Embers
The fire crackled softly, its light casting a soft glow over the young woman's features as she stared unseeing into the light, letting the warmth flow into her until she could feel it in her bones.
Twenty-five year old Lydia Martin sat on the chilled floor of her mother's house. There were no lights on and the new moon made her feel as if the darkness surrounding her was a blanket she could almost feel.
Despite the heat of the flames licking at the logs in front of her, something deeper than even her bones began to shiver. The nightmare had not left her, even in this waking moment.
She recalled how the flames in her dreams had reached for her, the hisses and pops of people dying haunted her. Good people dying all around. And she couldn't save them. Couldn't put the fire out.
She knew whose eyes she was seeing through, felt his pain and despair.
When she awoke with tears flowing down her face, she knew that no amount of water could quench the flames of her nightmare. How she longed to reach out and comfort what wasn't there. She mourned those whose faces she had never seen.
"Mom?!" she had called out before realizing: she was all alone.
She had flown out of her bed and down the stairs, into the living room and collapsed in front of the fireplace.
When her sobs no longer racked her body and her stomach no longer threatened to empty itself, she had stared at the box of matches by her knees.
There was nothing to be afraid of.
But when the match had scratched against the rough board of the box, she only heard a helpless child's screams. When the wood started to crackle and burn, Lydia only heard the wails of a mother who would not leave her children behind.
She shook her head to clear the pulse of pain behind her eyes, the burning red of flames and the memory of the red of his eyes blurred within her until she almost screamed.
This was why she had left town. She had been willing to leave this town behind as long as she could sleep at night. It had worked. The nightmares had stopped and she had been able to move on; new town, new home, loving fiance...
She looked down at the silver band wrapped around her finger. Loving? Then why was she so alone right now?
God, she needed a drink.
The clock on the wall softly chimed twelve as she crossed the room to the liquor cabinet her mother had kept well stocked for entertaining company. She poured herself some brandy and turned to put the bottle back in the cupboard. She smiled slightly: was brandy very ladylike? It was then that a voice broke the darkness right behind her shoulder.
"How was your flight?"
She gasped and spun around. She lost her grip on the glass and winced as it started to fall from her hand. He reached down and caught it effortlessly, just inches before it hit the ground. He straightened and held the glass near her face, his eyebrows raised cheekily, as if it were a peace offering.
Her eyes met his enigmatic blue ones for the first time in years. She immediately felt as if she were drowning and had to look away for a moment to remember how to breathe. When she managed to look back at him, she hoped she was just as unreadable to him as he was to her.
Her eyes flickered to the glass in his hand. She almost sighed. He was already in her house, might as well be hospitable.
"No. You keep that one. I'll fix another."
She turned to the cabinet and pulled the bottle and a glass out again. When she turned back around, he was only a step away from her, still staring with that unreadable expression on his face. She couldn't help but think he looked a little lost.
"Go on," she said, "Take a seat."
He moved to sit on one end of the sofa, the end furthest away from the fireplace, she noted. The silence between them unnerved her, not because it was awkward, but because it was quite the opposite. She felt no need to fill the air with words or noise. She was comfortable and felt safe, even with him there. Such familiarity was off-putting.
She chewed her lip gently as she looked at the back of his head.
It had been years since she had felt real fear, yet the only thing she found frightening now was her lack of terror. Where did the tears go? The screams?
Thinking of screams only reminded her of the reason she was awake. She grimaced as her head throbbed again. She was scared, but not of the present.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said - more for her own benefit than his: it felt good to say and she had waited a long time to be able to make it known - as she walked toward the sofa, sitting sideways on the other end so she could face him completely. She pulled her knees up to her chest as she took a quick sip from her glass.
"I know."
He responded almost teasingly as he too took a drink. Lydia couldn't help but let her eyes flicker quickly to his lips as he sipped before forcing herself to look away. Her heart skipped a beat at the situation and she knew he could hear.
He placed his drink on the coffee table before turning to look her in the face.
"I'm sorry."
Her mind snapped into focus as she glared at him. Did he really want to ruin the calm by resurrecting old ghosts? She wasn't ready to yell and scream at him. She wasn't ready to spit out the fire lurking behind her tongue, the fire that hoped to burn him again and again.
"What?"
"Your mother," he explained. He could sense the unspoken implications on the air. The atmosphere between them had changed. Yet as she distanced herself from the idea that their past could be ignored, she felt an electricity surge between them. The passion of the past was what burned through the two of them, no matter how messed up it had been.
"Oh." She grimaced and finished her drink in one go before setting her own glass down. She fought to find the words to explain how she felt.
"Everyone saw it coming. I'm lucky to have been there with her. It was peaceful. I just-"
Oh no. More tears began to arrive. They swam in her eyes before spilling over and down her cheeks. Hot and angry, not the cold sorrow that came after the screaming in her head died down.
"I've finished mourning. I started to prepare myself as soon as she called me. And at least it was natural. She got to live and die like she was meant to."
He had killed people. People who were not meant to go so soon. And she reminded him. The fire inside her burned, begging to be let out. "N-nothing was cut short."
Lydia felt sick again. Why was she telling him this? Instead of a biting statement about his murderous ways, the words had come out as a plea for comfort.
He gazed at her. She thought she saw a hint of sorrow on his face, but her vision was too blurry for her to trust its judgement.
"Lydi-"
"Don't. Please don't." The words came out broken and cracked.
Had he truly broken her? Or was she not as whole as she thought she was?
She had always thought she could rebuild herself, but now she realized there was too much debris inside of her. So she let it out. She let it all flow out in sobs and sighs.
Lydia pressed her face into her knees and wrapped her arms around herself. She tried to focus on breathing and slowing her racing mind down.
Stupid, stupid!
She could let the debris come out later. She shouldn't allow him to see how broken she was, he might be proud of his handiwork.
All at once, she felt his arms engulf her and heard his voice trying to soothe her with quiet nothings.
He has so warm.
This all felt so wrong. Could she trust him? He walked right in as if they were old friends and she fixed him a drink and showed him her tears. But in this moment, this living nightmare that is theirs alone, they were together.
So wrong, but so right.
It was like gravity, the way she repositioned her body to be closer to him. He moved with her, until she was relaxed along the couch, her head against his chest, one hand placed tenderly on his knee. His arms were around her and she felt him begin to play with her hair self indulgently.
She almost sighed with contentment, but didn't want to give him the pleasure. Her sobs had died as quickly as they had come and she was still, almost peaceful. His fingers moved on from the almost innocent gesture of tangling his fingers softly in her strawberry locks; he began to sensuously dance his fingers on her neck and down her spine. Lydia shivered, this time not because of the cold.
Two can play at that game, she thought. Smirking slightly, she slowly moved her hand along his knee, nearing his thigh. She stopped at his sudden intake of breath, too exhausted to continue the game without placing all her weaknesses between them. If he had shown up in the morning, she would have played to the end, but she was vulnerable in her grief and lack of sleep.
His reaction, the sudden gasp, confused her. He was the immovable, the quiet, menacing passion that burned bright but was always hidden in the shadows. He was the fire that swept through the debris in her dreams, leaving only ashes; light as feathers and drifting through her thoughts.
Yet the night has been nothing but comfort and quiet. His nearness was warmer than ever before, even though he was quiet and calm; still immovable, only more honest.
She burned again with the need to tell him the truth, that he had not left her completely. He still lingered in corners and the shadows of the corners, making her strong by joining his flame with hers. She had learned to accept her fire and let it burn, leaving a trial of broken academic records and astonished classmates in her wake.
She found herself stuck in her indecision, but he didn't give her a chance at working through her thoughts. His hand slid down her arm and captured her own. His fingers gently twisted the ring on her finger. She glanced up at him and waited for the inevitable question.
"Who?"
She sighed at the feeling of that electricity between them fading. He was not threatening, only inquisitive. His lack of anger or jealousy, no matter how misplaced it would be, reminded her that he could not care less for her. Come back to reality, Lydia.
"His name is Mark," she answered. She had decided she could not be malicious or cunning when she answered him.
"Does he love you?"
She was so startled by his directness, so appalled and stunned by the innocent framing of his words, that she pulled away from his arms and sat up. Her hand flew up to slap his face and he let her hit him. She knew he could have stopped it.
"Of course he does! What kind of a questi-" He interrupted her by brushing his finger across her bottom lip and moving them to rest on her cheek, his gaze piercing her.
"Your mother is dead and you are alone."
She gulped and gasped at the coolness in his voice. He was speaking nothing but the truth and it hurt to hear it. I have a business meeting, Mark had said, I can't get time off.
"He..." she paused and looked at Peter. He was still staring at her, allowing his eyes to travel over her face and neck. His expression had changed, however imperceptible the change was. He seemed more distant than he had been moments before, but even then he looked gentler, softer.
"Lydia," he said again. His other hand caressed her other cheek and she found she had subconsciously wrapped her small hands around his wrists. His eyes moved back to hers and she felt for the first time that there was no pretense, no pretend sympathy or a guarding wall in the way of his emotions. "I am sorry."
She didn't know how to respond in the moments after that declaration. What was he apologizing for? His question? What he had done to her? As she found herself growing still beneath his calming hands, she made a decision. She would tell him.
"You're wrong," she said looking at him. "I'm not alone."
He tilted his head but allowed her to continue without interjection.
"Do you think you left me completely unaltered?" She drew herself up. He was tense now, but didn't seem hostile to hearing her out. It came again, the debris, the pain. She winced as her head pounded with the screams. The dying fire behind her popped, startling her into continuing, louder than she expected.
"I hear them. I dream about them dying and screaming and I-" She glared at him, trying to make him understand. "I can't mourn them. I didn't know them. No one would know why it hurts so much. But it does."
"You," he stopped, clearly not prepared for what she had said. She managed to squash her pride at her ability to make him tongue-tied. It was an art she had barely perfected before moving away after her graduation. After working up the courage to face him, and especially after what had happened with Jackson, she had relished the moments when she had power over the man before her, no matter how short lived they had been. But this was not the time to try and rile him, she was only telling him the truth, not attempting to hurt him.
She pulled away from him and let go of his wrists, rising from the couch as she did so.
"You and I," he tried again. He reached for her and caught her hand as she stood and turned away from him. She pulled her hand away and raised it to hit him again, but decided against it. He took it again, relentless. She stared at the dying embers and wondered if there was a way to escape everything. I'll sell the house and never come back. Mom's gone, she won't care or need me to return.
She pulled again, insistent but gentle this time. Her hand drifted back to her side and she found herself remembering the night she had helped him come back. He was looking up at her in much the same way she had looked up at him, lost and in awe.
Peter stood and towered over her. Lydia sighed and looked back at the fire before turning back to him. His hands found her shoulders and she waited for him to finish. Her eyes were stinging, but she refused to cry.
"You and I. We can mourn them," he said, his eyes searching hers. "Together."
She took in a shaky breath and let herself relax into his chest. She heard his heart beat faster as she fit into him perfectly. She was burning again, but the screams faded from her head at the contact. The pulse in her mind slowed and faded away as she stood, swaying slowly in his welcoming arms. She smiled bitterly and spoke.
"You were wrong," she said. "I'm not alone, not tonight."
She pulled away enough to look at him. He repositioned his hands to gently encircle her waist. This would only last for so long. She would leave and he would not hold her back, not anymore. But tonight, they were not alone, the only witnesses to the nightmare they now shared. His fault, she reminded herself. But the comfort he offered was too precious for her to push him away.
Peter moved a hand slowly up her back and wrapped his fingers one by one in her hair. She felt his mouth hover over hers before he lowered his lips in a searing kiss. Her breath caught when she felt her back being lowered onto the couch. He growled as she deepened the kiss, allowing him full access to her mouth as her hand traveled down his sculpted chest.
She kissed him and kissed him because she knew they both needed it. She held him and made love to him because she knew the morning would be different. She burned with him even after the fire of their past.
The embers burn hotter long after the flame itself has died.
The End.