Disclaimer: I don't own Elisabeth, and, unfortunately, I don't own Jack. Or Will, for that matter. Damn. I struck out.
A/N(s): This is dedicated to hpaddicteDG, and partly to MSN for bringing me my daily horoscope, which brought me the inspiration to write. Hahaha.
Also, know that I have this confusing thing, which you'll see in the story, and in several of my others, where I include the phrases and periods and all that nice stuff. Don't know why, but hey, you'll have to be on the top of your game; don't get confused.
Another note to all of yall's: He (in the bold) refers to Will, and He (without the bold), refers to Jack, as you'll see.
Okay, one more note. I know the whole rose-petal thing (loves me-loves me not) is incredibly overdone, but I tried to twist this one up a bit.
Oh yeah...can't you tell I'm original with titles? ;)
Enjoy!
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"He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not." Plucking soft petals from thorned thicket, her finger ran over a jagged thorn and the sharp prick brought tears to her eyes, though not from thorn, but from petal-
"He loves me not..."
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"He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me..." As the final bloodred petal fluttered to the ground, she smiled daintily. She went about the house, completing daily chores, secretly waiting for her escape- waiting to hear-
"Rose..."
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He stood there, calling her by the name he and only he used. She knew she was precious to him, and he to her, but this could never be revealed. She smiled at him, and silently prayed the preoccupation of her first thorn wouldn't turn up for just a few more minutes. Just a few more hours. Just a few more...just a few...just more...just him...
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"I love him. I love him not. I love him. I love him not.. I love him ..." She was whispering now, on the verge of tears. As the last victim of this stemmed obsession of hers was pulled, she whispered, "I love him not." As the torn stem hit the floor, he opened the door.
"Come to bed, Liz."Liz. Almost mocking. LizNot Rose. Not his Rose. Not his.
"Just a moment..."
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"I love him. I love him not. I love him. I love him not." Weeks later, eyes sagging, torn as the rose, she sat there, feeding the addiction, pulling the petals, alone. Craving to hear the words whispered, as toxic and as wonderful as fantasy could allow, she sat on the floor, crying out the words in painful whisper. "I love him. I love him not. I love him."
"He loves you. He loves you not. He loves you. He loves you not. He loves you." At this whisper, softer than the harshness others knew as his, he smiled as he took her hands. Kissing them, he pressed in them a gift, and this time both thorns and petals made her cry, sweet tears of longing and of realisation. The gift to her. He loved her. His gift. The rose. His Rose.