[html] Maybe she had said too much at once. She should never have spoken at all, but the words had been there, and the taste of those last three words lingered about her lips as the smile faded from her face. She looked at him with a sort of helplessness. He was so close, the closest he had ever been, but at that moment he also seemed so far away from her. Had she reached him? Could anything reach him beyond those walls he had erected so tall around his heart? She had seen glimpses of his heart, into his true character, but she wanted more.
Geneva wanted him to let her in. She didn't want to fight for every inch. She didn't want him to give up, didn't want him to change; she wanted him, with all his sharp words and electric glances. She wanted to dispel every shadow that hung over his thoughts, wanted him to live with the knowledge that he was worth the time and effort and all the frustration. Because he truly was worth it. There was something inside him, something about him that she felt she could draw out.
There was shame written on his face, and she didn't know why. She had expected his anger and disbelief, but not this shame. She was the one who should feel shame, pushing him beyond the boundaries of his comfort zone. He was out of his element, but so was she.
She froze, stunned when he didn't move away. Instead, against all odds, he had moved closer. And before she knew it, Jefferson had put his arms around her. She choked on a breath, held it still within her chest as she waited to see what he would do. But he only moved in close. She let her arms remain passive at her sides, not wanting to frighten him away.
And then he apologized. His words floated to her ear from beyond her shoulder. Her features twisted into a soft frown, and she brought one arm up from her side to wrap it gently around Jefferson. She placed her hand on his chest to push him back and then reached up to touch the side of his face. "I'm not," she told him. [/html]
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Why had he never seen it? Jefferson had prided himself on being as omniscient as a one-eyed leader could be, a perfect judge of character. His prediction skills were somewhat unmatched. He could read a stranger's history by the scars they bore in their skin, the look in their eyes, the way they chose their steps. Jefferson could find the thousands of possibilities that led to a stranger's behavior and drive and narrow them down to the essentials. Somehow, Geneva had blocked the intuition that put him unconsciously above his peers despite his more humble mental positioning as the monster in the dark. She'd squeezed past his walls, broke them down, escaped, and returned to them. He'd been aware of it all. He'd tried to stop her desperately. He'd grown frustrated, annoyed, at wit's end with her. Somehow, she'd still broken through to him, and as much as he tried to detect her every move, he had never been able to. Jefferson had known from the beginning when the quiet gray-furred stranger had not run from his rage that the cyclops would never be able to direct her as he did everyone else.
How long had it been since he'd embraced someone? For the few seconds that he held her, he tried to recall. There was no last time. The amnesiac Jefferson had been alone since the beginning; his family had flowed slowly back into his life, but even with his lost memory, there was no emotional connection to them. He'd embraced Addison, sure, but that was to be expected. She was just a child. The only other creature he'd been close to was Iskata, and she had died. He'd sung to her once, as humiliating a thought as it was, but that had been the closest the two had gotten. Once again, Geneva broke another one of his walls without much effort, and yet Jefferson had hardly tried defending his borders this time around. She released him quickly, however, and framed his face with her hand: a foreign touch, yet one that unconsciously melted at his heart. "What do you want from me?" he muttered that phrase once again, shaking his head just slightly in her grasp. He didn't know love. She knew he didn't know love.
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[html] She watched him with a quiet desperation in her eyes, waiting for the moment when he would realize that they were touching. She waited for the inevitable moment when he would shake himself and pull away. She felt her heart pounding distantly in her chest, but it seemed like her mind and body were disconnected. Part of that frustrated her, because she wanted to experience every detail of these precious few minutes; she didn't know if a time like this would ever come again. But this whole situation seemed so unreal anyway.
She thought of that as she reached out and did something she had been unconsciously dying to do. She smoothed her hand along his cheek and ran her fingers lightly through his hair. When she realized what she was doing, she dropped her hand and her eyes. She blinked and stared at the ground, painfully aware of how close they stood. She could feel his outline like a line of heat against her, body, a warmth she knew she shouldn't notice.
Geneva turned her face away to look at the darkening line of the horizon. The sky was getting darker, and the light of the fireflies glowed like pale fire. She couldn't remember the last time her heart had felt so full, and she couldn't remember the last time she had been cautious, so terrified to make the wrong move.
This situation had progressed too far for her to simply turn away or run. Too much had been said - too much, and not enough. The truth had sprung free from her heart, where she would have willed it to hide, and eventually die. When she raised her lime colored eyes to look at him again, she found the courage to see this through, and to accept whatever outcome this situation would yield.
Geneva reached to take his hands into her own and leaned in close to him. "I want you," she said. And it was simple as that. For some unknown reason, he had continually drawn her to him. And he had loomed in her mind, his mystery continually puzzling her, his sarcasm and dry wit urging her on, his anger and self-deprecation never enough to drive her away. She wanted to be with him, but she knew that he probably wouldn't accept that. She breathed in, "Just think about it, okay?" [/html]
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What was he doing? He was a monster. The scars that long-dead creatures had left him as parting gifts littered his body from head to toe, some gashes deeper than others, but every scar led to an empty memory. The beast that might have been considered frightening, having seen a thousand battles and traveled through hell and back, couldn't remember a second of the journey. For many, every scar bore was another memory, another prize of a difficult battle. For Jefferson, his scars were nothing more than warning signs to ward off the fainthearted. They were a defense mechanism, keeping acquaintances and strangers alike at arm's length; Jefferson never knew if or when he could snap back to the insanity that was Maluki. The sins he bore on his skin he could not even remember. Those who left them died in vain as a result. Those scars were not trophies, they were physical embodiments of a cyclops's guilt. His scars were reminders that it wasn't safe to get too close to a killer who couldn't even remember his victims.
She'd known that all along. Somehow, Geneva had willingly squeezed through, drawn by a force he himself had never detected nor foreseen. He'd tried to defend his walls, but he'd eventually given up on her and let her through. When had that been? It seemed like it had been so long since he'd made a real effort to keep her out of his head; Jefferson had made the occasional denial and argument against her, but she knew the machinations of his mind in and out. She swerved her way around his excuses and growls in a matter of seconds and he had simply given up, considering the gray-furred woman to be some sort of enigma. She was some sort of puzzle he wasn't able to figure out, the first of many faces he could not predict. She was some sort of unexplainable entity that clouded his thoughts every chance she had.
And she did. Even then, as the touch on his face gently moved to brush through his hair, he could hardly think straight. There was no why or how, there was only the second at hand: her movements, her words, her eyes. Distantly he could feel her claim his hands, unafraid of the countless scars and torn skin that adorned his bad arm and hand. She leaned in close to him; his tattered ears flicked back at her words, pulling the one-eyed idiot back to reality and out of the cloud of emotions that had risen. His mind pulled in several directions at once all of a sudden, yearning to demand answers out of her while wanting to grow angry or frustrated or rush off to be alone. Instead, his feet didn't budge. His shoulders relaxed, tension drifting away. Despite all the torrential cries and desperation to be alone, despite all the walls he'd built and the world he'd made for himself, something felt... right. Jefferson had never known a time where anything felt "right" in his life. Hushing the remaining questions was a strange, unexplainable force that simply made everything feel "right"... and somehow, he believed it to be she.
His hands captured, the great cyclops that towered over her simply leaned his head on hers. His eye gazed off, blindly watching the fireflies dance their evening ballad. "I don't think I need to," he mumbled. For once, there was no need to go by what his head told him. For once, he followed his instincts, and his instincts spoke of olive green eyes. "...So this is the peace you found." He didn't wonder how she found it in him... but he wondered why he hadn't found it in her sooner.
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[html] Why did she feel the need to hold her breath, now more than ever? It was hard to breathe around him. At times she felt as though she should be walking on eggshells around him. But here she was, overexposing herself to him. She had bared the truth, and in essence, bared her heart to him. It didn't matter that she could taste her pulse on the back of her tongue as she waited for him to react. So far she hadn't been disappointed. He had completely surprised her at every turn.
It went against her better judgement to open up this way. She felt the urge to turn and hide, but she was more afraid to give up on this moment entirely. He had gotten under her skin, and no matter how far she could run, he would follow her in the form of her thoughts. It wasn't a matter of needing him. Geneva had been a complete individual before she had even met him, but the words she had spoken were true. She did want him. She wanted him more than she could ever remember wanting anything.
The gray hued woman had chosen him, an unconscious act of will. He had left his fingerprints on her heart, had left whispers in her mind that spoke of secrets of them together. The lines of his face and body had become imprinted in her thoughts, until she could close her eyes and recall every detail without any effort. She knew that he believed that he was ugly, but she couldn't see him that way. The scars marking his body were a harsh reality, a symbol of all that he had been through. Life wouldn't get any easier, but maybe she could shield him, help to take some of the burden.
She had expected him to move away and reclaim his hands. Instead, he leaned into her, resting his head against her own. The words he spoke next were enough to stop her heart. She didn't think after that, she just let herself feel. She leaned into him then, melding her body against his as she brought her arms around him. Geneva just wanted him close, just wanted to know that this wasn't a dream and that she would wake up alone. She felt a curious melting in the region of her heart, and for the first time she was close enough to catch a trace of his scent. She couldn't scent things very well, unless she was practically pressed up against them.
"I suppose so," she murmured. "Peace, and happiness." [/html]
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Time and time again, Geneva had told him that something lay beneath the tough, spiked exterior he maintained. She had always defended that the monster he believed himself to be was not what she saw nor what he needed to be. Jefferson had never believed her. He'd never tried to believe he was anything more than a reluctant leader, a stand-in until something better came along. Nothing had come along. Phoenix Valley was still being led by a one-eyed rapist and murderer, and yet the pack of dreamers knew nothing of it and went on with their lives blissfully unaware. Geneva, who knew the worst of his crimes, could only smile and say she'd fallen for him. It made no sense, and yet for once the scars in his flesh were forgotten. For once, he felt as if he was not quite so ugly both in appearance and in manner, and one way or another, she'd brought out yet another side of him.
...Love?
But he wasn't supposed to know how to love. Addison was some sort of exception; the pup had fallen into his lap. He'd had no other choice but to father her and foster her growth into adulthood. Love had squeezed its way into his relationship with the child rather understandably, considering its presence would have been hard to avoid. But with Geneva, he was given a choice. There was no blood relation to her, nor any obligation to watch over her as he'd had with Addison. Instead, Jefferson felt himself unconsciously pulled towards that olive-eyed goddess. He knew his affections for Addison well, but he didn't know how to love. The feeling was still foreign to him when it came to another adult, but the emotions that suddenly dragged his attention back to Geneva so strongly and tenderly bore similarities to the feelings he had for his adopted daughter. But... love? "Geneva," he said quietly, eye wandering up to the night sky. "What does it feel like?" Love, of course. Peace? Happiness? He could have guessed that. But he was still Jefferson, and he needed to analyze and decipher every question and every obstacle. The one-eyed man breathed comfortably against her, mind spinning infinitely though his thoughts of her stood clear.
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[html] Poem by E.B. Browning.
How could it be that he couldn't know love? It was obvious in everything that he did, in every movement he made around Addison that it lived within him. Still, he seemed to profess ignorance to the simplest, most beautiful miracle life had to offer. She did not know how to explain adequately. It was hard to find words to describe the way she felt around him. It was like trying to fight gravity.
But he still wanted an answer. He could not be content to simply accept that there was something there between them. He had to pry it apart, dissect it and try to understand. She could understand his tendency to question things. She herself was curious by nature, and could push things to the edge. Geneva sighed and smiled, before she spoke. She couldn't give him a real answer, not in her own words, not yet.
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." The lime-eyed woman smiled and pressed her fingers lightly into his shoulders. "
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace." She pressed her face against his shoulder.
"
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men might strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,–I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!–and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death." [/html]
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