Anything that looks familiar isn't mine.
I think of this, simply, as a romance Gray had in prison after Jack left and before Gray hunted Jack down.
It was a romance surrounded by grimy floors and cobwebbed walls. It was a love that bloomed in excrement. Two hungry souls, beaten, bruised, found solace in the arms of the other. Fingers, knuckles caked with red and fingernails black, caressed scarred cheeks and bloody lips healed wounds. The breath of a prisoner, otherwise rank, ghosted sweetly across skin. Sanity is contained in a sphere of love, kept in sunlight that breaks through barred windows and filled with dust that swirls like snow. And revenge, a tangy-sweet remnant of this love dwelled in the corner of a prison cell.
Waiting.
