COLT
I've been sleeping wide awake
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore
Slow dancing 'round the cracks in the floorboards
Fighting myself while lying in a
Bed I made and can't ignore
That he doesn't mind fulfilling the offer doesn't surprise her, but a quiet, unbidden streak of delight rises all the same. His sweater is larger and soft, although potentially too warm in her nest of blankets and fireside seating. It also looks more worn, a sign he favors it, she might even recognize it if she thinks back, though her focus is usually on the expressions he wears rather than the fabric. The black shirt seems more of a suitable replacement, and what's tight on him might not be so fitted on her, though where he's got height she's got chest. Something ordinary, that he wouldn't miss, that she might not even remember belonged to him when she looks at it weeks later.
One edge of her lips twitch in response as her attention settles on the smirk he extends just as readily. "That'll do just fine," she decides, one hand tugging off her torn tank top, bare chest on display. She's wandering through enough self-created hell, she'd not be bothering to add bras into the mix too. Chucking it towards the door, she leans in and plucks up the cableknit sweater. She slips into it like a fresh breath, some of his warmth still lingering along with the smell of sea salt and oil, a hint of basil and some peppermint. It slouches against her collarbone, consumes most of her hands, and hides the start of her waistline, long and a touch too big, but just right. "Even steven," she announces, regathering her hair from the neckline and loosely tying it back again.
When they drift into champagne and rum, she shrugs faintly at his question. "This, usually." Her gaze flicks towards the living room where the fire roars over the backs of dogs that have resettled after all the excitement of his arrival. "My late husband passed during LongNight, some years back," she explains with a quiet, aching sort of exhale that hurts where it brushes past her ribs. She'd chosen the extra dark so it'd be easier to get him in the pasture with the bull. Lack of light made it simple to blame the unlocked gate and the position of him there. A poor stock of oil that year, tragically, and an extra snowstorm to boot. "Used to party, now I mourn." She'd been able to play the grieving widow when it'd been fresh, but the year after, laughing and strolling among the gathered crowds had earned a lot of scorn. She realized she'd have to miss him every year, otherwise it looked strange. Maybe it stopped mattering eventually, but by then it had become habit, and it's easier to escape all the anniversary apologies by holing up here. She did grieve, just not the death of him, not the sort that put him in the dirt anyway.
One arm curls around her side, holding herself up, keeping other parts in with the pressure. Her other one gestures to what he has to look forward to here, and she wouldn't blame him one bit for not wanting it. It's part of why the capture of her hand is so surprising, breath shortening as her head turns, gaze sliding from the shadows back to him. She shifts with the slow and steady pull, not much fight left in her right now. Sinking against his chest feels better than the sad couch, but she knows where every pain point lives on the latter, and she knows the cushions can bear her. What she told him the day he asked for her time still holds as true now as it did then.
As he starts to speak she tilts her head to the side, an ear pressing in against the faint hum of his heart, where she can hear the words build up before he lets them loose. Her fingers curl tighter in the shell of his touch. Selfishly, she wants to tell him to stay. Maybe if she didn't spend these terribly long nights all alone, she'd stop worrying old hurt enough to let it fade away. That's just a maybe though. She might drag him down into the grunge of it all in the process, and if she has to mourn anything else she's not sure she'll manage. Though if anyone could survive the dark, it'd be him.
She doesn't answer. Isn't sure what might come out if she puts sound to it. Instead she turns out of his embrace, loathe as it feels to do so, but that's not her response either. She keeps the fold of their hands, and now it's her pulling him, leading him the couple feet from the entryway to her kitchen. "Have a drink, at least," she says with the quiet of someone who's only had echoes to talk to for a bit. A return of his bid for time. "Then make up your mind, about whether or not this is a bad time," she says with a lingering glance back at him while she busies herself making a glass.
One edge of her lips twitch in response as her attention settles on the smirk he extends just as readily. "That'll do just fine," she decides, one hand tugging off her torn tank top, bare chest on display. She's wandering through enough self-created hell, she'd not be bothering to add bras into the mix too. Chucking it towards the door, she leans in and plucks up the cableknit sweater. She slips into it like a fresh breath, some of his warmth still lingering along with the smell of sea salt and oil, a hint of basil and some peppermint. It slouches against her collarbone, consumes most of her hands, and hides the start of her waistline, long and a touch too big, but just right. "Even steven," she announces, regathering her hair from the neckline and loosely tying it back again.
When they drift into champagne and rum, she shrugs faintly at his question. "This, usually." Her gaze flicks towards the living room where the fire roars over the backs of dogs that have resettled after all the excitement of his arrival. "My late husband passed during LongNight, some years back," she explains with a quiet, aching sort of exhale that hurts where it brushes past her ribs. She'd chosen the extra dark so it'd be easier to get him in the pasture with the bull. Lack of light made it simple to blame the unlocked gate and the position of him there. A poor stock of oil that year, tragically, and an extra snowstorm to boot. "Used to party, now I mourn." She'd been able to play the grieving widow when it'd been fresh, but the year after, laughing and strolling among the gathered crowds had earned a lot of scorn. She realized she'd have to miss him every year, otherwise it looked strange. Maybe it stopped mattering eventually, but by then it had become habit, and it's easier to escape all the anniversary apologies by holing up here. She did grieve, just not the death of him, not the sort that put him in the dirt anyway.
One arm curls around her side, holding herself up, keeping other parts in with the pressure. Her other one gestures to what he has to look forward to here, and she wouldn't blame him one bit for not wanting it. It's part of why the capture of her hand is so surprising, breath shortening as her head turns, gaze sliding from the shadows back to him. She shifts with the slow and steady pull, not much fight left in her right now. Sinking against his chest feels better than the sad couch, but she knows where every pain point lives on the latter, and she knows the cushions can bear her. What she told him the day he asked for her time still holds as true now as it did then.
As he starts to speak she tilts her head to the side, an ear pressing in against the faint hum of his heart, where she can hear the words build up before he lets them loose. Her fingers curl tighter in the shell of his touch. Selfishly, she wants to tell him to stay. Maybe if she didn't spend these terribly long nights all alone, she'd stop worrying old hurt enough to let it fade away. That's just a maybe though. She might drag him down into the grunge of it all in the process, and if she has to mourn anything else she's not sure she'll manage. Though if anyone could survive the dark, it'd be him.
She doesn't answer. Isn't sure what might come out if she puts sound to it. Instead she turns out of his embrace, loathe as it feels to do so, but that's not her response either. She keeps the fold of their hands, and now it's her pulling him, leading him the couple feet from the entryway to her kitchen. "Have a drink, at least," she says with the quiet of someone who's only had echoes to talk to for a bit. A return of his bid for time. "Then make up your mind, about whether or not this is a bad time," she says with a lingering glance back at him while she busies herself making a glass.
I'm tired of running from the conversations
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again
Screaming in the silence, all alone
I'm frustrated, I can't take it
But I'll fake it, then I'll hate myself again
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
