salvation à la mode

Jefferson Soul · 08-09-2010, 10:16 PM

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Geneva crept past the wide-eyed child and fell into the scarred man's torn and ripped arms. Jefferson hadn't known he held his breath until that point they touched when it suddenly released from his lungs in the form of a sigh; the slight, sad smile on his face disappeared as he wrapped his arms around her, replaced with a pained frown turning at his scarred lips. How long had it been since they had touched like so? Months and months—too long, he decided instantly, when the brute realized at that second how terribly he had missed her, missed her like he had never missed anyone. Even Iskata, DaVinci. The parents he had never known, the half-sister who had disappeared from Dahlia, the memories and a childhood he could never recall. How was it—why was it—that Geneva suddenly meant so much more?

"Don't be," the cyclops said. His green eye closed, treasuring the seconds they held close, and yet his arms felt the difference in their binds around her—indeed she had healed strangely after the fall and Dawali's attempts, for he felt the various small, subtle differences in her form. The brue had tried to save her, to avoid the feeling he felt now.

Again he swallowed a lump and tightened his embrace, burying his face into her neck and shoulder. "I love you," he murmured, his words shrouded in pain and regret. They had sat in his throat like a lump until he released them, understood them. He was not supposed to be capable of love, he recalled, and yet he hated to deny the twist of regret in his chest. Its origins were not unknown.

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