If he'd known it would be the last time that their lips met, he would have savoured it, would have let it linger longer in spite of the danger before them. As it was, he could taste the worry and rising temper on his lips, the whiskey and cigarettes of the last few months of isolation, the gentleness which was always there simmering below the surface. Gentleness which had been thrown aside for so long resurrected in recent times.
It was a rush, as these things tend to be before a battle. They'd gotten so used to that in the last war, worn it like a second skin – murmured words and quick kisses beforehand, moaned gasps and lovebites afterwards, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, revelling in being alive.
(Not this time. Never again. One battle too many, as was always bound to happen, and he'd always been a reckless risk-taker, should have been more careful so many times, but as always letting his heart rule him a little more than his head. And in the end, of course that proved fatal. Though the knowledge is no comfort now.)
Grey eyes and long dark hair. They possess his mind, haunting him, so that when he can't sleep as so often happens (mind filled with the image of a silhouette forever falling into a veil and NO! JUST STOP IT NOW!) he can hear the bark of a laugh and it tears at his heart.
If he'd known it was the last time. . . Well, there's no place for that now.