A/N: This is somewhat of a sister piece to "Irish Eyes". Well, maybe more of a second cousin, twice removed…I don't know…If you read "Irish Eyes" first, it'd probably be best. Anyways, read, review, and enjoy!
~Larien~
I have him here once again. Laid out on his back across his own desk, stripped from that over-priced suit, face sweat-dampened, glasses nowhere to be found. His eyes are tightly shut and he's biting down on his right pointer finger to stifle the screams. The sweat has washed away the concealer, showing the scar. I both love and hate that blemish.
I love it because it is the ultimate testament to his devotion. It's like a sign, proclaiming to the world that he will protect what is his. It shows that he will give up his life to keep safe what he holds most dear. It shows his strength, his will to survive, his ability to grow stronger. No one is stronger than my battle-scarred lover. It is in this way he is different. He is unlike any other lover I've known. He is more precious to me than even my own life.
And that is why I hate the scar. I hate it for obvious reasons. It mars his once-immaculate face. It distorts that robotic perfection I find endearing. But I also hate it for far less superficial reasons. These reasons are rooted more strongly in my heart. It's proof. Proof that he was taken away. Proof that I was alone for nine months with no way to truly fill that void. Proof that someone was able to overpower him. Proof that I was powerless to protect him.
It's proof that he is mortal.
I look down into the hazel eyes now staring up at me in fear and realize I had let myself get caught up in my anger. I've never had much self-control in that aspect of my life. I soften my facial features to express my remorse. I loosen my death grip on his hips and then notice the small, crimson, crescent-shaped marks. I sheath myself fully inside him and lean down to pepper kisses along his collarbone. They are kisses of both apology and adoration. He moans deep and low in his throat and allows his left hand to caress my bare, freckled shoulder. Before long, it drifts down to find the golden locket still clasped around my neck, the one containing his picture. I look up again to find silent tears slipping down his cheeks. My heart nearly shatters as I reach up to wipe them away.
It is no longer appropriate for me to complete our previous act. I gently extract myself and gather the weeping man into my arms. I sit down in his plush desk chair and pull him into my lap. I cradle him against my chest, pressing gentle kisses into his soft, brunette hair and allowing him to let it all out. He weeps freely, allowing himself the comfort of being human only in my presence. It is our mutual, unspoken understanding that we can be our true selves only in each other's company. I find, again, that he is above any other lover I have had, male or female. My heart swells with all the love I hold for this man. I am not sure why he's crying, and it is not my place to question him. However, I feel the overwhelming need to reassure him, repeating over and over to him the words I feel he should hear.
"Ye're home. Ye're safe. I'll be yer shelter. I'll always be yer's. I love you."