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[MS] January topic
Jan. 8th, 2009 09:49 pmMy hope is on the horizon.
Every face, it's your eyes I can see.
I plead, I pray through each night and day,
Our embrace is only a dream.
[‘This Lullaby’ – Queens of the Stone Age]
Two inches across between the slats of books, from hairline to upper lip, an eye, the arch of his eyebrow, the barest hint of the curve of his cheek and the side of his nose. It's all that she's truly seen of his face, not counting the brief flashes in between and after and moments when she glance over her shoulder and could have sworn she saw him dance back into the shadows. He's never there when she tries to follow.
Already he is leading her into shadow, just to catch a glimpse of his face. They've never touched, she barely knows his name, but she can feel his obsession churning through her blood and poisoning her thoughts, turning into an obsession of her own.
Already she can see that it will lead nowhere good, or healthy, or happy for either of them. There is no possible way that it can. She is a Slayer, he's a vampire. Of what species, she isn't certain, but it shouldn't--it doesn't matter. Their very essence should sing to each other of destruction, her blood to him, his death to her. Her best option is to put a stop to it, now. Stop looking over her shoulder. Stop replying to his irritatingly anonymous remarks. Stop replaying his words in her mind to seal in the sound of his voice. She tries, she does try, she doesn't let the thoughts of him distract her when her hands are busy with work, with slaying, with mundane house chores.
Yet in the still moments, she cannot fully shut her mind down, cannot seem to keep it from attempting to piece together his features from the shreds of visual data. She doesn't dream of him...or if she does, she doesn't remember it, for every dream is lost beneath the torrential dreams of her legacy as a Slayer...but she thinks of him before she sleeps, and the thoughts that wash over her in the muddle, in-between state of waking and slumber feel like a dream.
She knows that if she could dream of him, of his voice and of his eye burning intently into hers through the slats of musty books and dust, she would.
To her peril, and possibly his as well.
Every face, it's your eyes I can see.
I plead, I pray through each night and day,
Our embrace is only a dream.
[‘This Lullaby’ – Queens of the Stone Age]
Two inches across between the slats of books, from hairline to upper lip, an eye, the arch of his eyebrow, the barest hint of the curve of his cheek and the side of his nose. It's all that she's truly seen of his face, not counting the brief flashes in between and after and moments when she glance over her shoulder and could have sworn she saw him dance back into the shadows. He's never there when she tries to follow.
Already he is leading her into shadow, just to catch a glimpse of his face. They've never touched, she barely knows his name, but she can feel his obsession churning through her blood and poisoning her thoughts, turning into an obsession of her own.
Already she can see that it will lead nowhere good, or healthy, or happy for either of them. There is no possible way that it can. She is a Slayer, he's a vampire. Of what species, she isn't certain, but it shouldn't--it doesn't matter. Their very essence should sing to each other of destruction, her blood to him, his death to her. Her best option is to put a stop to it, now. Stop looking over her shoulder. Stop replying to his irritatingly anonymous remarks. Stop replaying his words in her mind to seal in the sound of his voice. She tries, she does try, she doesn't let the thoughts of him distract her when her hands are busy with work, with slaying, with mundane house chores.
Yet in the still moments, she cannot fully shut her mind down, cannot seem to keep it from attempting to piece together his features from the shreds of visual data. She doesn't dream of him...or if she does, she doesn't remember it, for every dream is lost beneath the torrential dreams of her legacy as a Slayer...but she thinks of him before she sleeps, and the thoughts that wash over her in the muddle, in-between state of waking and slumber feel like a dream.
She knows that if she could dream of him, of his voice and of his eye burning intently into hers through the slats of musty books and dust, she would.
To her peril, and possibly his as well.
She couldn't shake the eerie feeling that she was being watched.
And it was very possible that yes, she was being watched, and simply hadn't spotted the one doing the watching yet. Either way, her anonymous admirer had either made a very good study of her, or had just lucked out with his choice of meeting places. The rare bookstore was an absolute paradise for her closet bibliophilism, but it also had a dim, mysterious sort of feel that had her constantly glancing over her shoulder, expecting someone to be breathing down her neck...or not breathing at all, she supposed, would be more accurate.
It seemed to be par for the Slayer course. You needed at least one forbidden little tryst with a vampiric suitor. Hell, in Buffy's case, there'd been two. Baileigh clearly had some catching up to do.
A wry smile touched her lips, fingertips brushing over a display of a set of Jane Austen novels that one could own for the low, low price of $8,500. Maybe her secret admirer would be kind enough to actually tell her his name. If she was lucky.
And if, she added silently, pulling out her cell phone and glancing at the time--8:52, eight minutes away from their pre-arranged meeting time--he decided to show up.
And it was very possible that yes, she was being watched, and simply hadn't spotted the one doing the watching yet. Either way, her anonymous admirer had either made a very good study of her, or had just lucked out with his choice of meeting places. The rare bookstore was an absolute paradise for her closet bibliophilism, but it also had a dim, mysterious sort of feel that had her constantly glancing over her shoulder, expecting someone to be breathing down her neck...or not breathing at all, she supposed, would be more accurate.
It seemed to be par for the Slayer course. You needed at least one forbidden little tryst with a vampiric suitor. Hell, in Buffy's case, there'd been two. Baileigh clearly had some catching up to do.
A wry smile touched her lips, fingertips brushing over a display of a set of Jane Austen novels that one could own for the low, low price of $8,500. Maybe her secret admirer would be kind enough to actually tell her his name. If she was lucky.
And if, she added silently, pulling out her cell phone and glancing at the time--8:52, eight minutes away from their pre-arranged meeting time--he decided to show up.
