EVIE
Evie knew the news would be hard regardless. She still sees their brave faces in every second blink; the first always shadowing the arc of their blood atop the walls every time she dares to close her eyes. In some ways, she’s glad he wasn’t here to see it, only receiving the news in the aftermath. Evie would never burden him with those memories. Not with how much closer he was to the Shields than she could ever imagine being.
The distance in his eyes fades into focus as she touches his cheek, and she smiles quietly at him. Even in all this loss, there is still so much to smile for. If he cannot do it himself, she will do it for him. Always. His hand on hers is a calloused, solid warmth she has missed like a stolen limb, and the ache of its loss fades the longer she revels in his return. “Of course,” she utters softly, “they are as much mine as yours now.” A spark of humor in the wake of sincerity, for all it’s worth.
There is no lust or craving to the way her eyes fall to his body as he disrobes, only a medical eye and a tenderness that flickers with the edges of amusement as Deimos discards the ruined garment carelessly on the floor. She follows at his prodding, removing her scrubs and half-heartedly rolling them up before discarding them similarly. A grimace appears as she fights to pull her ichor-laden locks through the bun she’d put her hair into, eventually snapping the tie with a grumble to free the remainder. As she pulls the next layer off - what she’d worn on the front lines - she twinges with the deep ache of the Banshee’s claws, revealing layered gossamer silver scars across her shoulder and collarbone. They don’t hurt more than a slight twinge, however, and someday she may erase these too, with time and recuperated magic. In her bra and pants, she kicks her shoes off and holds her hand out to Deimos, intent on walking them backwards towards the tub as they strip. “Your turn,” she hums quietly.
The distance in his eyes fades into focus as she touches his cheek, and she smiles quietly at him. Even in all this loss, there is still so much to smile for. If he cannot do it himself, she will do it for him. Always. His hand on hers is a calloused, solid warmth she has missed like a stolen limb, and the ache of its loss fades the longer she revels in his return. “Of course,” she utters softly, “they are as much mine as yours now.” A spark of humor in the wake of sincerity, for all it’s worth.
There is no lust or craving to the way her eyes fall to his body as he disrobes, only a medical eye and a tenderness that flickers with the edges of amusement as Deimos discards the ruined garment carelessly on the floor. She follows at his prodding, removing her scrubs and half-heartedly rolling them up before discarding them similarly. A grimace appears as she fights to pull her ichor-laden locks through the bun she’d put her hair into, eventually snapping the tie with a grumble to free the remainder. As she pulls the next layer off - what she’d worn on the front lines - she twinges with the deep ache of the Banshee’s claws, revealing layered gossamer silver scars across her shoulder and collarbone. They don’t hurt more than a slight twinge, however, and someday she may erase these too, with time and recuperated magic. In her bra and pants, she kicks her shoes off and holds her hand out to Deimos, intent on walking them backwards towards the tub as they strip. “Your turn,” she hums quietly.
Don't look up, just let them think
There's no place else you'd rather be
There's no place else you'd rather be
