Faith doesn't think in terms of luck. She never thinks of 'how lucky she
is' or 'how fortunate they are'.
It doesn't have anything to do with luck, she realizes late one night as she lies awake, looking over at the youthful face, its traces of bitterness melting away with sleep. The streetlights reflecting off the cloud ceiling makes a purple filter that touches everything, shining through the open window. On him, she thinks, it looks kinda sweet.
The sounds of the busy street below are muted tonight, as if someone wanted to respect their wishes for solitude and chased everyone away. Faith thinks that would be a nice change from everyone wanting to know how they were doing.
It's been a hard day, though, so he doesn't even murmur when she reaches across the bed with strong fingers and gently brushes them against his cheek, a move she credits as being graceful and light. It's a new feeling.
It's the only time she can be delicate around him. When he's awake, she reflects, she can't help but be as tough as he is - it's her nature, and that of the nature around her to expect her to be able to take it. Even when she's writing reports in her beautiful penmanship (a vanity she can't help), she can't imagine that she's writing with a plume.
Ahh, but he slowly comes to awareness when the tips of her fingers caress his cheek a second time. He smiles hesitantly at her, and Faith can see worry, an aching trust that begs not to be broken, and a bit of love that can bloom like a flower or crumble like chalk.
She returns his smile and his grows. His hand untucks from under his cheek and moves to rest on her upper arm, his thumb stroking a crescent back and forth.
It's moments like this, that Faith can't think of luck, because this moment is just too important to leave up to something as silly as 'luck'.
No, this moment was not brought to you by the word 'luck'.
But sometimes, very rarely, Faith might just admit she believes in Fate.
It doesn't have anything to do with luck, she realizes late one night as she lies awake, looking over at the youthful face, its traces of bitterness melting away with sleep. The streetlights reflecting off the cloud ceiling makes a purple filter that touches everything, shining through the open window. On him, she thinks, it looks kinda sweet.
The sounds of the busy street below are muted tonight, as if someone wanted to respect their wishes for solitude and chased everyone away. Faith thinks that would be a nice change from everyone wanting to know how they were doing.
It's been a hard day, though, so he doesn't even murmur when she reaches across the bed with strong fingers and gently brushes them against his cheek, a move she credits as being graceful and light. It's a new feeling.
It's the only time she can be delicate around him. When he's awake, she reflects, she can't help but be as tough as he is - it's her nature, and that of the nature around her to expect her to be able to take it. Even when she's writing reports in her beautiful penmanship (a vanity she can't help), she can't imagine that she's writing with a plume.
Ahh, but he slowly comes to awareness when the tips of her fingers caress his cheek a second time. He smiles hesitantly at her, and Faith can see worry, an aching trust that begs not to be broken, and a bit of love that can bloom like a flower or crumble like chalk.
She returns his smile and his grows. His hand untucks from under his cheek and moves to rest on her upper arm, his thumb stroking a crescent back and forth.
It's moments like this, that Faith can't think of luck, because this moment is just too important to leave up to something as silly as 'luck'.
No, this moment was not brought to you by the word 'luck'.
But sometimes, very rarely, Faith might just admit she believes in Fate.