Nathan Wuornos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dont_feel_it) wrote2018-08-06 10:27 pm
dont_feel_it) wrote2018-08-06 10:27 pm
Entry tags:
| If we burn it down and it takes all night
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.
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.
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Nathan's laughter is never as free as it suddenly is now.
It was always a delight to win a laugh from him, as though never prized from iron jaws, taken and given, both, with effort. Not never; but never like this. Pressed against her mouth. The way his entire face is lit up with it. His hands. His body. His mouth pressed against hers, just as fast and just as constant. There's no drink as staggering as all of this. Nathan happy. Nathan teasing her. Nathan laughing at, and with her, while kissing her.
This is the way it always should have been. Every missed moment. Every day held off.
Audrey didn't know she was even capable of feeling this alight.
Nothing in her whole life has ever felt this good.
It's hard to even pause to say words, when it would be so easy, breathlessly easy and tempting beyond, to just dissolve into him again. Forget breakfast, and pancakes, and the unspoken promise of coffee, and anything that requires words, and breathing, anything more than the next kiss, next laugh, next sound of his voice rumbling right into and through her own skin, away from him. "Why did we wait so long?"
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It's asked lightly, nearly pressed into a kiss, and it could be a light answer back, he knows. Could be teasing and Audrey laughing.
Except it couldn't. Not this. This has never been anything but serious to him.
Leaning back, but not letting her go. Letting her drape comfortable against his chest, while he pulls back to see her face. Study it. Weigh these words, the way he's so used to weighing every one he chooses. Hears himself pick: "Haven."
A simple word. A complicated answer.
Gaze slipping down, and back up again to her face. "It's not an easy place."
But this is. Easy. Audrey in his arms. As comfortable as if they've known each other for months. Years. A lifetime.
He doesn't know why that's a strange thought to have, either. But it doesn't matter. They're here now.
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She knows the serious answer. She wouldn't -- and they couldn't -- change anything that had happened, or how it had. The reasons. The singular word that falls quiet and solid as a stone from his tongue between them.
Haven.
Haven, and The Troubled.
Haven, that she always came to,
and was taken from.
Until now.
But, that wasn't the point of the question, and she's not about to let him stray that far away from her, not behind his eyes grown darker than they were only seconds ago. Not when he could be here, right here, with her. Only. She kept her tone light, her expression light, reminding, as she smiled. "Well, at least Haven has both of us again."
"And--" She added, with a slight bit more sweetened logic to the leading, in the direction of acknowledging but not falling into one of those pits, as she wove her arms back around his neck. "--if solving The Troubles is what I'm supposed to be doing karmically--" It's out before she can even hear it coming, her eyes only on him, and instead of light, it's a boulder smashing glass. The opposite of what she meant to reach for.
There's a flinch in the pause of that breath, making everything too still in her.
"That was a bit of Lexie word. Sorry, those creep in every once in a while."
Audrey looked down to a side, letting her hands unclasp and starting to pull away. From one wrong step to another, far worse one. Which just makes it even more clear. So is a lot of this. The way this easy mischevious, reckless, playfulness is so much more Lexie, than the calmer, quieter, sweet solemnity of Audrey.
The part of her that Nathan hates most.
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She pauses, features so close he can see every flicker of doubt, the wish to back peddle, and he's shaking his head before she begins to turn away, apologizing for, what.
Nothing. He doesn't need it. It hadn't hit him.
Was he waiting for it to, in her hesitation? Had just pressed a smile. Like it was some joke between them. "It's okay."
Unwilling to let her go for whatever tiny transgression she thought happened. Arms shifting and tightening around her waist, until she stops trying to turn, looks back up at him. Hands back on his skin.
His smile a mix of amusement, reassurance. All aware. It's a tightrope to walk. But there's no tension anywhere in him when he's watching her, mouth curving. Tone dry, with just a faint edge of teasing. "I've grown more fond of her."
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It's only just a little dubious, while, also, being almost a touch amused, even when she can't stop the edge of her mouth from tugging outward, when she asks, "Have you?"
Like what happened last night, and this morning, alone, could somehow have even begun to erase even the smallest edge of every bit of damage she tried to do, space she tried to create, with every word out of her mouth, every touch of her hand, as Lexie. Even as he's nodding, and humming a note of agreement, that is all familiarity, close and clear and still not looking away from her, and she doesn't want to resist it.
When she has to kiss him, and she doesn't know if she'll ever entirely find the words for why all of it matters.
That it does hurt. That he hates Lexie because of her, what she did calling it all Lexie, calling it anything to save him.
But that, also, Lexie never had this, too, when she was only herself. Never knew a person like Nathan. That one good, decent man. Who the way to her heart guy was. Or Haven. The Troubled. Never figured out who she was. What she was meant to do. Be. Because Lexie stopped existing, except in her head, her words, reflexes, more shield and mask of herself than herself, from the moment Audrey woke up on that hill.
It's a tangle of thoughts, lost in a litany of kisses, but all of it is one certainty, when she doesn't want it to stop, wants to believe maybe that all could be done. Done, and over, and gone, too. A door closed. (Forgiven?) It's another proof of how high the stakes, steep the costs, narrowly the almosts -- how hard Haven is, and how much harder they should hold onto this now that they had it, this beautiful, hard-won, almost-lost-last-night-even, impossibility finally happening.
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He hums some assent, but it doesn't matter. None of it. Nothing except his hands catching her face, and the kisses he can place against her mouth, again, and again. And again.
Pushing forward while her palms slide down skin, dragging fire that snuffs out instantly, only to reappear on the next square inches she touches. Her breath coming fast against his lips. The heart he can't feel racing somewhere deep inside, trying fruitlessly to get to her, and those pancakes are going to have to wai ––
A sharp rap on the door startles him awake. Pushed up in a second, confused in a muddle of sheets, looking distracted from the door, where no sound comes, and then for Audrey --
Falling back with a huff of breath, because she isn't here. Of course she isn't here. She's isn't. They aren't.
The initial surprise of waking ebbing away, and it floods back, so real he thinks he can almost feel it. If he could feel anything.
Close his eyes, and see her again, turning towards him with sleep in her eyes and hair wild.
Pancakes.
Her hands on his skin.
How much. How much.
How he loves her.
A memory of loving her so strong he doesn't know where the memory starts and this feeling begins. Swamping him. Clarifying every unfeeling cell in his body. He loves her. He remembers loving her.
He remembers her loving him back.
He can't stay, has to move, starts to aim for the side of the bed, when he glances down. Double takes. Looks guiltily at the door he knows no one is behind, and carefully drags a pillow from the top of the bed to cover his lap.
He'll get up. Find her. Tell her.
...In a minute.