the bulge of bandages under her sweater, the bulk of them showing to one who knows exactly how thin she is. But had he not made that call, had he not gotten Moira to come, she would be worse than banged up.
She’d be dead.
She gives him a quick once over, to be sure he’s not hurt. She fell to a set of claws before he did, and remembers nothing after until John got her home with Moira to watch over her for the night.
“M’oK. Little banged up still. Could be worse. You?”
[John Thornton] “I’m fine.”
Which would be his answer even were he not. Lucky perhaps, training maybe… Whatever the reason, he had managed to escape unscathed the fomori and bsd cub who were attacking them.
A few moments pass, as he considers, before he nods toward her apartment.
“Come on… You’re already banged up and trying to heal; no sense trying to fight off a cold at the same time.”
A part of him is glad she hasn’t mentioned it. A part of him wishes it hadn’t happened. Whatever the case may be, his own actions as the Spiral fell were such that he preferred not to recount them.
His anger had won. It had gotten the best of him. All that repressed emotion had bubbled up and there was nothing he could have done to stop it.
[Maija] There’s that little smirk that is almost but never quite long lived enough to warm to a smile. It lingers half a beat, as she nods, slightly.
“Yeah. Alright.”
She doesn’t argue. She’d been getting up the nerve to stand again for a while now, as the temperature falls. She wraps her arm tightly about her torso, pressing *hard* on the bandages to support the injuries, as she uses her other hand to press against the seat and stand. She’s stubborn, but it’s clear the move hurts, and hurts badly. Her eyes close, her breath catches in a hitch, and once she stands upright, she remains there for a long moment – breathing shallowly.
When she can take another deep breath, she opens her eyes and exhales, slowly. “Oddly enough? this ain’t th’worst I been broke b’fore. Still ain’t make it hurt any less though.”
Another breath, and she nods.”Ok. There’s a beer or ten in my apartment callin my name. An if your lucky, I’ll letcha help me change my bandages.”
Now there’s a good time…
[John Thornton] John nods, that wan not-a-smile still playing about his lips.
“How could I refuse an offer like that?”
His arm and elbow are held out to her, as if to offer whatever support she required. After she takes a painful few steps with hazel eyes upon her, John speaks again.
“Do you need me to carry you?”
[Maija] He offers his arm, and she glances up at him a minute, before she actually takes it. Her fingers are cold, even through his jacket, though her grip is light. He asks if she needs carried, and she snorts. “Still aimin to be my Knight in Shinin Armour, are ya?”
She shakes her head slightly. “It ain’t that far, an once I get movin, it’s ok. Th’ real killer is them damn stairs. Shoulda got a place with an elevator.” She glances up at him again, and then back to the walk before them. “When I ran finally – I’d jus’ gotten out of the hospital. Broken leg, an’ a buncha other shit wrong. This? Ain’t much compartively.”
[John Thornton] “True. But as you said, it doesn’t make it hurt less.”
John’s arm is supportive, steady… As though he had some experience helping wounded get from one place to another.
Though admittedly, most wounded he dealt with went to the hospital, so they could later go to prison.
John’s eyes go to the street, and for a time, they just walk in silence. Then, still eyeing the street as they walked, he speaks… Only just loud enough for her to hear over the wind.
“As for knights… Somebody should look after you.”
[Maija] They walk in silence for a while, and her tight is light, though she is gripping a bit tighter, letting him steady her a bit more the closer they get to the apartment. He’s supportive, steady, and has experience helping. She’s stubborn, determined, and has more experience being wounded than many should ever have to deal with.
He speaks finally, and it brings her eyes up to study him, his profile for a long moment. “Applyin’ for the job, Detective? Have to warn you – I’m stubborn. On the other hand, I’m a damn good cook… though you’d have to decide if it’s worth it…”
She lifts her free hand to push her hair behind her ear, lips quirking into almost a full amused smile, hidden by the lowering of her head.
[John Thornton] For a short time, John just walks… Hazel eyes considering the buildings as they passed, as if verifying that nothing waited in ambush.
Given how things had been for kin lately, it seemed little was outside the range of possible.
“Let’s get you in doors first… The application process will wait at least that long.”
[Maija] She chuckles softly, briefly. It’s little more than a sound, really, just enough to let him know she is amused. He watches, and she lets him be the vigilant one tonight. She knows this street better than most. She’s a streetrat, and this is her home – she likely knows more hideyholes in this neighborhood than he does. She spent years trying not to be found.
It still surprises her now, that she has not taken off once again, what with all she’s lost since she arrived. Part of her worries that she might lose him too. Everyone who gets close, gets dead. Or gone. And she wants neither one to happen to the Detective.
She kinda likes having him around, and his little not quite smile that matches her not exactly lingering long enough to BE a smile expressions.
When they close the distance to her door, she pulls her keys from her pocket, and hands them to him, so that he can muscle the door open, explaining briefly, “It sticks.”
[John Thornton] John nods, and after combining twisting the handle, jimmying the key, and pushing on the door, it pops open with a sound like ripping rubber. Then, holding the door open with one hand, he extends the other to her, as though to help her onward toward her apartment.
For his part, whatever John’s reasons, he seems to genuinely give a crap about her well-being. Perhaps it seemed strange to some; a Get not actively ignoring others and making them fend for themselves. That certainly seemed the stereotype that he had heard.
As he notices the stairwell leading upward, John lets out a low whistle…
[Maija] She takes his hand, her fingers slender, fragile looking – though he knows better. He’s seen her wield a knife with deadly accuracy, seen her handle a gun and shoot as if her life depended on it. He’s seen the strength hidden under cold grasp.
He whistles at the staircase, and she arches a brow slightly. “Rethinking the application already? Those keys there handle the upstairs locks.”
She shows them, and then moves to the narrow staircase, and grasps both handrails. She did this the night before. She’s done it today. It just takes her a little while. Unless he sweeps her off her feet, of course.
Slow and steady wins many a race – this is one of them. Step by painful step.
[John Thornton] She makes it up 3 whole steps on her own…
John ultimately does sweep her off her feet and start carrying her. It wasn’t hard; Maija still looked as though she could use something more to eat for some time now. Perhaps that sense was less prevalent these days than it had been upon their first meeting, but it hadn’t fled entirely either.
As he carries her, John seems to be thinking about something… Until he asks another question.
“Do you have a car, Maija?”
[Maija] She makes it three whole steps, and he’s lifting her. She might protest, but in the end, decides it wouldn’t do any good – and to be quite honest, she doesn’t mind. Instead, she just hooks her arm around his neck, and lays her head against his shoulder, her eyes closing, breath shallow as he can’t help but jostle her.
She’s not heavy. Despite hoe much she eats, she is perhaps 105, soaking wet with a brick in each pocket. In some world, she could be a model. In this world, she is just Maija, a too-skinny Gnawer Streetrat.
He asks his question, and she actually chuckles, softly. “I barely afford the apartment, John. I kin drive, but ain’t got a car…”
[John Thornton] John nods, carrying her, considering something.
“Have you discussed your situation with your employer? When next do they expect you on the job?”
Whatever jostling John does cause is as small as he can manage; his step isn’t much faster than hers had been. Still, it is with perhaps some measure less pain than she would experience walking them on her own.
[Maija] She nods, slightly, a movement felt against his shoulder, his neck. She’s breathing evenly, carefully. She’s been here before – a world away, where the pain is controlled by determination and breathing alone.
“He thinks I done got caught in th’crossfire of a drug deal gone bad. Tol’him I’d be ok in a week, ain’t so bad, so on, so forth. He comes up an checks on me – his woman too. Ain’t let’um see th’wounds, a’course.”
She takes a slow measured breath, and releases just as slow. “They ain’t kin. So careful t’tell em little.”
[John Thornton] John nods again… They take a few steps in silence then, before reaching the top of the landing. As he sets her down as gingerly as he can, he speaks while finding the correct key.
“These stairs won’t speed your recovery any, nor will the surrounding neighborhood…
I only visit my apartment as it is… It’s in a better section of town, with an elevator and a pool…
… If you’d like, you can crash there, until you’ve had some time to heal.”
He seems to measure the words even as he speaks, as though wondering as to how she would take them… Whether she would divine some meaning between the lines, as it were.
As he unlocks and opens the door at the top of the landing, he adds…
“You’d have the place mostly to yourself; I’d only be there to check up on you or sleep on the couch.”
[Maija] He sets her on her feet, and she stands, carefully. He tells her that the stairs aren’t helping – and… invites her to live with him – or rather, to share his apartment while she heals. She watches him as he starts to open her door.
He’s measuring the words. So is she. She moves past him into the Apartment, before she answers, unzipping her sweater as she moves. She lets him handle the relocking of the door, and points to the TV. “Ya kin put them there.”
She doesn’t sit yet, chosing instead to watch him as he walks into the place he’s only been too once before. The books she’s reading on the back of the couch now include a Learning Latin primer, a dictionary. She’s almost done with Socrates – there’s only a few pages left it seems – and another fluff book is off to the side. This one showing a sword-toting hero on the cover.
“A pool?” She ain’t been in a pool for a long time – there’s a clear touch of longing lingering under the question.
[John Thornton] “Yes. It’s indoor, heated… Most people do lap swimming there; there aren’t many children in the building, so it tends to be pretty quiet as well.
They have deck chairs off to the side of the pool, so that you can read a book if you want a break from swimming.”
After re-locking the door, John deposits the keys as bidden on top of the television. As he stands, hazel eyes devour the room greedily, just as they do most any time he isn’t staring into someone’s eyes, waiting to measure their reactions.
The eyes linger on the book titles for a short time, reading them… Taking note of a few that seemed interesting, but never really settling.
“And I can assure you it’s safe… I handle security for the building in my off hours to keep my rent down. I trained most of their security detail myself.”
[Maija] She peels out of her sweater, and lets it fall to the chair, while she moves to the couch and gingerly settles to sit on the edge, a grunt of pain as she falls the last couple inches. She gives herself a moment to settle, to catch her breath.
“Sounds amazing. I don’t want to run you out of your place or anything.”
She starts to take her shirt off – the long sleeved one, there is a tank top underneath. “Though I’m sure you can keep me safe, Detective…” And there’s that little grin, again.
[John Thornton] John just smiles that wan not-a-smile, shaking his head slightly. Then he shrugs…
“Like I said, I’m not there all that often… But it’s up to you. If you’d prefer to stay here instead, I won’t argue.”
After a few moments, John speaks again.
“Do you need me to bring you fresh bandages?”
[Maija] “And that’s supposed to entice me to stay?” That holds a deliberate tease. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget she’s only 18. She’s lived lifetimes more than one her age should, more than most her age could.
“Yeah. First aid kits’ in th’bathroom, under th’sink. I can’t quite manuever t’get th’one on my side – if ya’d help, I’d appreciate it.”
The scent of old blood clings to her, with some fresh seepage as she lifts the edge of her tank top, to start working free the bandages she can reach. The claws of the Spiral had torn her from behind her hip up to up front over her ribs, shredding flesh and bone as if she were nothing. The healing Moira had done had started the healing, getting a good head start on what would normally take weeks to heal. Instead, she should heal in just a few more days, thanks to the kinswoman’s touch.
She’s going to have a new set of nasty scars to add to those she already has.
[John Thornton] John nods, before going to the bathroom and retrieving the first aid kit. Setting it on the coffee table before her, he nods.
“Sure…”
He waits for her to take care of the bandages she can reach. It’s only after she’s done with those that he removes the one she can’t. His hands are warm, his manner gentle… As it is with one who would not cause undue pain.
“This might be… unpleasant.”
He efficiently sets about cleaning the area with the first aid kit, again, as gently as he can manage. Then, John replaces the bandage to the best of his abilities.
“All set.”
[Maija] “It always is” She says, and sink her hands into the the edge of the couch, and she holds on tight, as John cleans and dresses the wounds. In the end, she’s pale and sweating, but she has barely cried out, barely done more than tense, flinch on occasion. But she is not one to voice much – let alone her discomfort, or pain.
[Don’t let them know they hurt you – it only gives them power.]
When he’s finished, she takes a slow breath, and leans back into the couch. She doesn’t speak for a moment, getting her bearings, working just to breath.
She opens her eyes, and looks over at him, actually meeting his gaze. Then, softly. “Make ya a deal. Stay with me tonight – an if I’m still this bad off t’morrow, I’ll let ya play doctor at yer place a couple days.”
Now it’s his turn to read between the lines – if there’s anything to read…
[John Thornton] ((Perception + Empathy, diff = 6
What does that mean?))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[John Thornton] ((Pushing difficulty: No, really… What does that mean?
Perception + Empathy, diff = 7 [wp]
Hail Kahseeno))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7) [WP]
[John Thornton] At this, John pauses. He almost seemed to be arguing with himself… Maybe the age difference. Maybe her well-being. Maybe his own… hangups.
After a moment, two perhaps… The hazel eyes move to her own, and he nods…
“Deal…”
[Maija] Maybe it’s the age difference, maybe her wounds, but whatever the argument is, he seems to decide she is worth the risk, worth the chance taken to stay with her. When he pauses, she simply waits. When he answers – she smiles. And this time, it is allowed to find a home across her lips, if only for a little while. It softens her face and in that moment, she’s almost pretty, almost something that would make other men look twice.
But she’s not interested in other men. Not tonight. Tonight she wants to be held, and held by the one who keeps showing up to protect her, the one who worries enough to check on her, the one who doesn’t quite want to let himself feel anything completely.
She wants him to feel, tonight.
Completely.
She leans forward, slowly, and then pushes herself to stand, before she holds out her hand to him. Once he takes it, and stands himself, she closes the distance between them, lifts her free hand to cup his cheek, her thumb caressing lightly, before sliding around his neck to pull him down into her kiss. In that moment, he learns many things – she is not always shy, and she is no novice. She knows what she wants – and for tonight at least, it is him.
The kiss lingers, and then she pulls back, takes a step back, and moves toward her room, her hand still in his.
~~~~~~~~~
[FPM]
The bedroom is a simple affair – the only thing that gives it the personality of it’s owner are the books on the nightstands. A variety, of every possible genre, each thumbed through, partially read, with finished ones stacked neatly to the side. The only clothing on the floor is what they drop there on the way to the bed.
She is not shy here. Nor is she a novice. When he falters, when he remembers her age, her injuries, she encourages him with lips and hips, with touch and tease, until he again takes the lead. Here, there is no mask, stripped from her face as the clothing was from her body.
Here, he sees her for the first time, unedited, unguarded, unrestrained. Here, now, he sees all the possibilities of what she can be, what she will be when she is able to break free from the chains of her past – a past that he can map through the scars on her thin frame. There are faded surgical scars from a leg broken so badly it took surgical repair, and more recently on her thigh from the knife wounds gained by her mugging last year. There are signs of other blade work, of other beatings, a rib that isn’t quite as straight as it should be, having been healed wrong, scars from wounds that should have killed her a hundred times over – but didn’t. The newest wounds still healing, that will add to the mapwork of injury – and all only outward signs of inward pain, only a glimpse of what she’s survived in her 18 years…
But here, in the early morning hours, all that disappears. Here there is just a girl who knows survival, reminding herself of why she lives through every breath shared, every soft cry, every moment of breathless laughter turned soft moans.
And after, when he asks if she is ok, if she hurts, she can only shake her head, her fingers warm now, for the first time since he’s known her, sliding along the lines of his back, his spine in idle caress. She is still unguarded, and remains so as they rearrange to sleep, her head on his chest, her hand above his heart, her hair tangled across his arm, their shoulders, her breath evening, deepening, until she falls into well needed sleep.
~~~~
When she wakes to find him gone, pillows carefully arranged around in a support for her tired, injured torso, it’s with a smile, as she slides her fingers over to the edge of the bed, despite the fact that he’s missing. It’s been a long time since she’s waken content, with the sense that there’s someone, somewhere, thinking of her on at least some level of his being, her scent clinging to his skin, his clothing, then to his memory after it’s physically washed away.
The note is discovered, and the bandages as well. She uses the latter, reads the former, and discovering she is feeling better, she makes her way to the kitchen to put together a meal, so that it takes only a few minutes to finish when he returns to check on her.
After all, she did promise him breakfast.