Title: Haiku for the Weary (Impropriety)
Summary: Their love is atop a waterfall, teetering on the edge, looking down. Layla and Warren, the big things that matter most, and the little things that make it obvious. PostMovie, Will&Layla one-sided and Warren&Layla, but not yet. Sequel to Possession Dilemma and Mint-Perfumed Death.
UPDATE EDIT: SEQUEL IS UP - FREE FALL. Summary: Sequel to Haiku for the Weary (Impropriety) – It has been 7 years. Warren and Layla still feel the yearning in their bones. One of them is married, but it's the other one who, ultimately, leaves.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
i.
He has loved her since forever and a day, and she has desired him since she first laid eyes on him (no matter how much she has deluded herself).
There is nothing sexual about his kiss on her forehead when she leaves on a mission – she decided she wanted to save people, if only because she could. There is nothing untoward about her hand on his cheek when she says, "I will miss you." as he leaves for his day job – a firefighter. It is ironic, and she is always laughing at him about it, the crinkles in the corner of her eyes and her mirth shining through. He cuffs her on the chin and laughs with a rugged grin of his own.
"Cheeky little hippie", he says, as he leaves.
Layla Williams and Warren Peace have fought their connection for longer than they remember.
Their friendship is not an easy one. There is nothing simple about the two of them or the forces of nature they represent. It is a tug of war in its strongest meaning: fire and earth, forever burning and giving life. There is a tension to their encounters that they cannot rid themselves off, an undercurrent of power and intention they struggle to balance. Even when they approach the most natural of touches, there are whispers beneath their skins.
She has a boyfriend, who is his best friend. Will Stronghold is a jagged rock between them, cutting a deep trench in their friendship. It does not help that they started, all of them, on the wrong foot: there is only so much one can forget about jealousy and games and locked closets in your best friend's house.
(And kisses. Long, languorous and deep, threatening to swallow you whole and leave you breathless.
She has been afraid of him, since then. Of what he could do to her.)
He has… He has memories. Hidden deep, deep inside a tin box in his old childhood room, back in his mother's house. He visits every so often, and always walks up the stairs slowly, opens his room and quietly makes his way to the bed. He pulls out the box of memories and spends a few hours reminiscing.
(There is a candle, in the box. It is halfway burnt, with a Chinese restaurant's seal on it. There is a picture of a red-haired bright-eyed girl and a homecoming corsage.
It is enough, he thinks. It has to be.)
ii.
She visits him often, when he is in his apartment. She has varied schedules, and as long as there is no emergency her hours are long and boring. Will is never home, because the Stronghold Trio is always in demand.
They are not idiots, the both of them. They feel it under their skin, thrumming. It is always threatening to escape, so they know to pull the lid open and let the kettle release some steam before closing it again. So when they are alone, there is a freedom of touch and speech not present in front of their friends.
Like when she is tired after a mission, when her powers have been exhausted and she has seen too much evil, and sighs, and lets her head fall on his lap, cuddling into his thighs as his warmth cloaks her. He will read on through whichever novel he is holding at the moment, while his right hand massages her scalp softly. She will sometimes cry, gently and silently, cursing the world for the banality of evil. He will murmur his condolences, never condescending or pitying. Most of all, he will understand. And she will love him for it.
(He still smells like mint and charred death and destruction. Like a burnt cabin in the woods after a forest fire, mixed with the moist smell of morning after a night of sex.
Will has never smelled of more than talcum powder and her brand of shampoo.
But she cannot think of that. She cannot.
There is only Warren, and how his smell reminds her not of the evil that surrounds her daily life, but of the safety she feels in his arms. Even heroines need protecting.)
Or when he comes home tired and dirty, with too much blood on his clothes because the fire was too strong and his powers could not control it. When he loses someone to the flames, he goes home and rips out whatever magazine or textbook she is holding, lifts her up and crushes her to his chest. He breathes her in like oxygen to his battered flame, and she lets him hold her. After a while, she cradles him like a baby and rocks him to sleep.
They both stay there, on the floor, for hours.
(She is his pillar. Like the fire he represents and yields, he needs a constant he can rely on, a steadiness to balance his flickering light.
The years have tempered the flame inside of him but like a mistress she can bring it to life with a snap of her fingers, or tame it with a gentle touch of her hands.
He has accepted this, but wonders whether she has. Sometimes, he thinks she is scared of the power she holds over him. She shouldn't be.
He trusts her with everything he holds dear.
She trusts him, too. Implicitly.)
iiv.
They think I cannot see, but it is too obvious.
They do not make eyes at each other, at least not the glittering shiny pantomime of affection any schoolgirl would refer to. They do not hold hands or put their arms around each other's waists (although maybe they do, but they will never do it in front of us).
It is the small things.
His eyes on her, when he first enters the room – like any good fireman, scanning the premise for points of exit and possible hazards – and he stops on her figure for a millisecond, taking a quick inventory of possible injuries, maladies or ailments. Her mood, the clothes she is wearing that day. Her laugh.
Her hand on his shoulder, when she gets up to go to the bathroom – Will is sitting at her side and she smiles at him and tells him where she is going – but her boyfriend is not the one she trusts to support her slight frame.
The easy banter, the cheeky grins – the uncomfortable knowledge we all share when we realize there is an inside joke we are not aware of.
(Something about jerks and cheese and tuxedos. Magenta tries to explain to me that there are things they have together that we are not part of. That this is normal in a close friendship. She thinks I do not understand.
Sometimes, I think I understand too well.)
"Zach?" I hear Ethan calling for me from the living room. "We're gonna miss the game. You coming?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in a second." I say, as I turn away from Warren and Layla in the kitchen, his whole body wrapped around her while she tosses the salad. They have not heard me, too lost in a world of their own.
Moments like these I have learnt to keep to myself. Being the one who always arrives earliest, I try to make as much noise as possible to give them time to return to us; before Magenta, Ethan or Will see them.
Their love is a fragile one, teetering on the edge, a waterfall (of impropriety).
There is little I can do for them, but I will try.
…If only for the adorable children they will have. I really hope they name one after me.
.
END.
...OR NOT?
Feels good to be back ;) Review and Favorite? Pretty please? I may have a surprise for you... So Follow too, please :D
Crys