dont_feel_it: by <user name="whoat"> (does she know you're not a real boy?)
There's no telling how long he sleeps. There's never enough sun to pierce the fog that swirls slow around the mansion, let alone the heavy curtains invisible hands draw each night. 

Somehow always without him knowing. Or noticing.

It makes for heavy sleep, in this heavy world, where nothing can touch him and the only thing that shakes him awake is his own restless mind.

Except this morning. 


Warmth seeping into his bones. The slow spread of a summer sun, the kind that rises determined, burns off the mist lingering on the water or in the trees. The kind that used to leave him pink and tender at the end of the day, wincing under the needlepoints of cool water in the shower. And when he blinks his eyes slowly open, he sees it. 

A haze of gold. Like blinking up at the sky through rippling water. Everything suffused with it in a cloud of light, until he blinks again and it resolves.

Into the slope of a bare shoulder. Her arm the gentle sweep of the shore. And tendrils of pale hair caught against the pillow. (Tangled with too-dark brown, that still edges wrong, even as he pushes the thought away.)

Skin sun-warm, peach-soft, as the tips of his fingers just brush over it. All comfortable curves and blunted edges in her sleep. Her features lighter than he's seen them in months.

(He hasn't seen her in months.)




He doesn't want to wake her. She needs to rest. 

But he can't help leaning into her warmth, the whisper of rustling cloth against bare skin, to brush the tip of his nose against the back of her shoulder, brush his lips across the same spot. Hand sliding to her waist, the rise of her hip beneath muddled sheets. Unable to do anything but breathe her in, reverent. 

Maybe the closest he's ever felt to a miracle. Of all the ones she's brought for everyone else, this is the first. For them. No matter what the Rev would have called him. Degenerate. Defective. Broken. All of God's orphans, adrift just like him.

But not in this moment. Not this morning. Not when they are a miracle just starting to finally unfold.

Not when Audrey is beginning to shift under his touch, and for a few early, sun-soaked moments, everything can just be.

Perfect.
dont_feel_it: by larmay at LJ (assess the situation)
There's no ring on his finger when he wakes up this morning.






No new one, anyway. And no answer telling him how wrong or right he is about the one he can see in the mirror, glinting against his chest, as he washes his face free of sleep.

(He'd promised to be careful with it. He hasn't even taken it off since.)

Nothing else. No letter. No dream offering some explanation of who he is. Nothing at all, as he's reaching for a towel to dry his face, a few smudges of lather betraying the spots he'd missed with his razorblade.

(Not being able to feel makes for a harrowing shaving experience.)

Wondering if he'll ever begin to remember himself, until it's cut short by a glimpse of something on his arm.

Making him frown. Turn his forearm to see. Stare until he has to run the pad of his other thumb over it, thoughts jamming to a halt. Because this.

This tattoo. Dark against his skin. Looking as though it has been there forever.





He's seen it before.
dont_feel_it: by upoffmyknees at LJ (shatter the world for you)
 SUBJECT LINE: Nathan Wuornos

PLAYER INFO:
Name: Laura
Age: 34
Current Characters: No
Reserved: No

CHARACTER INFO:
NAME: Nathan Wuornos
CANON: Haven
CANON POINT: Undecided
AGE: 34-38

HISTORY: Nathan Wuornos at Haven wiki.
dont_feel_it: by frakking_cylons (skeptical)
There's been a break from the weird stuff.




There often is. Even with the Troubles rising again, sneaking from the shadows and striking where they're least expected, they don't stop normal, every day life and the normal, every day problems that come with it. Bar fights and treed cats, elderly folks forgetting where they'd put the barbecue grill last fall and reporting it as stolen; parking tickets, beach permits. Everything needed to keep Haven running smoothly, cheerfully. Just another friendly little town on the coast of Maine. Stop by. Have some pancakes.

It grates.

He takes to wearing his sleeves rolled down after the third time he caught himself staring at the burn on his arm. Eleanor patched it up, taped on a clean gauze pad, and scolded him for being careless, but the bandage fell off in the shower and though he'd conscientiously replaced it, he's sick of looking at it. Remembering. How it didn't feel. How it did. Pressure in his chest, watching the flame lick at his skin like he'd been watching it on TV.

So he buttons his sleeves at the wrist, and ignores it. It's not like there isn't plenty to keep him busy. Parker still doesn't know the ropes in town, and she's not likely to for a while yet. Haven folk are glad enough to take a tourist's money, but let them stick around and they soon find the layer of steel under the welcoming sand of the town. She's been running into one closed door after another, and getting frustrated, and he wonders if maybe she doesn't toy with that old Herald photo just about as often as he runs his fingers over the shape of the bandage that sits under his shirt sleeve.

Nothing much happened today, though. A few calls, some paperwork, going over the filing system with Parker and finalizing the paperwork necessary even for an on-loan federal agent, and now it's quitting time, meaning he's headed out, walking with long, measured strides that he's got to pace against Parker's shorter ones, reaching to open the door out to the street as he's glancing over towards her.

"Need a lift?"

He wouldn't mind, and the Bronco's right there.

Or, would be, had the stairs and street not vanished, to be replaced by what looks like a bustling bar.

Nathan's eyebrows climb slowly up his forehead, the only outward sign that he's looking at anything out of the ordinary at all, but all he says is: "Maybe not."

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dont_feel_it: Not sure; comment to claim. (Default)
Nathan Wuornos

August 2018

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