Written for my fellow Happy HP Shippers over on Twitter.
I don't own Criminal Minds, and I don't profit in monetary ways, just pleasure! This potentially would fit into the end of Season 6, but no episode spoilers, and it is 'vague', and those of you who have read Lake Erie may recognise the setting.
Reviews appreciated, even though this is short, it took ages to write!
Ribbons of Red
Ribbons of red cloud residing on an evening sunset. The twisting of an autumn leaf as it pirouettes down, falling prey to gravity and time. She colours everything.
There is a lilt to the early night, a swing in its step, a sway in its waltz. Its redness colours the black, colours him, reflecting on the lake, and on him; his heart; his mind. Always on his mind. Here, a year ago, almost to the day, she stood with her back to the water, the golden hues of the leaves, of the dying sun, framing her, warming her, warming them.
Her laughter bloomed then, and echoes now, as he waits again for her arrival. Tomorrow will bring her, ribbons of red in every shade swaying in the breeze as she colours everything alive once more. For he has missed her, even though it has only been two nights and two days, it has been too long.
They've both missed her. The walls are beige and plain without her laugh, her smile. The way she would light up the lake even at midnight. He misses her. But the night has begun to sing, he can hear it in his heart, in the leaves that remain and in the clouds painted countless shades of red.
She favours red. The colour of roses, of hearts, of blood and stop signs. As vibrant as the colour, as the life it symbolises. She's painted him, them, in its shades and others. She colours everything alive, making his beat, race, relax and he misses her, even though it has only been two days and two nights, it has been too long.
Birds fly across the ribbons of red cloud, darkening shadows, night keeping its promise. Soon he'll close his eyes, wrapped in blankets that still hold her scent, a mattress imprinted by them holding him. And when he closes his eyes he'll see colour, ever deepening, ever bright. For she is a painter, an artist, the decorator of his smile, his laugh, his son's laugh. She colours everything, and has done for as long as he wants to remember. His days are no longer sepia filled, tepid, without the fire he never thought he'd desire to have. Instead they have shape, an empire of rubies and diamonds and sapphires that glint when she is there, colouring everything, even the night...
...and its mares that run through his mind still, darkening his sleep, his conscious less state. Fingers awake, trailing over his skin, creating fire, red hot and cool breath uttering words that soothe and shift the madness of his job from his mind. She is a soporific, a saint and his sinner, when red lips colour skin and make his blood burn. The winter wind does nothing to turn his mind from firm, pale skin from which his own fingers have learnt every curve, every sway, every urge her body makes. He would give her everything, right here, right now, sat on the banks of this lake with a darkening sky, the red now only in his mind. But she colours everything.
Even now, when she is not here, and even though it has only been two days and two nights, it has been too long. And he longs for her laughter, her words and her touch to colour everything bright again and make his life the masterpiece that will sit above the mantelpiece of his memory; his final true love. Too far away a day to contemplate.
For tomorrow she will be there, by the lake, trailing ribbons of red in every shade, clearing the mist and remains of night with her colour. Painting his life.
She colours everything.