This plot bunny attacked me yesterday at 2 am. Who am I to refuse my muses?
Feedback would really, really be appreciated, especially regarding the spelling and such; as English isn't my native language. And I swear, the last line isn't meant to be taken sexually. It just came that way.
Dedicated to all of the amazing folks at Harry's, Love you all, guys!
Through the Glass
By: Nekare
The glass is cold beneath her fingers, the autumn winds carrying a blue hat on the other side of the window, a young girl running after it with pink cheeks and mirth in her laughter. A dead leaf falls from a tree, deep orange tinted with blood red – and maybe that's the color of Death's lips, Robin ponders quietly. The wind takes it along for a ride in midair, a swirling, dancing, dead leaf. Another one falls.
One. Two. Three.
And the third one bursts into flames.
The ashes fly in the air, carried away into nothingness at the same time Robin leans her forehead on the window with closed eyes. Her lack of control can't help but disappoint her (she refuses to take pride on the fact that her aim is now perfect), her lack of will to stop the power that is searching desperately for an outlet from her lithe form. She sighs, slow and long.
"What was that?" Asks Amon from the chair across the hotel room. Robin opens her eyes and she can see his reflection on the window, his gaze fixed on her.
"Nothing. It was nothing." She knows he won't believe it, but he'll let it pass; at least for now. They have been cooped up for a week already, and both of them are feeling the strain, boredom becoming the dark thoughts both try (and fail) to avoid. There's only too many times a man can clean his weapons. And Robin has already tried seven hew hairstyles, becoming weirder with the day.
(They're also thinking about each other, far more than what is legally allowed, and the proximity isn't helping. The excuses to use the bathroom are getting old.)
The air is stale on the room, a hint of lemon scented disinfectant on every surface, cleaning being the one hobby Robin allows herself along with becoming the stalker of every single living thing outside the window, green eyes following them as if she could breathe for them, taste the fresh air – no matter how polluted – of the open streets. The window has become Robin's property. Amon stares at the television with glazed eyes instead. Thinking is overrated, he muses.
There's only one bed in the room, and Amon's been complaining about the couch; implying (a threat disguised) she's going to sleep in there if she keeps on using her craft so liberally. She still wonders how he can treat her like an adult one moment, and the next speak to her as if she was a mere child. It is one of his more infuriating traits.
They trust each other now, but neither can say they actually know the other one, not even after a year together on the run.
(It's funny, how they're still strangers).
Amon stares at her, his index moving with a nervous tic. Robin keeps on looking at his reflection, no one talking. She breathes again on the glass, intentionally this time; warm breath tinting it white with moisture. She keeps their eyes locked as her finger forms the familiar katakana character.
A, she writes.
There's only one bed, and neither wants to be alone.