i could be the reason you can't sleep at night
Flinching at the sudden jolt of electricity that flashes through the room, Flora blinks at the line of blue that lingers in her field of vision before chuckling weakly. Whether intentional or not, the reaction was about as Jack as anything else she might have expected. Immediately, she takes his hand, her fingers curling around his as if trying to anchor them both. With a groan, the queen lays down—more of a collapse than anything else—releasing a tense breath as spiderwebs of pain streak out from the once-fatal wound on her shoulder.
"Well, just get better then." Flora suggests dryly, her voice coloured by a levity that is more an attempt to trick herself into thinking things are okay. That they both hadn't just died. The humour felt hollow, as brittle as the now-cracked panes of glass on the windows, but she clung to it, hoping maybe it would hold her together a little longer.
Lifting the blanket with a groan of effort, Flora slips her head beneath the covers rather than pulling them back, craving the closeness and warmth that she only wanted from Jack. Though she tried to keep her thoughts golden and light for his sake—anything to shield him from the darkness of what they'd both endured—the images of what had happened were relentless: His fingers pressed uselessly against his stomach, the blood staining his skin, the weight of his dying body slumping into hers. They flashed before her eyes, a sickening reminder, heavy and real, pulling and snagging at her thoughts like greedy thorns.
"Jack," she croaks out his name, biting at the inside of her lip as tears spill freely down her cheeks. The tightness in her chest unfurls in jagged sobs, each breath a struggle. She presses closer, her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers still wrapped around his. "I'm so sorry," she begins to sob, her voice cracking, the words falling apart as they leave her lips. Three small words that felt woefully insufficient against the weight of it all—of quite literally having gotten him killed.
"Well, just get better then." Flora suggests dryly, her voice coloured by a levity that is more an attempt to trick herself into thinking things are okay. That they both hadn't just died. The humour felt hollow, as brittle as the now-cracked panes of glass on the windows, but she clung to it, hoping maybe it would hold her together a little longer.
Lifting the blanket with a groan of effort, Flora slips her head beneath the covers rather than pulling them back, craving the closeness and warmth that she only wanted from Jack. Though she tried to keep her thoughts golden and light for his sake—anything to shield him from the darkness of what they'd both endured—the images of what had happened were relentless: His fingers pressed uselessly against his stomach, the blood staining his skin, the weight of his dying body slumping into hers. They flashed before her eyes, a sickening reminder, heavy and real, pulling and snagging at her thoughts like greedy thorns.
"Jack," she croaks out his name, biting at the inside of her lip as tears spill freely down her cheeks. The tightness in her chest unfurls in jagged sobs, each breath a struggle. She presses closer, her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers still wrapped around his. "I'm so sorry," she begins to sob, her voice cracking, the words falling apart as they leave her lips. Three small words that felt woefully insufficient against the weight of it all—of quite literally having gotten him killed.
