c-clarkia

[c-clarkia]

Quarter to Three

Bloody knuckles, bruised lip, hundred aches and pains — but there’s only one thing on Frank Castle’s mind tonight: you.

He comes in, knuckles the same shade as the red-painted door. Rests a hand on the frame just for a moment, draws his shoulders deep, breath stretching low and long in his throat; some jungle cat filling its lungs after a hunt, flexing its claws, filing away its hurts. Still, they dog him as he bolts the door, crosses to the kitchen, frown on his brow as pain flares between his ribs, flicker of teeth as he bites down on his lip.

Water. Whiskey. Wine glass in the sink clouding crimson around its stem as the blood washes off his hands, turns the soapsuds red.

Runs a fingertip round its edge — some hollow, haunting sound ringing off it — as he drains his tumbler in one quick swallow, fire-brand of whiskey burning up the breath in his throat. Pours another, sinks it back a little slower, fingertip still playing a strange little melody on the wine glass, eyes hooked on the cherry-red imprint smeared by his song.

There’s the barest trace of that lipstick on your mouth still, darkening the very edges of your lips. Crushed berries, day-old bloodstain; he tries to decipher the shade as he stands over you, half a frown still dappling his brow, wine glass abandoned in the pink dishwater. Lashes swept down on your cheeks, chest rising and falling in the soft breath of sleep. He kneels beside the couch, reaches out, fingertip seeking a new melody. A moment, then —

“Frank?”

So much sweeter than any glass-spun song: the sleepy edge to your voice, tongue a little thick from dreams, full lips half-pressed by his gentle tracing of them with his thumb. Swoops down to feather your chin as your eyes roll slowly open, slide shut again, squint back open. He watches you rove toward wakefulness with a crooked smile on his lips, soft sound fixing in his throat as his fingers flutter along your jaw.

“Time is it?”

“Quarter to three.”

“Mmm, anything… anything need stitching?”

“Ain’t nothin’ but bruises, baby girl.”

“Bed, then?”

“Bed.”

Arms slipping round you — vines, ropes, great iron anchor-chains — lifting you from the couch, from the quicksand of sleep. Grain by grain, it sifts from you till your eyes blink open just a little wider, fingers flexing till they find flesh to grasp at in place of air. Try to keep a grip on him — nape, shoulder-muscle nudging into your palm — as he sets you on the mattress; but he slips from you like a panther, stalks on soundless feet to shut the bedroom door, pull the curtains at the window. Lazily, you watch him.

Jungle cat amongst all the ferns and teakwood fixtures of your bedroom, some dense dark shadow stretching out his shoulders, rolling the knots from his neck, scrubbing a red-knuckled hand over his close-cropped hair. Left his boots at the front door, his coat on the hook — always does — but his vest is still strapped to his chest. Glimmers bone-white in the moonlight, that bulletproof skull as he shrugs it over his head, sets it carefully on the chair in the far corner, rubs a hand where it’s pinched him a little: hollow of his throat, groove of his armpit, hard line above his hip.

Stands there for what seems like an age; fingertips rasping at the aches rent across his skin, eyes hooked on the ghost in the corner. It’s got a power, that thing. Even off, it owns his body, sinks its bony claws into his mind, twists its teeth between the crooks of his ribs, wrenches at his heart. Frank, Pete, Punisher… Makes him question what a man like him — gunslinger, gravedigger — is doing here, blood barely washed off his hands, lungs full of air that carries half a hundred scents too sweet — too good — for someone like him to breathe: vanilla, thyme, meadowsweets, washing powder, you — mmm, you, most of all.

Half-turns from the ghost in the corner to cast a glance at you all rumpled on the bed. Charcoal tee shirt slipping off your shoulder as you crook on your elbows, bright eyes turned to the ceiling, dainty feet pointing as you stretch your toes. Kaleidoscope colours as a car rushes by in the street below; lamplight mixing with the moon-glow at the window, limning every cotton-clad curve of your body till you shine like some goddamn jewel amongst a trove of sheets and quilts and pillows. Doesn’t deserve something — someone — so beautiful, so bright, so —

“Frankie, stop.”

Huffs something like a laugh as you cut across the doubts in his head. “Thinkin’ too loud?”

“You’re always thinking too loud, Frank Castle. Thinking all the wrong things.” Roll onto your side, then clamber to your knees, fingers finding the hem of your tee shirt, whisking it over your head. “Making lies into truths. Turning truths into lies.” Throw it at his feet, rock back on your haunches; bird-tilt of your head as you extend a hand toward him. “Only one truth here, now, baby. Me. You. Us.”

He dips down, picks up the charcoal tee shirt, runs it between his fingers before shaking it out and — carefully, so carefully — draping it over the chair in the far corner. Punisher, Pete, Frank… Smooths it down till it covers up the bulletproof vest; a cloud of ink swallowing up a bone-white skull, handful of dark soil thrown on a grave, burying a ghost — even just for the night. Frank. Frank — Frank. Looks from the corner of the room to the curve of your wrist, the curl of your fingers as you stretch toward him.

“Just us,” he murmurs, hand half-lifting from his hip to indicate the chair. “Now it’s true.”

You nod slowly, hands coming to rest on your thighs. Like smooth sun-warmed stones, the way your palms light up skin that’s already hot to the touch. Rock a little to ease the ache between your legs, the pit of fire burning at your hips; give a little gasp as — fuck, oh, fuck — the heel of your foot briefly connects with damp cotton. Merest hint of pressure, a glance of white-hot pleasure, and you’re pressing down hard for half a heartbeat, teeth sinking into your lower lip, eyes rolling as you rasp at your clit through your panties. That drag almost as delicious as the drag of his eyes over your face, obsidian gaze flickering down to your thighs, tongue threading out to wet his bottom lip.

“Take ’em off.”

“You first.”

He raises an eyebrow at your retort. You raise one right back, slipping a thumb through the cotton-and-lace twist of the panties riding your hip. Another roll down onto the heel of your foot — mmm, fuck — then you’re lifting slowly to your knees, rearing up like a viper as he paces toward you. Slow, stealthy, some wild look glimmering in the gaze he keeps hooked on you. Jungle cat — fucking panther — skulking through the shadows of your bedroom, all stoop-shouldered, lick-lipped, like you’re his prey and nothing’s going to stop him sinking his teeth into the blood-beat of your throat.

Should scare you, the intensity of that coal-black look, the way he growls out another command — off now — voice like gravel ground over glass. Should scare you, the ghost covered up on the chair in the corner, the red-ringed mess of his knuckles same colour as your door. Should scare you, those hands — those gunslinging, gravedigging hands — just now resting their backs gently against your cheeks, the shapes of the scars that mark them pushing into your skin like hills to the skyline.

He should scare you…

… but he doesn’t — and for the life of him he can’t figure out why.

Slips from his eyes then, that wild look. Puzzlement takes its place; half-squinting at the ceiling as he flutters his fingers across your cheeks, thumbs running the gulley of your jawbone. Back and forth, back and forth. You watch him fight himself for a moment, hear the mantra in his head as if he’s whispering it aloud. Frank, Pete, Punisher… Ghosts pulling him back toward the chair in the far corner, gentle face at his fingertips pulling him toward you. Punisher, Pete, Frank…

“Look at me.”

Tears his eyes from the ceiling at the soft command — ground glass spun back together — lifting from your throat. Meet his gaze for a moment, then you focus on the buttons of his Henley, slowly pull them loose. Palmprint-patch of skin bared; you press your lips to the hollow of his throat, breathe him in — steel and gun oil and leather and malt liquor — fingers slipping to pull the shirt up off his sides. Tilt into his touch as his hands find grip at your waist, thumbs pushing up beneath your heavy breasts, flush warming your cheeks as he skates a pattern over the day-old indent of your bra, fingertips flexing to burrow at your ribs. Ache of absence as he lifts his grip for the half a breath it takes you to whisk the shirt off over his head; half-hitched breath now in your throat as his hands settle back, fingers digging a little tighter.

“That’s it, Frankie.” Soft as a whisper, the trail of your fingers up and down his upper arms; coiled muscles flickering beneath his skin, cogs turning in his heady eyes as he drinks your gaze. “Me. You. Us.”

“Us,” he rumbles. “Here, now… just us.”

Crushed berries, day-old bloodstain; he can taste the sweet and salt of each as you open your mouth for his kiss. Water. Whiskey. Wine. Can feel it all wash from him as the blood from his hands in the sink: every ache in his bones, every burn, every bruise, every black mark scattered as ashes over his skin. Pinprick of nails as you trail your fingertips down the broad slope of his back, slide them just inside his waistband, skate round till you find his belt-buckle, pull back from his lips with a whimper as you slip the leather out of the brass-metal loop, use the heels of your hands to try and free up his hips.

He catches your hands midway through their task; circles your slim little wrists in a single fist, pushes your bound fingers against your belly as he bears you back onto the bed. You fold almost immediately, knees falling wide as he moves up between your legs, dark eyes on yours as he presses your hands into the pillows above your head. Well-strung bow, the arch your body makes as he trails his free fingers the valley between your hipbones, thumb gently tapping the lacy edge of your panties.

“Told you to take these off… didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Try to sound defiant, but that’s mighty hard when you’re on your back, legs spread beneath his bulk, hips canting up toward the press of his thumb, desperate for it to roll lower. Nigh on impossible when he looks at you like he’s looking now — all ink-dark intent, hint of amusement at the very edges of his eyes — nose nudging against yours as he lifts the soft sound from your mouth with his lips, swallows it down with half a smirk.

“Left ’em on.” Cocks his head to the side — tut, tut — as he dips his fingers beneath the lacy hem, cups the heat of you in his palm; every muscle tense as you fight the urge to roll your hips, buck up into his hand. “Wanna leave ’em on now… huh, girlie?”

Bursts out before you can bite it back. “No. Take them off. Please.”

“With what?” Smile in his voice, on your neck as he ghosts a kiss to your pulse-point, palm slowly pressing in tighter. “My fingers?” Pinprick beneath your ear now, flick of tongue to soothe the sting of his bite. “My teeth?”

Skin on fire, a moan falling from your lips that sounds more animal than human. “Cut them off if you want.” Another nip at your pulse-point as he huffs a laugh; back aching with the strain of holding off the roll starting in your hips. “I don’t care — just take them off.”

“Cut ’em off, huh, girlie?” Noses at your neck, the the line of your jaw, then pulls back to level his face with your own. “Switchblade in my boot… shame it’s out in the hall.” Smug little half-smile lifting the shadow-stubble of his cheeks, eyebrow raised earnestly as he slowly scissors his fingers. “Mmm… could go get it?”

Now your traitorous hips roll. “Son of a bitch.” Spit it between clenched teeth, as much to him as to yourself. He chuckles: a low, rough sound that skates along your spine. Makes to get up, chase after his errant switchblade. “Don’t you — ah, fuck.” Thumb and fingers now, working a sweet wet tune. “Don’t you dare leave this room, Frank Castle.”

Smirks as if he’s considering it. Like hell he is. How could he? All laid up beneath him, your cheeks the colour of street-vendor apples, teeth nipping at your full lips as you rock your head back and forth across the pillows, sweet little moan ebbing out from deep in your throat. Water. Whiskey. Wine. Sucks it up in a kiss that leaves you light-headed, breathless, reeling. Blink up at him with fuck-me eyes; feel him sag into the contours of your body as if he’s finally — finally — seeing that you want him just as much as he wants you.

“Ain’t going nowhere,” he rumbles. “Not now. Not ever.” Drags his nose across your cheek, dips his lips beneath your ear. “Hear me, baby girl?” Try to nod but you’re too lax, too heavy, soft, pliant — like sun-warmed candlewax between his hands, his mouth, tongue, teeth. “You hear me?”

Fight through the haze. “I hear you.” Faces level, you hook his gaze with your own; brow furrowing as his thumb twists and slips down over your clit. “Fuck… Frankie, I hear you.” Something clears in his eyes, storm-clouds burnt away by the sun as you whine softly. “Mm, inside. Please, baby, please. Want you inside me.”

But he’s worshipful tonight. Shakes his head. Takes his time. Scenting, slipping, stalking till you’re white-hot, electric, arching up off the mattress, thighs spreading even wider as he shifts his weight, runs his tongue the curve of your throat, the valley between your rolling breasts. On your elbows, watching, whimpering; obsidian eyes glittering on your own desperate gaze.

Jungle cat — fucking panther — the way he shadows down your body, sinks to his knees beside the bed, pulls your hips to the edge. Nip of his nails; cotton-and-lace ribbons drifting down your ankles. Legs looped over his shoulders, breath on your bare pussy, thighs tensing reflexively as his mouth closes on you.

Soft at first. Barely touching. Not even teasing. Glancing, open-mouth kisses that send jolts of heat straight to your belly. Cat flexing its claws, scenting the air, testing the water. No whisper, no warning — clit sucked up into his mouth just as your thighs begin to unknot.

Can’t tear your eyes away from his even as your neck aches to be thrown back, tongue twitches to throw cries up at the ceiling. Mesmerised by him. The way he works you. So soft and sloppy and utterly fucking perfect. Tongue rolling, flat and wide, then tucking up, twisting round your clit; plush mouth parting to suckle at it gently. Fuck, the feel of it, sight of it, sound of it: could be the last thing you heard on earth and you’d die happy.

“Baby… fuck, Frankie.”

Fingers scrabbling at his scalp, thumb pressing hard against his temple. His palms hooked round your thighs, holding you steady as you start to squirm, hips rolling up against his face, toes curling against his back, shoulders shunted into the pillows as your whole body arches up to chase the waves of heat cresting between your hipbones.

Try to hold off. Want to wait till he’s inside you, pushing deep — but he’s more stubborn than you. Lifts a palm from your thigh, presses down on your belly. One last flick and tease of his tongue. One long, endless suck and you’re coming. Coming. Coming —  

“Frank! Frank… oh, Frank.”

Kill a man just to see you as you are now. Swears he would. Boneless, bright-cheeked, breath blossoming into a hundred curses, each one filthier than the last. Barest trace of that lipstick pushed up over the left edge of your upper lip. Crushed berries, day-old bloodstain; groans to taste it, surges up from his knees, chases you back up onto the bed. Fire in your eyes as you join his fingers frantic at his belt. Skin his jeans off his hips, fill your palm with his cock, buck against him impatiently.

“Easy… easy, sweetheart.” Voice a blur, his fingers on your hip, steadying you as you see stars; but you’re frantic, whimpering, aching to be stretched, aching for that deep, sweet ache as he fucks you good and slow and steady. “Mmm, that’s it, baby girl.”

Hot and hard and heavy as his weight and musk and muscle bearing you down, splitting your thighs, sliding between your slick hot folds still so fucking tender from his tongue that you feel a second climax building already.

Rocks you before you’re ready. Walls clenching, clamping, rippling round his cock as he sags down onto his forearms, head hanging low, mouth on your throat. Hips like pistons; yours roll in response, desperate to keep up even as your insides turn to white-hot mush and the world goes dark.

Eyes closed, moan dragging sand along your throat, fingertips denting the hard slabs of muscle on his upper-back. Slice open again as you feel him grow harder, hotter inside you; gaze taking in the ridges of his spine, mountain-range shoulders, sun-browned nape — shadowy ghost in the corner still covered up on the chair. Scowl at it even so, dig your fingers into his nape, press your lips to his ear, cant your hips, pull him deeper — yes, Frankie, yes — deeper, deeper, till you’re lock, key, latch, screw, fucking metal-melt welded tight together.

Mumbles into your skin. Hook a hand in his hair, pull him back till he’s staring down at you, furrowed brow, flickers streaking his face as he groans, butts his forehead against your own, snatches at your lips.

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “Mmm, fuck… yes, Frankie, yes.”  

Soldier marching to his orders. Hips smashing harder for a thrust or two, then stilling, stuttering; line of fire from his brain to his cock, singeing up his spine as you suck the goddamn soul right out of his chest. Crashes down onto you, fingers woven into your hair, heartbeat a steady drum against your breasts. Makes no move to lift up, back off, pull out. Still, you wrap your arms round his shoulders, grip him tight.

“Stay there,” breathe it, lips skating the rise of his cheekbone as he shifts his face to look at you. “Just… just stay there for a minute.” Meet his kiss. Water. Whiskey. Wine. Drown yourself in it, in him. “Stay.”

“Ain’t going nowhere, baby girl,” he rumbles. “Not now. Not ever.”

Taste the truth on his tongue.

Here, now — just us.

Ghost in the corner keeps quiet — even just for the night.

you can find this (and me!) on ao3 if you so desire. ✨

[c-clarkia]

Blackbird

He finds her on the hillside, sat amongst the wildflowers. She’s picked a few, woven them into plaits and twists and braids. Red and white and blue, wrapped like an old flag around her fingers. Listening, her head tilted just a little to one side, lips parted, lungs full of summer air that doesn’t taste quite so sweet these days.

“Funny, ain’t it,” he rumbles. “That the birds still sing.”

“Blackbird.” Cheek lifts a little as she turns her head toward him; like dawn-light, that glimmer of a smile. “Take more than the end of the world to shut him up.”

Cocks a brow. “That right, ma’am?”

“That’s right, officer.”

“Officer wouldn’t argue with a good lady now, would he?”

“Damn right he wouldn’t — be wasting his time anyway.”

“Mmm, true. Good lady’s always right. Then, now... always.”

Something soft behind the smirk he hefts. Bleeding shadows in his dark eyes, smoothing out the lines furrowing his brow. He sits beside her, sinks into the wildflowers, the red, white and blue. Her fingers find the nape of his neck; tips of them tapping against the shorn hair, the sun-browned skin. Leans into her touch, closes his eyes a moment. Hears her sigh — then feels it, lips skating the shell of his ear, the pulse-point just beneath it.

“Still singing,” she says softly. “Aren’t we, Shane?”

Opens his eyes, hooks a hand on her jaw, gently levels her face with his own. Breathes her breath, tastes the sweetness of her sigh on his tongue. Pulls back, brow to brow, as the blackbird whistles out his tune.

“Still singing, baby girl.”

                                                           *

Summer rain, soft as falling leaves. You watch it pitter-patter at the window, wind wet trails that your fingers itch to chase. Some relic of childhood, long-dormant want to guide the raindrop down the glass, feel like it’s you deciding its path, choosing its fate. Stirring beside you in the bed. You slide the blind shut, look over your shoulder.

Combat boots still on. Shirtless. Half-hanging off the bed’s edge, gun in his hand, cradled to his chest. Ball of one foot braced on the floor; creak at the door, crack at the window, he’d be up and out and ready, gun cocked, half-grumbled shout to make you stay put. Warrior, he is. Body of one. All blunt edges, hard clean lines. Face of one, too. Rugged nose, square jaw, squint to cut you in half — all of that toughness blighted by the little twist of red, white and blue tucked behind his ear.

You smile, trace the wildflowers with a fingertip, remember the glower he gave as you slipped them into place once he’d come back from perimeter-checks last night. Laugh now, can’t help it. Soft as the summer rains; still, it wakes him. Screws his face up like a newborn seeing light for the first time, rubs a hand across his eyes, grumbling. You lean over, rob the sound from his lips, knees parting as you sit astride him, fingers sinking into the quilt as you brace your hands either side of his head.

“Time is it?”

Little edge to your voice as he strokes a curl behind your ear. “Late. Still dark. Dawn’s a while off.”

“A while off, huh?”

Roll his lip between your teeth. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You hungry, baby girl?”

“Then, now... always.”

Threads his fingers into your hair, gives a gentle jag that sets you mewling. Push up from the bed, hands trailing to his chest as you rock back to sit across the hard lines of his hipbones. Follows you, fist still wrapped in your hair, then pushes you onto your back; hot, hard belly pressing against you, free hand slipping the shirt up over your ribcage. Bends to sear a kiss where the two sides splay apart. Breath hitches in your throat, rattles the bones caught between his kisses. Tongue now — white-hot roll of it — sliding the underside of your left breast, sweeping across your nipple.

“Shane,” breathe it, voice begging. “Mmm, Shane.”

Doesn’t say anything; rumble of laughter as he parts his lips, plays and purses and plucks till your nipple is hard as ice. Other one aching for his mouth. Can’t ask, can only moan. Sweeps across as if he hears your thoughts, sucks and swirls his tongue round the tip till your head is tipped back amongst the pillows, legs parting wide beneath his bulk, fingers at his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his ears. Lobes rubbed between finger and thumb, belly knitting as he groans against you.

“Feel good, honey?” he whispers. “That feel good?”

“Feels good, baby. So good.”

“So fuckin’ perfect, ain’t you?” Rubs his nose back and forth as he kisses and sucks; pulls back from your nipple a moment, meets your eyes over the rise and fall of your breasts. “So fuckin’ perfect. My girl. Mmm, my baby girl.”

“Want you.” Rough in your throat, voice rising up as you struggle to your elbows. “Want you inside me—”

“Not yet.” Leans you back with the weight of his body as he rests on his forearm beside your head. “Late. Still dark. Dawn’s a while off.” Glimmer of laughter in his eyes to match the smile pulling at your lips. “So not yet, sweetheart. Not yet.”

Nod slightly, drunk on the fire in his eyes. “Not yet.”

Soft sound in his throat at your whispered agreement. Hazy gaze, cheeks flushed as if you’ve sunk a quart of whiskey. Feels like you have. Skin is burning; heat spreads fiery fingers in your belly, blooms white-hot between your thighs. Hand lying limp on the pillows beside your head, but now your fingers stir to touch. Like a butterfly, the way they flutter up, trip along the ridge of his cheekbone, slide down over his parted lips.

“I want you.”

He closes his eyes at your murmur. “I know, baby. Want you, too.” Opens them again; they flicker from your mouth to your throat to your eyes resting lazy on his own. “Just lemme look for a while. Mmm, just lemme look at you.” Fingers pull free from your hair, splay across your heart. “So good. And warm. And mine.”

“Yours.” Like a prayer, the way you whisper it. “Then, now... always yours, Shane Walsh.” Lift up a little, cant your hips so you press against his belly: mark it, hot and wet. “Just like you’re mine. Long as that damn blackbird keeps singing. Long as there’s breath in my lungs.”

Kisses the air from them, just for a moment. Leaves you gasping a little as he pulls back, sinks down your body, drops to his knees beside the bed, pulls your hips to the edge. Legs looped over his shoulders, breath barely clawed back before it billows from you in a moan as his mouth closes on that white-hot bloom between your thighs.

Want to curse — fuck, mmm, Shane, fuck — but you can’t form words. Not yet. Can only feel. Plush mouth on your pussy, tongue dragging between hot wet folds, lips closing on your clit, sucking it slow and soft and sloppy till an empty keening sound cracks your throat. Can hear, too. Him humming against your hot flesh. Rain at the window, soft as falling leaves. Somewhere — somewhere — that damn blackbird, trilling out a happy little song even as water washes away all the colours — red and white and blue — of the wildflowers blooming on the hill outside.

“Still singing.” He pulls back a little, warm breath misting, making you tilt your hips, scrabble at his scalp with your fingers. “Ain’t we, sweetheart?”

Can’t speak. Can only hum and sigh and trill your own little tune as he sucks you back into his mouth. Fighting with the blackbird now, the song you make as you grind against that teasing, probing tongue, fall apart beneath the strong fingers gripping your thighs. Answer to his question — yes, Shane, yes, yes — the only lyric that makes sense now waves of heat are cresting, bursting through their banks, ebbing every inch of your body till you’re warm and full and thick as whiskey set on a campfire to bubble and blister and burst —

“Attagirl.” Grins against your hipbone, thumb circling where his tongue has whipped up the flame, soft, so soft, till you’ve come down from your climax, thighs quaking against his head. “That’s my sweet girl.” Sticky kisses on salty skin. “What do we think?” Glances up to look at you as you make a grab for his jaw. “Dawn still a while off?”

“Yes.” Wrestle a grip on him as he ducks and laughs; gives up with good grace as you squirm your way back onto the bed, drag him along, too. “Inside. Now, Shane.” Fingers scrabbling at his belt, eyes closing as he helps: thumb brushing your wrist, chuckle soft in your ear over the jingle of the belt-buckle, the rasp of your palm against his jeans. “Please. Baby, please.” Keep singing it even when you’ve wrapped your thighs round his back, fingers digging at his nape, his shoulder as he pushes inside you. “Please, please, please.”

“Still singing.” Crooned in your ear, breath hissing past his teeth as he sets his pace: slow and deep and full. So full you feel fused to him, slotted together, welded like metal-melt: key in a lock, palm to palm, mountains to the sky. “Mmm... you sure do make a prettier sound than that damn blackbird.”  

Look up at him through half-closed eyes. “That right, officer?”

“Uh-huh.” Meets your searching lips; you feel his smile widen as you open your mouth to his kiss. “That’s right, ma’am.”

                                                             *

Leaves her sleeping as dawn breaks over the hills. Turns her to honey; sunlight slipping through a gap in the blinds, limning the drops on the rain-streaked glass. Watches her a moment as he slides his belt back through the denim loops, pulls a shirt over his head. Flinches as something brushes his neck. Hand on his gun, feet braced to turn and fight — but it’s not a foe.

Flowers. Red and white and blue. Little braid she pushed behind his ear before the rain-clouds dimmed the starlight. Turns it in his fingers. Old flag, the way it slowly unfurls: red and white and blue. Closes his fist.

Grass is damp when he steps out of the RV. Dew-trails follow him as he cuts a path to the hillside she sat on yesterday. Sunlight on her patch of wildflowers, stems shivering free of waterdrops as the air slowly warms. Blackbird singing somewhere in the trees. Opens his fingers, lets the breeze pick up the petals from his palm. Red and white and blue. Flag unfurled, colours carried on the sky, scattered on the hillside.

“Wish we didn’t have to leave.. I like it here.”

Doesn’t turn, just holds out his arm, smiles as she nestles in beneath it. “Me too. Quiet here. Peaceful.” Rasps his thumb across the bare skin of her shoulder. “Almost like the world’s the way it was. No walkers... mmm, no wars between brothers.” Noses at her piled hair, presses a kiss to her temple. “But I got you, baby girl. I always got you.” Slips his hand onto her cheek, pushes at her chin with his thumb till she’s looking up at him, sunlight sparkling in her eyes. “You got me?”

“Long as there’s breath in my lungs.” Lifts to her tiptoes, rubs her nose against his own, smile tilting her cheeks. “Long as that damn blackbird keeps singing.”

“Take more’n the end of the world to shut him up.”

“That right?”

“That’s right, baby girl... c’mon, time to go.”

Fingers linked between his, tug on his wrist that keeps him from turning. “Not yet, baby. Let’s stay a little longer.” Bright eyes, sun cresting the hillside, wildflowers blooming at their ankles: red and white and blue. “Just... not yet. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” murmurs his agreement, lifts their interlocked fingers to his lips, ghosts a kiss across her knuckles as the blackbird sings. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

you can find this (and me!) on ao3 if you so desire. ✨