oflovrs

[oflovrs]

She had many of her mothers attributes. Her eyes, her cunning, the curve of her mouth when brims pulled downward into a pout. Much like her mother’s ambition, she very seldom hadn’t gotten her way should she merely ask for it. Grown between brothers and brawn, and love she could only imagine to hold between her hands one day. But her heart? Her heart was her father’s. Poetic, longing, an ache that lingered much beyond her own stubbornness. Her father’s soft hands, that cradled edges like feathers. Her father’s endurance, and on her tongue? His stories. Stories that were strung together on warm nights in Dorne, where she spent summers and drank their wine alongside her brothers, while Olyver left for Kingslanding. It broke her heart, each season that shifted from Spring into longer evenings and brighter days. She would be without him for three moon cycles, it was the way it had always been.

Now, she grew warm for another that had the same lull behind his words that reminded her of the city. One that she couldn’t place, nor had she wanted to— she was willing to let it be what it was. Passings in the summer. Ships fated to cross but to never meet at the same dock for very long. Until she knew of his name now, and not the name he’d given her the summer before, but one that held history woven between fingertips long prior to her existence even being a thought of birth. When he approached her, as he had long summer days before — she’ll tilt her chin. Violet irises, some of which she shared with not only her mother but her siblings, cast aside their maker’s stubbornness. Irritation lulled heavy on her tongue, and she pried with the goblet in her hand as she swished the wine from one rim to the other. “I am sore with you.” She hadn’t of cared if he were Lannister, should he have told her before. Had he not kept it from her, as if she were unworthy of the knowledge? Was he afraid of her judgement? Did he simply not find her worthy of the truth?

[oflovrs]

He attempts to hide the smirk threatening to claw to the corner of his mouth, a cigarette plucked between his teeth unlit as blue trail forward towards the coven that had called their meeting. Though, he’s only half listening. His attention instead is peered momentarily to the woman sitting across from him as her elders spoke of the extending the bounds of their treaty, as hunters and blood suckers closed in on the southern covens, burning their people in flames as this world continued to take with hands clad in iron. Blues are shifted down to her jaw, and the cross of her legs as her gaze avoids his as if they hadn’t spent far too many full moons now, beneath the same valley of treetops and his home that had never been open to outsides before. How she avoids his gaze as the elder speaks, as if she hadn’t been in his bed the night prior. It does him well not to think on the wants of a man, or wolf, given the circumstances of the pack. His father sits to his side, and Alecor’s hand draped loosely against the chair as fingertips tapped. The pack stirs within themselves, voices getting lost as they spoke and it all blended into one thing — noise. Chatter. His father looks to him, a man who has been Alpha of the Eclipse pack most of his adult life. A man who grew tired with age, and grey as the years passed. Soon, he would take place as leader of their people, and all the problems that came with it. The witches, and hunters, and blood suckers being the tip of it.

Alecor peels his gaze from the woman, and instead leans forward as he plucks the cigarette from his mouth and rests hands atop his knees as his body moves with him. Blues peered upward at the elder witch, and when he speaks the rest of the pack silences. They had their own wants, their own agreements that came in tune with protecting the coven. Some wished to shift at will. Others not at all. Some just wanted to be rid of the pain, of feeling as bones contort and mutate against their own nature. Especially the young, who were still learning to control it. The young, who still only felt the agony of what a full moon brought, and not the freedom. He wasn’t going to argue with them, he had been young. He had felt the pain. Endured. If he could prevent them from having to— then he would, so he had. But now they were asking for more. “The northern mountainside have belonged to wolf territory since it’s natives forged these lands. Our people are worried, that you continue to barter, that their home and the only valley of safety for our people may become a place of war, and bloodshed, should we move your coven to our sacred lands. You can’t expect us to continue to hold our end of the bargain if you continue to add to it. New regulations need to be set in place.” He leans back into the chair now, glimpsing at his father who nods. “Should we bring the coven to the northern maintain side, we ask for a barrier to be placed around the surrounding area. And magic when outside the northern mountain side barrier be restricted— until further notice. Our people are unwilling to continue to bleed, if your witches rituals are leading the damned to us.”

[oflovrs]

He was no stranger to the lull of beauty, and how it lingered in the room. However, he spent many nights alone in travels, where taverns such of these provide him the most of his company. Little did he wish to marry, as he did to travel. In doing so, he was well taught to not burrow himself in every maiden that fair blinked in his approval. And this one, she strikes like a vipers bite, and he does not falter from its hiss, but rather his smile stretches with a quiet nod. “Yes,” he begins his voice hummed and slightly gravel in the back of his throat with the accent of the winter skies. “Liars, the lot of us.” However his tone is light, amused even. Alecor does not speak much in elegance, as someone from a title might have spoke. He as well, does not fear the point of fangs, nor does he mind when they graze his skin. Normally, when given contract, outside of taverns and warm nights as the sun sets beyond sand horizons, he was far more stoic. Far more aware. Far less .. captivated by the pleasures of wine, and women. However, tonight he allows the brush of violet eyes, and the simmer that cast with the flutter of dark lashes upon velvet cheeks.

He’ll take a long sip from the cup, before acknowledging her answer. Though, blues spark with fever, and they subtly lift along the curve of her jaw, or the draping of the dress she wore. However, he did not linger. He did not boast or ravish with his eyes, only feigning quiet interest. As if he was setting it across the table and allowing her to do with what she wished. His smile though, rises to the corners of his jaw and ticked there beneath the muscle. “Clever,” he adds with a raise of his brows. See, he had no intention of weaving a fable that would be difficult for her to untangle. In fact, he quite enjoys her closeness, the bold press of brims and how they stained flushed with the promise of dornish wine. “The dragon and the wolf unmistaken, fall in love, and in that love between two beings, shifts the balance of time. Nature bows in quest to their devotion.” His chin tilts, and there’s the faintest smirk nestled against the corner of his mouth now. “As sunlight cast itself through the morning dew of the forest, man then fall back on their swords, and word travels amongst the kingdom. The dragon was no dragon at all, but cursed to live until another creature bestows upon it love unyielded.” He leans forward a bit on his forearms, as if to tell her a secret, as his voice notches an octave lower. “And swiftly, the dragon becomes the lamb, as it lays with the wolf.” There’s a faint hum, and he leans back again, pulling wine to brims and flickering blues to violets over the rim of his cup. “And the wolf if no wolf at all—“ There’s amusement in his tone now. Lifted, light, voice a little echoed between the bottom of his cup. “He is a fox.”

So while she did guess a fraction of the story, the ending was not what was branded on stained lips, and he can’t help but smile. It’s a gentle kind of brimming, one not expected of a man who bore scars deeper than that of knives and swords for hire. “Must I?” He asks, and he sets the empty cup down now, his frame shifting so that he may look at her directly now. “That was not part of our deal, but perhaps I am willing to strike a new— your company, for my name.” Blues shift behind her only momentarily to the friend she’d mentioned briefly, who nearly buckled the moment his gaze met with hers. “Have you decided, what it is you will tell your companion of my stories?” His chin tilts a bit as his gaze is returned to her. “Or should you wish to hear more of them tonight?”

There was the faint hum of the tavern song, drifted between the low rumbles of speech and the crackling fire that sat in the midst of the stone walls to keep warm. Still, he had shed his coat, revealing most just cotton tunic beneath. He’d binds too much cloth for the south, each piece peeled off and lingered in his bought room, as the days stretched on. The days were longer, the sun stretched over valleys of sand and sea, and in the moments of early dawn, or twilight, when the stars kissed the sun— he doesn’t miss the north. That in itself should have spoke volumes for the people of the south. He’d been hired as a sword for the city, under the guise of coin. And while the coin did lead him, his adventure far and wide from his home of cold mountain tops.. it was not the only reason for travel. He did not wish to marry, he did not wish to rule. Alas, that feat was bestowed upon his eldest brother, for now. While his youngest, was traveling summers between the north and kings landing.

He’s halfway into a sip from the goblet that rests against his palms, his voice bellowing in laughter as the barkeep fills his drink. They speak of the woods, of the men that hired him that could barely wield a sword, let alone lift one above their shoulders. But his gaze, quietly, occasionally, feels the lull of a viper. The barkeep will nod his head, and blues will cast out over his shoulder, finding that of violet and brimstone. When he turns back to the keep, his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek to keep the smirk from resting beneath the twitch of his jaw. She was stunning— as women within Dorne quite are. But she was more so, unlike the women he’d met through his travels. She was the kind of beauty, that hung stars and whisked stories of old gods falling in love with mortal women. Though, he fears beauty like that will ruin a man. And he’s willingly cast himself into the sun, for a moment of orbit.

When she approaches, his chin tilts in quiet studying silence. The corners of his lips threatened to twitch upwards, but instead it was the faint amusement in his eyes as she drawls forward with a game. A brow lifts, and he finally speaks when she’s done. “Aye? Are your purse straps deep enough, my love?” There’s a faint smirk now, lingering against the corners of his mouth as his body has already warmed from the wine. Still, he’s in good standing. “Though perhaps,” she leans forward and his eyes drawl down to take her in as she does so. “I am incredibly skilled with the art of tongue.” He pulls back, his hands drumming a bit on the wood before he decides to play. “Along the mountaintops, there was a wolf, smallest of the pack. His fur was auburn, and touched by the sun unlike his brothers, whose coats blend seamlessly into the harsh winters.” Blues shift to her now as he speaks, leaning against the wood as he spoke with his hands, one still holding the cup. “One summer, the wolf grew tired of the cold. And he ventures out into the world, where he blends amongst the forest and the animals that lived within it. Vast and unyielding. Until, he’s met with a dragon.” His chin tilts, his gaze shifting along the curve of dainty collarbones, before back to her. “Now this dragon, she bears no teeth nor claw, and she lingers in the forest amongst the other creatures, saddled by man and locked away at night. The wolf, smallest of his pack, slips through the bars of her cage.” It’s then when he drawls back. “What becomes of the wolf, Lady Dayne?” Yes, he knew of her— that part he’d kept out, kept hidden between a silver tongue and a story of strangers. But the keep had spilled her name, only moments before her arrival to his side.

[oflovrs]

She nods a bit, her demeanor softer under the faint hum of the music shifting tempo. “I am.” She adds, as if it’s certain. Then he asks if she can try something, and she’s hesitant a little at first— until he asks if she would do it for him, and something in her stirs. It’s alive, not like a wire or warmth. It’s subtle, just lingering beneath the surface of her chest, snuck beneath a few of her ribs that’d they’d given to create more. But she lingers, and then she nods again. There’s a faint shift of their feet, and he twirls her just to pull her in closer. She’s not sure what he’s going to ask, but she can hear the faint thrum of hesitancy in his voice. Like he was weighing out how to say it, or maybe how to ask it. Whether he should. When he finally does, her gaze blinks back at him. “It feels like..” The words drift off a little, and she’s unsure. She’s uncertain of a lot. “Have you ever had a really vivid dream? Like, you’re living it. And it’s so vivid, and feels so real, that when you wake up— you feel as if it was. You feel, scared or you miss it, like it was something you lived. Something that was taken. As if, you lived another life in your sleep. And then reality starts to flicker away that feeling, and it feels like.. not you.. but also not entirely a dream.” She’s not sure if she’s making sense. “I don’t feel like a continuation.” There’s a breath. “I feel like I knew her. Like she was a part of me, but not entirely. I remember.. what it felt like to be in love.. I remember what it felt like to have children.. and how it feels like it’s not mine. Not really. But I also feel like.. she liked things, that I don’t. She wanted things, that I didn’t. Some things she had, I want. So— I don’t really know what that means.” Or if it answers his question at all.

They’re a little closer now, and his voice pulls her back to the topic now changing slightly. His laugh lulls her from all her thoughts, and her gaze shifted to the way his eyes slightly crinkled when he did. And he asks what she thinks of him, and she shakes her head a bit. “No, not at all.” She answers honestly. “I think you care about things you believe in, loudly.” Whether his voice was quiet, or blunt, it didn’t matter. “I think we’re pretty similar in that way, actually.” The truth of the matter is, she doesn’t have a lot to go on. She has their conversations. She has the long hours spent listening and watching. And she knows— one thing for sure— he was one of the few that didn’t treat her like she was a means to end end. Like she was only here with the purpose of one thing. The cure. Whether that was intentional on his end, or just the simple fact of being left in close quarters together— or if it was just her, entirely. She doesn’t know. But she knows that she feels a little warmer when he’s around, in comparison. She knows that she hates tea, but drinks it anyways so that he’ll stay and talk a little longer.

“If.” She says with a small smile curling into the corner of her lips, because she doesn’t believe for a second, that he believes that. But she doesn’t press, or try to force it, or make him see anything. Who was she to talk about souls, anyways? He shifts, her eyes were over his shoulder as she wasn’t looking at anything in particular. But his hands coax hers upwards, arms over his shoulders and her chest stammers quickly. Quicker than she thought it would have, considering. She hadn’t expected the warmth, or the slight hum of pink on the tops of cheeks or bridge of her nose. They’re closed now, his hands coax hers shifts down to her waist, and she feels suddenly— a benign flutter in her chest. No, a buzzing. Like humming birds. He talks about a book, and her gaze can’t help but flicker over to him. Listening intently this time— not speaking as she tries to steady the newfound rhythm in her heart’s drum. “It sounds like a good book..” She says faintly, they’re close enough now that she doesn’t need to speak very loudly.

Her eyes find his again, and her arms were loosely around his shoulders, and she looks away— only briefly, as if her thoughts were chasing his words trying to keep up. Muscle memory causes her hands to gently clasp together, against the nape of his neck where they briefly, ever so slightly, brush against dark curls that lingered there. Not intentionally, but it might as well have been. She shifts back to him, feeling the intense lull of his gaze, or his smile, that has her matching his. The corners of her mouth shift, kissing the edges of a smile that brightens up dark irises. “Why not? Can I not bend the rules for my own gain?” Her voice is teasing now, barely playful and soft. But then he asks where she would begin, and she shakes her head a little. “It’s hard to think about.. because .. I wouldn’t be here if the world hadn’t ended..” There’s a quietness in her voice now. “Sometimes I think of what I would have been like, before. I would want to begin in.. New York. I’d want to see the city alive. Feel it moving around me. I’d want to meet someone, and get my heart broke just to feel it, and then fall in love again because you just can’t help it.” The words linger a bit. “Maybe when we fix the world, I can go to the beach, and see the ocean. I’d really want to see the ocean.” She decides, planning for after they saved a world she didn’t destroy. Her gaze shifts, and her throat bobs just an inch. The closeness was almost palpable now. “Where would you put me in yours?”

She doesn’t quite mean to, but her fingertips gently padded circles against the nape of his neck, against where curls had no business being gently threaded through fingertips absentmindedly. “Do you ever think about what you’ll do after?” After the fire, after the cure, after everything has fallen apart just to be rebuilt again. “Would you study again?” Her voice curious, soft. “Would you go somewhere else?”

Happiness is subjective. If they knew that he was sitting here, discussing the meaning of life and people and what drives them, what they feel, they might call him mad. She suspects he’s been thrown words around like crazy, all his life. In theory, she remembers a childhood. She remembers a small town, and falling in love with a boy when she was sixteen. She remembers getting married, and having her first child. She remembers the morning sickness, and the feeling of something growing inside of her. But when her hand briefly touches her stomach, unmarred and untouched— she knows it’s not hers. And there’s a deep ache there, like a mother without a child. A mother, without something to love. And God, did she have enough of it. So much warmth inside her, that it pillowed at her fingertips, and spilled over. And yet, she was alone here. Except for him— and the others, a young solider who one day never came back.

Some days, Ronald will let her sit outside the chambers where the others were. Sometimes, she would talk to them. One in particular, she would read to. C05 — a young woman who Ronald said was the likely going to be the last of them to wake up. He wouldn’t tell her much more about her, only from what Esme could imagine. But she looked so young, and timid in dreams, like she was just sleeping. Waiting. And while Esme doesn’t remember being in the chamber, she doesn’t want them to feel alone. And so, she reads to her. On rare days when the labs were busy poking and prodding, and bruising her arms with constant needles. She didn’t mind it so much, those days. “You’d be surprised,” her voice felt like honey. “I’m pretty easy to impress.” And she doesn’t go into detail, she just lets it sit there between them.

“I like to think there’s a little bit of soul leftover, even after the ends.” She says with a small shrug of her shoulders. “It makes everything a little bit easier, sometimes too, knowing things will end, or begin again. I mean, that’s kind of the whole point of this right? Find a cure, save the world, it’s nearly poetic— if you were a sadist.” The last part is a joke, a quiet tease on the end of her breath. Because she knew, there was no poetry in the world today. In the outside. But, God, did she want to see it for herself. She wanted to step out into the grass, feel the wind, even if it was just for a second. Maybe that’s why she liked the solider. He was standing offish at first, always standing straight and following her around like she might step into a pit or the floor might swallow her up, and the cure to the world would be loss in the abyss. But the longer he watched, the more she spoke to him even when he didn’t speak back, the softer his shoulders got. Then came the stories. The way he told her, that one day soon when the others woke up— they would go outside. And he would take her. Show her how to make shapes out of the clouds, how to build a fire, how to protect herself when the time came. And then, one day, he was gone. And she didn’t love him, but she was fond of him, of the companionship. Maybe she could have, had they been given a little more time. But that’s the thing, right? There was never enough of it. Even in Eden.

She listens, half heartedly as her mind wondered. He explains the science behind emotions, and she nods. “I think you could dissect all the reasons why we feel, or act, but it doesn’t really explain the root of it in the moment. The ache in your chest when something a little too heavy sits there. The way your fingers warm, when it stammers just a little bit.” Her eyes glance to his hands, and the way he wipes them on jeans, and the way he stammers. And she realizes, everyone was human, even him. “It must be really tiring to always remember everything.” She breathes, but it’s more to herself than anything. When he says he hasn’t touched other factors, she laughs a little. You interest me, she wanted to say, but she doesn’t. “Does it interest you?” She says instead, and it sounds vaguely the same.

When he looks at the photograph, or a few trinkets, and hums— her heart stammers a little. She’s expecting him to say something to agree with them, but he doesn’t. He just asks her why she collects things, and she lets out a small shrug and a sigh. “I think I just don’t want them to be forgotten.” Maybe she, doesn’t want to be forgotten. When he says they haven’t given her much to attach to, she nods a bit. Agreeing, but doesn’t say anything at first. “It’s okay.” She finally says, after a moment. “There’s always tomorrow.” Then he stands. And her chest sinks a little, because she knows what’s coming. Their tea time was over, and she would be left with her thoughts and empty walls, and she’d read her book again— trying to quiet the echo of machines. Maybe tomorrow he’d bring her something else, a different story. A different book.

But then— he moves in the direction of the corner of the room. And the sound of a record being put into scratch, causes her gaze to snap up. Confusion contorts at her brows, and she recognizes it as Jazz but she doesn’t know the song. It’s slow, though. And she pushes herself up to her feet, nearly bumping into the coffee table. “I don’t—“ Her brows furrowed. She does know how to dance. A memory from the source she’d never seen before, briefly flicker into her head. Her and a man, they were so young, dancing in an even smaller kitchen. “Okay.” It’s quiet, and she moves towards him. Hesitant at first as she glances at his open palm, but she takes it anyways. That was the thing, she might not have been very strong— not yet. But she was brave, and the universe listened to brave. Her digits slipped between his, and he leads, and it’s slow but not too close. Brown eyes flickered up to cast across his face, the way shadows softly touched the edge of his jaw, the faint scar that lingered on his cheek. But then she pulls her gaze behind him, over his shoulder. “So.. if were going to play your game.. the what if game.. where would you put me?” Her brows raised, a small furrow of curiosity in her features as her voice lowered just a notch softer. “Where would you rewrite me?”

[oflovrs]

Was he worried? Of course he was worried. His worry plagued him more nights than not. But he wasn’t like her, he didn’t allow himself to sit and think of the matters. Because what would that do? It’d distract him. It’d make impossible choices all the more difficult. But when she smiles, he relaxes a bit more. His shoulders less tense, and he nods a bit. “Well with that attitude, who else is going to put up with you for the rest of their lives?” The words aren’t pointed. They were normal, like they were easy. Like being around her had always been easy. And to be honest, maybe in another life they were soulmates. Maybe they were in this one too. “Though we’ll have to find somewhere with a king sized bed. You sleep like a rock, you know.” And she cuddles like one with elbows. Sharp elbows. Funny how something so small could take up so much damn space, too. “I’d say separate beds but you’re too clingy.” It’s smirked a little, nudging her with his arm slightly. “North is better. But— when your dad an I were stationed over in Arizona, it was hot as fuck— but nothing can survive there. Maybe the parasites are the same. The animals are too far into the dessert, and we can figure out a way to grow our own food so long as we find a good water source. Maybe a house with a well..” He’s glancing off behind her to where the others were, when she mentioned the division and stirs her, his hand on her back as he moves them to a more private area of the kitchen, in the back. “The clones shouldn’t know much about the Adam Division, they were too involved with Eden, but— it’s better if we avoid them entirely. If there’s a confrontation, they’ll kill everyone but the clones. If they show up, you run. Alright? We’ll think of a place to meet, and I’ll find you there after.”

There’s a quiet resolve shifting in his chest. She can barely get the words out, but he knows what she’s asking. He knew for a long time, she didn’t believe in the cure. And fuck, maybe he didn’t either. Maybe he didn’t believe in anything but what he knew. Maybe it was just duty. Maybe he had been in the military, stuck in this world so damn long, that he was just moving through what he thought was right. But he can hear the reserve in her voice, and his jaw twitches slightly when she says to forget her dad. He understands, the bitterness. He understands what it’s like to lose someone because of someone else. God, she was nothing like his sister was. And he wishes— that he got more time with her. But she died before the apocalypse had even begun, before the hallow, before any of it. She was sick, and he doesn’t know which was worse— living in this world, or watching someone you love slowly fade away from it. She hugs him and his arms lift at first, unsure what to do with the bulk of them, before they’re gently wrapped around her and patted against her back. And then he holds her quietly for a moment, in his own thoughts. When he pulls back his hands are on her shoulders. “If you wanted a lavender marriage, harp— you just gotta’ ask.” He muses, trying to lighten the air, his tongue a little too quick with its quips. And he nods a bit. “We get them half way. We come back to this, if you still want to go — then we’ll go. Alright? There’s plenty of farms or towns like this— we could make do.” He’ll give her shoulder a small squeeze. “But I have to at least try.”

[oflovrs]

There was the faint hum of the tavern song, drifted between the low rumbles of speech and the crackling fire that sat in the midst of the stone walls to keep warm. Still, he had shed his coat, revealing most just cotton tunic beneath. He’d binds too much cloth for the south, each piece peeled off and lingered in his bought room, as the days stretched on. The days were longer, the sun stretched over valleys of sand and sea, and in the moments of early dawn, or twilight, when the stars kissed the sun— he doesn’t miss the north. That in itself should have spoke volumes for the people of the south. He’d been hired as a sword for the city, under the guise of coin. And while the coin did lead him, his adventure far and wide from his home of cold mountain tops.. it was not the only reason for travel. He did not wish to marry, he did not wish to rule. Alas, that feat was bestowed upon his eldest brother, for now. While his youngest, was traveling summers between the north and kings landing.

He’s halfway into a sip from the goblet that rests against his palms, his voice bellowing in laughter as the barkeep fills his drink. They speak of the woods, of the men that hired him that could barely wield a sword, let alone lift one above their shoulders. But his gaze, quietly, occasionally, feels the lull of a viper. The barkeep will nod his head, and blues will cast out over his shoulder, finding that of violet and brimstone. When he turns back to the keep, his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek to keep the smirk from resting beneath the twitch of his jaw. She was stunning— as women within Dorne quite are. But she was more so, unlike the women he’d met through his travels. She was the kind of beauty, that hung stars and whisked stories of old gods falling in love with mortal women. Though, he fears beauty like that will ruin a man. And he’s willingly cast himself into the sun, for a moment of orbit.

When she approaches, his chin tilts in quiet studying silence. The corners of his lips threatened to twitch upwards, but instead it was the faint amusement in his eyes as she drawls forward with a game. A brow lifts, and he finally speaks when she’s done. “Aye? Are your purse straps deep enough, my love?” There’s a faint smirk now, lingering against the corners of his mouth as his body has already warmed from the wine. Still, he’s in good standing. “Though perhaps,” she leans forward and his eyes drawl down to take her in as she does so. “I am incredibly skilled with the art of tongue.” He pulls back, his hands drumming a bit on the wood before he decides to play. “Along the mountaintops, there was a wolf, smallest of the pack. His fur was auburn, and touched by the sun unlike his brothers, whose coats blend seamlessly into the harsh winters.” Blues shift to her now as he speaks, leaning against the wood as he spoke with his hands, one still holding the cup. “One summer, the wolf grew tired of the cold. And he ventures out into the world, where he blends amongst the forest and the animals that lived within it. Vast and unyielding. Until, he’s met with a dragon.” His chin tilts, his gaze shifting along the curve of dainty collarbones, before back to her. “Now this dragon, she bears no teeth nor claw, and she lingers in the forest amongst the other creatures, saddled by man and locked away at night. The wolf, smallest of his pack, slips through the bars of her cage.” It’s then when he drawls back. “What becomes of the wolf, Lady Dayne?” Yes, he knew of her— that part he’d kept out, kept hidden between a silver tongue and a story of strangers. But the keep had spilled her name, only moments before her arrival to his side.

closed for @kupids .

she had never seen such a mesmerising blue before. not on the glittering stretches of the summer sea, nor the brilliantly azure skies of dorne -- none had captivated her, as much as this stranger's gaze had. ashara had seen him frequent the tavern before, had begun to be hopeful for glimpses of him, whenever she would attend after dusk, and long, gruelling days of work. a healer's work was never done, but she did love to tend to those who needed it most, and offered gratitude that warmed her being and fulfilled her with the very sense of purpose she sought. it was also work that struck her to the bone, endless hours on her feet, raw anguish in patients that kept her restless for nights to come. spiced wine was a welcome tonic, for soul and body, lulling troubling thoughts and steering them towards conversation, song, dance.

she had been listening, the timbre of his voice enough to quicken a heartbeat -- svelte fingers curled around a half-drank cup, as she made her way to his table at an opportune moment, after companions dispersed to seek other pleasures. "i have a proposal for you, if you're in the market for such things." she took a moment, to acknowledge sitting opposite him -- took in fair hair and beard, those spellbinding blues, the smile that dipped into cheeks. there was something so warming, so very inviting, to his features. not of dorne, not by looks nor speech, and she longed to know more. "i will buy you a drink, provided you can tell me a story and let me guess its ending before you finish your tale. if my guess is wrong, i will treat you to said drink. if it is correct, you must delve into your coin purse for more wine."

index finger she dragged along the rim of her cup, finding herself smiling, wide enough to reflect in the violet pools of her eyes. ashara turned her attention to the group she'd left, nodding to a woman, who watched both curiously. "my friend is rather taken by your legends. i told her i suspect you're a charlatan who steals stories from others, and embellishes them, for amusement. and attention, evidently."

when eyes found his once more, she leaned forward, hovering closer to his warmth, where she could smell sweetness of wine, and something even more enticing. "should you lie, and conjure a different ending after i have correctly guessed it... well, that would make you a rather talented charlatan." pearly whites split into a grin, attention trailing to his lips, then to his gaze again. "i will know truth from lie, raconteur."

[oflovrs]

Happiness is subjective. If they knew that he was sitting here, discussing the meaning of life and people and what drives them, what they feel, they might call him mad. She suspects he’s been thrown words around like crazy, all his life. In theory, she remembers a childhood. She remembers a small town, and falling in love with a boy when she was sixteen. She remembers getting married, and having her first child. She remembers the morning sickness, and the feeling of something growing inside of her. But when her hand briefly touches her stomach, unmarred and untouched— she knows it’s not hers. And there’s a deep ache there, like a mother without a child. A mother, without something to love. And God, did she have enough of it. So much warmth inside her, that it pillowed at her fingertips, and spilled over. And yet, she was alone here. Except for him— and the others, a young solider who one day never came back.

Some days, Ronald will let her sit outside the chambers where the others were. Sometimes, she would talk to them. One in particular, she would read to. C05 — a young woman who Ronald said was the likely going to be the last of them to wake up. He wouldn’t tell her much more about her, only from what Esme could imagine. But she looked so young, and timid in dreams, like she was just sleeping. Waiting. And while Esme doesn’t remember being in the chamber, she doesn’t want them to feel alone. And so, she reads to her. On rare days when the labs were busy poking and prodding, and bruising her arms with constant needles. She didn’t mind it so much, those days. “You’d be surprised,” her voice felt like honey. “I’m pretty easy to impress.” And she doesn’t go into detail, she just lets it sit there between them.

“I like to think there’s a little bit of soul leftover, even after the ends.” She says with a small shrug of her shoulders. “It makes everything a little bit easier, sometimes too, knowing things will end, or begin again. I mean, that’s kind of the whole point of this right? Find a cure, save the world, it’s nearly poetic— if you were a sadist.” The last part is a joke, a quiet tease on the end of her breath. Because she knew, there was no poetry in the world today. In the outside. But, God, did she want to see it for herself. She wanted to step out into the grass, feel the wind, even if it was just for a second. Maybe that’s why she liked the solider. He was standing offish at first, always standing straight and following her around like she might step into a pit or the floor might swallow her up, and the cure to the world would be loss in the abyss. But the longer he watched, the more she spoke to him even when he didn’t speak back, the softer his shoulders got. Then came the stories. The way he told her, that one day soon when the others woke up— they would go outside. And he would take her. Show her how to make shapes out of the clouds, how to build a fire, how to protect herself when the time came. And then, one day, he was gone. And she didn’t love him, but she was fond of him, of the companionship. Maybe she could have, had they been given a little more time. But that’s the thing, right? There was never enough of it. Even in Eden.

She listens, half heartedly as her mind wondered. He explains the science behind emotions, and she nods. “I think you could dissect all the reasons why we feel, or act, but it doesn’t really explain the root of it in the moment. The ache in your chest when something a little too heavy sits there. The way your fingers warm, when it stammers just a little bit.” Her eyes glance to his hands, and the way he wipes them on jeans, and the way he stammers. And she realizes, everyone was human, even him. “It must be really tiring to always remember everything.” She breathes, but it’s more to herself than anything. When he says he hasn’t touched other factors, she laughs a little. You interest me, she wanted to say, but she doesn’t. “Does it interest you?” She says instead, and it sounds vaguely the same.

When he looks at the photograph, or a few trinkets, and hums— her heart stammers a little. She’s expecting him to say something to agree with them, but he doesn’t. He just asks her why she collects things, and she lets out a small shrug and a sigh. “I think I just don’t want them to be forgotten.” Maybe she, doesn’t want to be forgotten. When he says they haven’t given her much to attach to, she nods a bit. Agreeing, but doesn’t say anything at first. “It’s okay.” She finally says, after a moment. “There’s always tomorrow.” Then he stands. And her chest sinks a little, because she knows what’s coming. Their tea time was over, and she would be left with her thoughts and empty walls, and she’d read her book again— trying to quiet the echo of machines. Maybe tomorrow he’d bring her something else, a different story. A different book.

But then— he moves in the direction of the corner of the room. And the sound of a record being put into scratch, causes her gaze to snap up. Confusion contorts at her brows, and she recognizes it as Jazz but she doesn’t know the song. It’s slow, though. And she pushes herself up to her feet, nearly bumping into the coffee table. “I don’t—“ Her brows furrowed. She does know how to dance. A memory from the source she’d never seen before, briefly flicker into her head. Her and a man, they were so young, dancing in an even smaller kitchen. “Okay.” It’s quiet, and she moves towards him. Hesitant at first as she glances at his open palm, but she takes it anyways. That was the thing, she might not have been very strong— not yet. But she was brave, and the universe listened to brave. Her digits slipped between his, and he leads, and it’s slow but not too close. Brown eyes flickered up to cast across his face, the way shadows softly touched the edge of his jaw, the faint scar that lingered on his cheek. But then she pulls her gaze behind him, over his shoulder. “So.. if were going to play your game.. the what if game.. where would you put me?” Her brows raised, a small furrow of curiosity in her features as her voice lowered just a notch softer. “Where would you rewrite me?”

Her heart stammers a little at that, but she doesn’t let it linger. Fear of impossible questions and what might happen, would keep her up at night as it was. “Ah well, lucky them.” She says a little less enthusiastic as before, but just as it lingers, it dissipates. “I like to think I’d at least let them buy me dinner, before they tie me up.” Lips pursed a little, and she drums her fingertips on the edge of the cup now, thinking in that head of hers as he speaks. There’s a smile on his features that she knows doesn’t have much to do with her, and only to do with what thought was passing by, but she enjoys it nonetheless. In fact, she glances away, the small stammer in her heart palpitating in a way that makes her focus on the cabinets of the living quarters. The tea maker, the coffee maker. Only shifting back at him at the exact moment he looks at her, too. And she swallows, only a little, only faintly nervous and warm. The kind of warm that wasn’t made in a lab, the kind of warm you were born with. The kind of warm that was just— who you are.

“Oh I don’t know about that. Happy endings are still endings, and I think we decide what falls into that category. If we cease to believe in them all together, then what’s the point of living?” A question far too complex to come from a being, shell of someone else; without a soul of their own. She knows what they think about her. But that doesn’t mean she has to believe it herself. But when he starts on a tangent on why she would read the same book, she listens. For awhile at least, until her thoughts spill over into his words and she pulls herself back as he speaks. She wasn’t lying, she did like listening to him talk. She liked the way he made her question stuff, too. Maybe just listening to him, would give her something to think about. People were repetitive, that’s what she got from that. It was a human emotion, creatures of habit. At least she knows she’s not entirely different from them. “That’s all good from a scientific standpoint.” She says, but it’s lingering like it’s not the only thing she has to say. “But what about the standpoint of a man? Why do you watch the same movies, or read the same books— or better yet— why don’t you?” Her brows arched a little softer.

She snorts out a laugh, her nose wrinkling slightly. “I’ll be sure to give Roland your love.” She preferred when Diego was around to the later. His hands were always warm. Roland’s was always cold, like ice. Probably poor circulation given the age difference, but still. She didn’t shiver when he checked her pulse, or her temperature. Not in the same way. “I don’t know— you’re not too bad to look at.” She doesn’t mean to say it so bluntly, so she stammers back. Reels it in as warmth touches her cheeks, and her throat bobs a little. “But if you want one of them to make me a prince, I wouldn’t be too opposed.” She laced it in a tease, like she was just joking at the fact. But it was true, she was lonely. She wanted the other clones to wake up, or at least be close to waking them up. Just having the company, would have been nice, since she only gets Diego in small intervals. Tea time— even though she hated tea.

When he says he liked poems, she smiles. And it’s warm, and entirely too much like someone that had been around for a lifetime, and not the short amount of time she’d been here. “I like poems too.” She said softly, like she had just discovered it. Like she would read whatever poetry he had to offer, just to see what he felt about it. “Well yeah,” she says, her voice a little lighter. “I think it’s good to just— feel things. Like them because you like them. Fuck what anyone else has to say about it? You know? And then you’ll find people who like the same things you do, and that’s how the world is supposed to work right?” Well, it used to.

Her gaze flickered down, and lingered on his hand that closed around hers. She lets out a small breath and smiles. He told her what he liked— it’s her turn. “I like.. collecting things that people thought were forgotten.” She finally says, moving over to where her bag sat on the couch, and brings it back where she sits next to him this time, abandoning her tea. She opens the bag, slipping the bracelet inside. And then, she pulls out a couple of pieces. The pin the soldier left behind, a photograph of a man and his son that was faded and frayed at the edges, and gold button, with a logo she didn’t recognized carved into the front of it. “The others said it was junk.” Her tongue pushed against her cheek. “Broken jewelry.. missing buttons.. that I shouldn’t get so attached to things I’m just going to lose.”

She flinched just slightly muscle beneath her jaw when he mentions needles, and she glanced to her arms— bruising from yesterday’s extraction. “Yeah.” She agrees, quiet, nodding. And something warm lingers underneath her skin now. Something that almost feels like trust. “We tell them when they need to know.” She swallows a little. “I hate needles, you know?”

[oflovrs]

There’s a quiet resolve shifting in his chest. She can barely get the words out, but he knows what she’s asking. He knew for a long time, she didn’t believe in the cure. And fuck, maybe he didn’t either. Maybe he didn’t believe in anything but what he knew. Maybe it was just duty. Maybe he had been in the military, stuck in this world so damn long, that he was just moving through what he thought was right. But he can hear the reserve in her voice, and his jaw twitches slightly when she says to forget her dad. He understands, the bitterness. He understands what it’s like to lose someone because of someone else. God, she was nothing like his sister was. And he wishes— that he got more time with her. But she died before the apocalypse had even begun, before the hallow, before any of it. She was sick, and he doesn’t know which was worse— living in this world, or watching someone you love slowly fade away from it. She hugs him and his arms lift at first, unsure what to do with the bulk of them, before they’re gently wrapped around her and patted against her back. And then he holds her quietly for a moment, in his own thoughts. When he pulls back his hands are on her shoulders. “If you wanted a lavender marriage, harp— you just gotta’ ask.” He muses, trying to lighten the air, his tongue a little too quick with its quips. And he nods a bit. “We get them half way. We come back to this, if you still want to go — then we’ll go. Alright? There’s plenty of farms or towns like this— we could make do.” He’ll give her shoulder a small squeeze. “But I have to at least try.”

Her or them. Her or them. It’s been a mantra in his head forever. There’s a slow pull, blues casting down to meet her gaze as she touched the corner of his face with the cloth. Lips pursed, and it’s not an easy question to answer. “I promised your dad I would get the clones to California, and I promised I’d keep you safe too.” Though she didn’t always need his protection, she was plenty of a force on her own. But they were better together. He leans against the sink, his gaze not leaving as it shifts from hers, to the towel in hand on the edge of the sink, back to her. “I’d figure out a way to save you both.” Reckless, or not. Sacrifice or not. “There’s five of them, and one of you.” He says, and there’s something in his voice that answers without answering. Her. He’d save her, over four of them. Because even if the world was damned, even if he had one mission— get the clones to California. Escort the cure. Save the world. He’s not entirely sure anymore, if any of them were worth losing her over. She wasn’t just his friend, she was a sister. The only one he had left. He’d rather be the one to make the impossible choice, and wear it on his shoulders, than watch her live with it. “Why are you asking me that?” His hand is pressed flat against the kitchen island. “I won’t leave again. Alright?” His voice is a touch softer now. “You’re coming with me, we’re better off together.”

[oflovrs]

Her heart stammers a little at that, but she doesn’t let it linger. Fear of impossible questions and what might happen, would keep her up at night as it was. “Ah well, lucky them.” She says a little less enthusiastic as before, but just as it lingers, it dissipates. “I like to think I’d at least let them buy me dinner, before they tie me up.” Lips pursed a little, and she drums her fingertips on the edge of the cup now, thinking in that head of hers as he speaks. There’s a smile on his features that she knows doesn’t have much to do with her, and only to do with what thought was passing by, but she enjoys it nonetheless. In fact, she glances away, the small stammer in her heart palpitating in a way that makes her focus on the cabinets of the living quarters. The tea maker, the coffee maker. Only shifting back at him at the exact moment he looks at her, too. And she swallows, only a little, only faintly nervous and warm. The kind of warm that wasn’t made in a lab, the kind of warm you were born with. The kind of warm that was just— who you are.

“Oh I don’t know about that. Happy endings are still endings, and I think we decide what falls into that category. If we cease to believe in them all together, then what’s the point of living?” A question far too complex to come from a being, shell of someone else; without a soul of their own. She knows what they think about her. But that doesn’t mean she has to believe it herself. But when he starts on a tangent on why she would read the same book, she listens. For awhile at least, until her thoughts spill over into his words and she pulls herself back as he speaks. She wasn’t lying, she did like listening to him talk. She liked the way he made her question stuff, too. Maybe just listening to him, would give her something to think about. People were repetitive, that’s what she got from that. It was a human emotion, creatures of habit. At least she knows she’s not entirely different from them. “That’s all good from a scientific standpoint.” She says, but it’s lingering like it’s not the only thing she has to say. “But what about the standpoint of a man? Why do you watch the same movies, or read the same books— or better yet— why don’t you?” Her brows arched a little softer.

She snorts out a laugh, her nose wrinkling slightly. “I’ll be sure to give Roland your love.” She preferred when Diego was around to the later. His hands were always warm. Roland’s was always cold, like ice. Probably poor circulation given the age difference, but still. She didn’t shiver when he checked her pulse, or her temperature. Not in the same way. “I don’t know— you’re not too bad to look at.” She doesn’t mean to say it so bluntly, so she stammers back. Reels it in as warmth touches her cheeks, and her throat bobs a little. “But if you want one of them to make me a prince, I wouldn’t be too opposed.” She laced it in a tease, like she was just joking at the fact. But it was true, she was lonely. She wanted the other clones to wake up, or at least be close to waking them up. Just having the company, would have been nice, since she only gets Diego in small intervals. Tea time— even though she hated tea.

When he says he liked poems, she smiles. And it’s warm, and entirely too much like someone that had been around for a lifetime, and not the short amount of time she’d been here. “I like poems too.” She said softly, like she had just discovered it. Like she would read whatever poetry he had to offer, just to see what he felt about it. “Well yeah,” she says, her voice a little lighter. “I think it’s good to just— feel things. Like them because you like them. Fuck what anyone else has to say about it? You know? And then you’ll find people who like the same things you do, and that’s how the world is supposed to work right?” Well, it used to.

Her gaze flickered down, and lingered on his hand that closed around hers. She lets out a small breath and smiles. He told her what he liked— it’s her turn. “I like.. collecting things that people thought were forgotten.” She finally says, moving over to where her bag sat on the couch, and brings it back where she sits next to him this time, abandoning her tea. She opens the bag, slipping the bracelet inside. And then, she pulls out a couple of pieces. The pin the soldier left behind, a photograph of a man and his son that was faded and frayed at the edges, and gold button, with a logo she didn’t recognized carved into the front of it. “The others said it was junk.” Her tongue pushed against her cheek. “Broken jewelry.. missing buttons.. that I shouldn’t get so attached to things I’m just going to lose.”

She flinched just slightly muscle beneath her jaw when he mentions needles, and she glanced to her arms— bruising from yesterday’s extraction. “Yeah.” She agrees, quiet, nodding. And something warm lingers underneath her skin now. Something that almost feels like trust. “We tell them when they need to know.” She swallows a little. “I hate needles, you know?”

Her hair was down today, not pulled back in its quiet ponytail like it often was. It was clean, the lab was self functioning and even had hot water— but she remembers what it was like to not, even if she never expended it. It was clean, with the faint scent of citrus and jasmine. Not that they had many options anymore, whatever they did have was brought back by the soldiers. Though, one was particularly soft on her. And when she asked for shampoo that smelled like the outside, that’s what he brought back. He died— a few weeks ago. Yet she still has one of his badges, pinned on his uniform for God knows how long.

Now it’s pinned against her backpack, the one that she kept most of her intimate belongings in. Not that anything was really too intimate around here. “Maybe I can grow eyes in the back of my head.” She hums a little, lazily allowing her chin to rest on the palm of her hand. She glances down at the tea— she didn’t like tea. Actually, she distinctly didn’t like tea. But she liked him— in comparison to many of the other white coats. So, she thought, maybe it’ll grow on her.. So far no luck. “You should write that down for the next batch.”

Her hands curled around the cup, and she takes a sip. The distain is nowhere to be found on her features, because she’s halfway afraid that if she didn’t like the tea— he’d stop staying to finish it. And honestly? She was lonely. She didn’t mean to be, but she was. Still she enjoys the furrow of his brows, and the slight confusion in his tone, or maybe it was just humble curiosity, she didn’t really understand the difference. So she smiles, barely, its kissed to the corners of her mouth and she drums fingers on her jaw. “Because I always know what’s going to happen.” She finally adds. “No surprises.” And then she takes a moment before the next words fell out of her mouth, carelessly. “And there’s always a happy ending.” Lisp pursed a little, irises shifting back to the book before she closes it. “Magic, handsome princes, overcoming the odds— what’s not to like?” That part, was a little teasing.

She watches as he speaks, and there’s a small wrinkle on the bridge of her nose as she smiles. And then, a faint shrug of her shoulders. Impossibly normal. Like the wasn’t made in a lab, and had a lifetime of experiences. “I just want to hear you talk.” She presses lips together, the smile quiet and lingering before she leans back in her chair a bit. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” Esme smirks, not understanding the irony of that statement, and how little time she actually had. “But.. I know the source liked ..” She shakes her head, as if trying to recall the memory. “Old literature.” Though before he could list anything, she speaks again. “I don’t like that.” Brows wavered upwards. “I like.. things that make me feel like we’re not underground in some lab, and I’m not what I am. And the world is a little more colorful than what’s on the outside.” Lips pursed. “And dragons. Dragons are cool too. Excitement, adventure. Definitely— not— vampires. Too cliche.”

When he stutters, it’s the closest thing to real emotion that she’s seen from him. Her brows furrowed, a lull of confusion in her features as she glances down at the tea. Maybe it was too hot? Still, she blows on it just in case, before forcing down another sip. Her shoulders relaxed, a small waver of relief in her features as they warmed and she nods. “I found it plan bracelet..” She pulls it out of her pocket now, placing the beads on the table. “Seemed a little bit like fate.” Then her smile fades a little. “You don’t think the others should know?”

[oflovrs]

Her or them. Her or them. It’s been a mantra in his head forever. There’s a slow pull, blues casting down to meet her gaze as she touched the corner of his face with the cloth. Lips pursed, and it’s not an easy question to answer. “I promised your dad I would get the clones to California, and I promised I’d keep you safe too.” Though she didn’t always need his protection, she was plenty of a force on her own. But they were better together. He leans against the sink, his gaze not leaving as it shifts from hers, to the towel in hand on the edge of the sink, back to her. “I’d figure out a way to save you both.” Reckless, or not. Sacrifice or not. “There’s five of them, and one of you.” He says, and there’s something in his voice that answers without answering. Her. He’d save her, over four of them. Because even if the world was damned, even if he had one mission— get the clones to California. Escort the cure. Save the world. He’s not entirely sure anymore, if any of them were worth losing her over. She wasn’t just his friend, she was a sister. The only one he had left. He’d rather be the one to make the impossible choice, and wear it on his shoulders, than watch her live with it. “Why are you asking me that?” His hand is pressed flat against the kitchen island. “I won’t leave again. Alright?” His voice is a touch softer now. “You’re coming with me, we’re better off together.”

Shot, that would have been slightly better than the tinge of hurt that lingered in her voice. His brows arched upwards, moving in a kitchen that was unfamiliar to him. It was weird. How common this sort of thing felt, wondering in the lives of people that were long gone. The woman that bought that dress, or decorated the house. He’s moving past her, pressing a wet cloth against his face. This compound had several people, they had a water supply, it was a decent place, if they let them stay for a few days. Still, his face is fucked up from being shoved against a wall falling apart brick by brick. “We didn’t have time for you to think about it.” He finally said, washing his hands now just to make sure he didn’t have anything lingering under his nails. Last thing he needs is to get infected from a fucking paper cut. “You froze again.” The words are softer around the edges, but that doesn’t make them less real. He had to make sure the clones got out of the building first— and yet he shoved her before he did any of them.

[oflovrs]

Her hair was down today, not pulled back in its quiet ponytail like it often was. It was clean, the lab was self functioning and even had hot water— but she remembers what it was like to not, even if she never expended it. It was clean, with the faint scent of citrus and jasmine. Not that they had many options anymore, whatever they did have was brought back by the soldiers. Though, one was particularly soft on her. And when she asked for shampoo that smelled like the outside, that’s what he brought back. He died— a few weeks ago. Yet she still has one of his badges, pinned on his uniform for God knows how long.

Now it’s pinned against her backpack, the one that she kept most of her intimate belongings in. Not that anything was really too intimate around here. “Maybe I can grow eyes in the back of my head.” She hums a little, lazily allowing her chin to rest on the palm of her hand. She glances down at the tea— she didn’t like tea. Actually, she distinctly didn’t like tea. But she liked him— in comparison to many of the other white coats. So, she thought, maybe it’ll grow on her.. So far no luck. “You should write that down for the next batch.”

Her hands curled around the cup, and she takes a sip. The distain is nowhere to be found on her features, because she’s halfway afraid that if she didn’t like the tea— he’d stop staying to finish it. And honestly? She was lonely. She didn’t mean to be, but she was. Still she enjoys the furrow of his brows, and the slight confusion in his tone, or maybe it was just humble curiosity, she didn’t really understand the difference. So she smiles, barely, its kissed to the corners of her mouth and she drums fingers on her jaw. “Because I always know what’s going to happen.” She finally adds. “No surprises.” And then she takes a moment before the next words fell out of her mouth, carelessly. “And there’s always a happy ending.” Lisp pursed a little, irises shifting back to the book before she closes it. “Magic, handsome princes, overcoming the odds— what’s not to like?” That part, was a little teasing.

She watches as he speaks, and there’s a small wrinkle on the bridge of her nose as she smiles. And then, a faint shrug of her shoulders. Impossibly normal. Like the wasn’t made in a lab, and had a lifetime of experiences. “I just want to hear you talk.” She presses lips together, the smile quiet and lingering before she leans back in her chair a bit. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” Esme smirks, not understanding the irony of that statement, and how little time she actually had. “But.. I know the source liked ..” She shakes her head, as if trying to recall the memory. “Old literature.” Though before he could list anything, she speaks again. “I don’t like that.” Brows wavered upwards. “I like.. things that make me feel like we’re not underground in some lab, and I’m not what I am. And the world is a little more colorful than what’s on the outside.” Lips pursed. “And dragons. Dragons are cool too. Excitement, adventure. Definitely— not— vampires. Too cliche.”

When he stutters, it’s the closest thing to real emotion that she’s seen from him. Her brows furrowed, a lull of confusion in her features as she glances down at the tea. Maybe it was too hot? Still, she blows on it just in case, before forcing down another sip. Her shoulders relaxed, a small waver of relief in her features as they warmed and she nods. “I found it on a bracelet..” She pulls it out of her pocket now, placing the beads on the table. “Seemed a little bit like fate.” Then her smile fades a little. “You don’t think the others should know?”

Picking a name, you’d think it be easier done. She had settled on a few, watching herself in the mirror as she said them out loud. “Jasmine.” She muttered under her breath as her eyes flickered over the curve of her features. She wondered, if it was even right to call them her own. She knew that she had her mother’s eyes— the source’s. She knew that she laughed warmly, and people had always liked it. She remembers what it was like, to light up rooms she would never see, not really. Not for herself. Not for who she is. So— she said the name jasmine, and she shakes her head. “Lola.” It’s repeated between brims and her nose scrunched. God, that was worse. She’d been doing this on and off for days.

She doesn’t even notice him enter, not at first. She’s still fixed on the mirror, but there’s something threaded between her fingertips today. Irises are fixed forward, and there’s an open book on the desk. Swan lake, it was always swan lake. His voice causes her to jump, only slightly. “You sneak up on people a lot..” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. He moved so quickly, his steps were so quiet and determined. She turns towards him, she knows the drill. Sit down, answer the questions, look at the light and follow the finger. But today, today he asks her something different. He had passed by the book plenty of times now, and never said a word about it. Today? He asked. When she asked about names, they gave her a round about answer. If you’d like to. That’s what the others said. If she would like a real name, rather than the numerals and letters and whatever was on that piece of paper he always looked at. “I have, well- again. I’ve read it probably three times now.” It’s not like they had television anymore. Just movies on DVR, DVD, or recordings that they did just before the fall. It was weird, watching modern day television of people that probably weren’t around anymore. It felt.. like you were watching ghosts.

Still, she grins a little. “Why? Do you have any recommendations for me?” She’ll follow the light, overturn her arm as he checks the pulse thrumming beneath her skin. And then, brown eyes shift up to meet his as he worked. It wasn’t an intimate gaze, it was just lingering. Watching as the wheels turned in his head, and she wonders if it was ever quiet in there, or always a well oiled machine. “Do you like to read fantasy?” She doesn’t ask him if all he ever read was intellectually stimulating, because God how crowded his head must have got from that on an everyday basis. People read to forget for a little while, it didn’t hurt. Still, she lifts her chin so he can feel the lymph nodes beneath her jaw, like it was habit. Because it was. Because they had been doing this everyday for.. well.. awhile now. “And I did pick a name.” She gently puts the bracelet down. When she found it, it was kicked under a desk, the clasp was broken so she imagines it fell off in a rush. “Esme.” Then her gaze shifts to the open book. “Esme Odette.”

He asks if she feels different, new, and she shakes her head. “Unless you count internal conflict on which name suits your features.. then no. Same-same. Oh! But I did figure out, I might be allergic to blueberries.”

[oflovrs]

Shot, that would have been slightly better than the tinge of hurt that lingered in her voice. His brows arched upwards, moving in a kitchen that was unfamiliar to him. It was weird. How common this sort of thing felt, wondering in the lives of people that were long gone. The woman that bought that dress, or decorated the house. He’s moving past her, pressing a wet cloth against his face. This compound had several people, they had a water supply, it was a decent place, if they let them stay for a few days. Still, his face is fucked up from being shoved against a wall falling apart brick by brick. “We didn’t have time for you to think about it.” He finally said, washing his hands now just to make sure he didn’t have anything lingering under his nails. Last thing he needs is to get infected from a fucking paper cut. “You froze again.” The words are softer around the edges, but that doesn’t make them less real. He had to make sure the clones got out of the building first— and yet he shoved her before he did any of them.

@oflovrs

It was rare for them to get split up. She was still blaming him for it, even now that they were back together and stuck in some fuckup town hoping to hit the road again first thing in the morning. All she did was shower, put on a borrowed dress that made her legs feel too exposed to potential mosquito bites and then proceeded to beg for cigarettes. She'd just lit one when he got back. "You left me behind today." her accusation was harsh, she knew as much, especially when it was nowhere near as simple as that. "You could have gotten shot...or worse." she passed the cigatte and tapped the seat at her side. "Don't leave me again."

[oflovrs]

Picking a name, you’d think it be easier done. She had settled on a few, watching herself in the mirror as she said them out loud. “Jasmine.” She muttered under her breath as her eyes flickered over the curve of her features. She wondered, if it was even right to call them her own. She knew that she had her mother’s eyes— the source’s. She knew that she laughed warmly, and people had always liked it. She remembers what it was like, to light up rooms she would never see, not really. Not for herself. Not for who she is. So— she said the name jasmine, and she shakes her head. “Lola.” It’s repeated between brims and her nose scrunched. God, that was worse. She’d been doing this on and off for days.

She doesn’t even notice him enter, not at first. She’s still fixed on the mirror, but there’s something threaded between her fingertips today. Irises are fixed forward, and there’s an open book on the desk. Swan lake, it was always swan lake. His voice causes her to jump, only slightly. “You sneak up on people a lot..” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. He moved so quickly, his steps were so quiet and determined. She turns towards him, she knows the drill. Sit down, answer the questions, look at the light and follow the finger. But today, today he asks her something different. He had passed by the book plenty of times now, and never said a word about it. Today? He asked. When she asked about names, they gave her a round about answer. If you’d like to. That’s what the others said. If she would like a real name, rather than the numerals and letters and whatever was on that piece of paper he always looked at. “I have, well- again. I’ve read it probably three times now.” It’s not like they had television anymore. Just movies on DVR, DVD, or recordings that they did just before the fall. It was weird, watching modern day television of people that probably weren’t around anymore. It felt.. like you were watching ghosts.

Still, she grins a little. “Why? Do you have any recommendations for me?” She’ll follow the light, overturn her arm as he checks the pulse thrumming beneath her skin. And then, brown eyes shift up to meet his as he worked. It wasn’t an intimate gaze, it was just lingering. Watching as the wheels turned in his head, and she wonders if it was ever quiet in there, or always a well oiled machine. “Do you like to read fantasy?” She doesn’t ask him if all he ever read was intellectually stimulating, because God how crowded his head must have got from that on an everyday basis. People read to forget for a little while, it didn’t hurt. Still, she lifts her chin so he can feel the lymph nodes beneath her jaw, like it was habit. Because it was. Because they had been doing this everyday for.. well.. awhile now. “And I did pick a name.” She gently puts the bracelet down. When she found it, it was kicked under a desk, the clasp was broken so she imagines it fell off in a rush. “Esme.” Then her gaze shifts to the open book. “Esme Odette.”

He asks if she feels different, new, and she shakes her head. “Unless you count internal conflict on which name suits your features.. then no. Same-same. Oh! But I did figure out, I might be allergic to blueberries.”

@oflovrs

She was the first to wake up, and that in itself was a kind of miracle. For days he'd watched her, like a risky experiment, waiting for something to go wrong. But nothing did. C01 was a marvellous specimen, indistinguishable from its source. And as the time went on, he started to feel at ease in its company -- her company.

His colleagues ushered in their warnings, cautioned against attachments and inevitable outcomes, but Diego thought they could not have been that clever if they broke the world and proceeded to create a sort of cure that could only be obtained through more screwing with nature and extractions out of corpses.

So instead of staring down microscopes into further parasite samples, or glaring at Elliot's uncanny copy in the large incubator, he'd found himself spending evenings with her instead. He labelled it 'cognitive analysis' on his schedule and let no one question his methods of obtaining data pertaining to her adjustments.

Tonight, he even made tea, placed it down on the table in front of her. They were not in a lab, at least not in its white and sterile centre, they were at the living corridors which had since the fall become a 'home' of their own.

"Were you reading?" he asked, finally grabbing a hold of her attention. Diego proceeded to unzip the small bag to the side, and without much hesitation he approached to examine her. "Feeling alright today? Anything new?" the questions were usually the same, as were his motions. A back of his hand pressed against her forehead, a shiny light flashed into her pupils, three fingers pressed against her wrists counting the beats. "Have you chosen a name yet?"

[oflovrs]

— unknown (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[oflovrs]

— virginia woolf , carlyle's house and other sketches (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[oflovrs]

— via whoriyat

[oflovrs]

— F. Scott Fitzgerald // via motelwitch