AN: First "Hell on Wheels" fic, set in/around/after 2x07. The soundtrack to this is "Annabel," obviously. I'm not actually sure I can listen to that song anymore without having an inrush of feelings.
The Darkness of Redemption
If he was darkness, she was light. And he most certainly was darkness.
Blackness, nothing but pain and emptiness and a driving desire for revenge. The edges of his life were trimmed in steel, in hardness and grief.
And she...she was everything that didn't belong here. Clean and soft and pretty, all ivory skin and golden ringlets and a damnably perfect rosebud mouth.
He'd had every intention of resisting her advances, at least in theory. He was a mess, still hell-bent on revenge and his own brand of justice. There was no room in his heart for anything else.
But then her lips had touched his, slender arms around his back, the scent of her hair tickling his senses.
It was far too much to resist, even for him.
So he had held on, adjusting his grip on her as she kissed his neck, the curve of his shoulder. It had been so very long since he had felt a woman's softness.
Her fingers on his skin were soft, but he could feel the beginnings of the calluses that had just formed. The West had a way of making everyone hard.
Unholy temptation, that was what it had been. He offered as much resistance as he was able, trying to focus on thoughts of his wife, of the way things had been. And then he freed the buttons on her starched shirt, exposing the gentle swell of her breasts, and he had been lost.
She tasted like sunshine and redemption, a burning counterpoint to his normal coldness. And, in that moment, he needed her.
The muslin of her chemise wrinkled under his hands; his belt made an unnaturally loud clink as it fell to the floor. He sucked in a breath, searching for some self-control.
This was going to be the first time since Mary. He had walked this road before, but had never gone through with his baser urges.
But this was Lily, and it was different. It wasn't just going to be about the act. He had been forced to admit that to himself.
Her fingers slid into his hair, holding him where he was, almost as though she was afraid he was going to walk out.
For the first time, he took full notice of her apprehension - not about what was going to happen, but about his reaction.
He kissed her soundly, deeply, trying to reassure her without words that he wanted this as much as she did. Her body was pliant under his at first, and he wondered what her previous experiences had taught her about being with a man.
His eyes darkened, and he trailed his fingers in very specific patterns, hating that his rough skin caught on the silk of hers. Her breath hitched, telling him he was doing his job, and he shifted his hips, fascinated by the way her body accommodated his.
It was perfect. He wanted to weep, he wanted this never to end, wanted to utterly lose himself.
Her name fell from his lips before he could stop himself. It sounded like a prayer, like a condemned man asking for absolution.
She granted it, cradling his head in her hands as he breathed in the warmth of her skin, face buried against her breasts.
They didn't move for a very long time. He was silent, listening to her heartbeat return to a steady thrum, her fingers against his scalp soothing his overwrought emotions. Her warmth beckoned him, calmed him. He drifted off, arms around her narrow waist.
The pristine morning light woke up hours later. Some time in the night, he had changed positions, and Lily had altered her own, leaning into his body.
And then the fear returned, the instinct to run almost overpowering.
He had hesitated, though, taking in her peaceful face, her dark lashes like pen strokes against her smooth cheeks. It would be so easy to just lay back down beside her, to breathe in her perfume, to let her touch him, let her make him feel like he was almost worthy of redemption.
Almost.
But he needed to go, needed to feel the open space, needed to put miles between himself and what had happened here.
He damned his belt for being so loud.
"Cullen?"
He turned against his better judgment, knowing what he would find. She was sitting up in his bed, hair wild, lips swollen. She looked exactly like a woman should after a night of lovemaking, and the fact that this was all because of him gave him an unexpected jolt.
Her expression was soft, expectant, as though she knew what was going to happen. As though she knew how keen his desire to flee was. But there was something else, too, something that he saw in the darkness of her eyes.
She had already decided that he was going to stay, had put her faith in that.
It had been so very long since someone had done that, someone who cared about him, who wanted him not for what he could do for them, but for what he meant to them.
His plans had changed instantly, and he muttered something about the bridge site.
Her small smile was contagious, and he suddenly felt like a shy fifteen year old, not a grown man who had coped with more horrors in one relatively short lifetime than any one person should have to.
As he stepped out into the morning, he found himself hoping that she would still be in his bed when he returned. He liked to imagine her there, perhaps thinking quietly among the white linens, hair still trailing down her back. She looked like an angel, and again, he felt as though redemption wasn't quite out of his grasp, at least for the moment.
And that was enough for now.