Subjective Holyness

by RadianceRose

When Damien is away, Pip is left with little things to hold on to him by, like his scent and his sweater. Pip's musings on the warmth of a memory and the subjectivitity of what is holy. Very short, but, as all Pip for me turns out, poetic. Damien/Pip.

I smiled, hugging my arms around myself tightly, holding my knees pressed to my chest. The much-too-big black sweater felt softer than velvet against my skin, and so safe, not like a bomb shelter, but like there were no bombs dropping in the first place. I was warm, and I was safe, and I was happy. The embrace of his borrowed sleeves was second best only to that of his arms. It was really rare for him to notice anyone's discomfort, even more for him to actually care.

A shiver shot up my spine. It was exhilarating, being cared for for once by someone who everyone else though incapable of caring for anyone. The sleeves, too long for my short, petite body, dwarfed and covered my slight hands completely. I could feel myself grinning rather foolishly, but in the solitude of my own bedroom, I didn't care. There was no coat in the world, no fire, that could be warmer than this felt. I could never give this back, I realized. It was just one of his monochrome sweaters, but just then, it felt more home than the room I was sitting in. I pulled my bare knees up underneath so that my entire body was curled up inside the sweater together. It was so, so warm. I sighed happily and brought one cuff up to my face, burrying my nose in the dark fabric. It smelled like him too. Like almonds and brimstone.

I sighed, contented, completely covered the lingering essence of the magnificent creature that was Damien which clung to the fabric tightly. Once again, I drifted off to sleep wrapped in his scent, many, many miles away from wherever he was. My hand clasped the little necklace he'd given me on his last visit. I had been raised Catholic, sure, but nothing felt more holy to me at that moment, in my last seconds of consiousness before I passed into the world of my dreams, than the tarnished silver of the Devil's inverted cross.

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Author's Drabble:

Hurrah. It's Damien/Pip!

…why yes. I DO live vicariously through fanfiction, however did you guess?

I like the idea that Damien smells like brimstone and almonds, don't you? I think it fits. I think Pip would smell like strawberries and amber. Or maybe lilacs.

With appologies that this is SO short,

~RadianceRose