A/N: I start a lot of sentences with 'And'. I know it's bad, but...I like it. XD I blame my POV choice. Oh! I have a deviant art. (shamelessly plugs) its capn-nomy . deviantart . com. (take out the spaces)
Um...yea...this is a companion fic to Thumbelina...which I think I rated a bit high. But whatever. This fic was edited by my loverlie friend who does not particularly like this fandom. I made her. BECAUSE I COULD. I don't really like it as much as Thumbelina...cos it's longer. But...I think it's pretty good for something written at 2:30 in the morning, yes?
The title of this fic means "In the absence of". It's latin. I thought it fitting. Meh.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Danny Phantom. 'nuff said.
He watched her every morning as she stretched out beside of him, her smooth curves blurred through thick lashes and heavily lidded eyes. He watched as she sat up, running a hand through tangled hair as she cringed at the onslaught of sunlight, cursing softly.
His would close and he would savor this, these feelings, this closeness. He savored every second that he was with her, for every second together could be their last. People would always ask him why they were curled so close together all of the time, always touching, wrapped about in each others heat. He would respond with what he felt was true, and sometimes they would stare incredulously. Sometimes, they would scoff. Closeness like that can ruin a relationship, they would say.
But he would merely shake his head, disagreeing silently as he tugged her closer to his side, feeling his heart beat faster. For some people, for most, what they said could be true, but for them, never. Most people never had to deal with ghost hunting, fighting, with the pressures of protecting a whole bustling city from the evil that lurked one ghost portal away.
They couldn't know, would never know. Their lives could end in a second, sure, from a car crash or a robbery. But they wouldn't ever have to worry about a secret being exposed, seeing the mutilated remains of their lover on the television as they were poked and prodded and dissected by scientists. They would never have to deal with the desecration of his grave if he were to die after revealing his deepest secret.
They would never understand the worry, the hurt, the desperation, or the pain.
And it was of these things he would muse as he stretched lazily in her bed. He would watch her and be content for as long as he could. He would watch her as she watched him, with hungry eyes, devouring every inch of pale smooth skin, burning it to memory, branding the image into his mind deeper and more searing than anything else could ever do.
He knew for a fact that she would worry when he was gone. For a minute. For an hour. For the day. He knew that she wouldn't be able to concentrate without him, so dependant she had become. So fixated, so obsessed. Like a ghost, he gave a silent chuckle. So warped and wrapped into his being that without him their she was incomplete.
And it was inevitable that she would come home every night without him. He would fight because he had to. Because it was his responsibility. Because he loved her. He would fight until the strain would push his muscles to their most extreme, until he felt that he would break under the pressure, until he was about to explode. And when it was over, when he hurt the most, he would come home to her.
Exhausted he would come to their bed, where she would be waiting to dress his injuries, an expression of pain on her face. Tears would drip silently down her cheeks from time to time, depending on the ferocity of the lacerations on his face and back that they knew would be gone by morning. She would blame herself, turning away in humiliation, not knowing that this was what hurt him the most.
He would pull her up to look at him, forcing her to watch as he told her that it wasn't her fault. That he couldn't let her come with him. Couldn't let her get hurt. Couldn't loose the one person he loved more than anything in the entire universe. He would whisper these things, his throat sometimes aching from all of the yelling in his fights.
She would cry then, feeling like a monster, he knew, for letting him comfort her when she knew it was he who needed it the most. They would press close, her fingers sliding across his bare chest as he pulled her close, their lips locking in the throes of a passionate kiss that spiraled out of control.
He would push her back, drawing her shirt over her head.
She would whimper his name as he she drew him down, comforting him in the most elemental of ways. In the only way they knew how.
And it was afterwards that they would slump together, bodies hot and deliciously aching. They would curl close, murmuring, kissing, touching. That would be how morning found them, pressed together. And she would always wake first, her stirring wrenching him out of his cat-like sleep. She wouldn't know it, and he would let her observe him in the morning light, let her run her fingers over his face in an affectionate gesture they both knew she would never do when he was awake.
He would let himself come to reality slowly, opening his eyes. He would look up at her, a soft smile gracing his lips, and he would whisper her name in that raspy sensuous voice that would make her want to fall back against him and stay forever, though they both know she had to be at work in an hour.
"Sam..."
A/N: To those who read Thumbelina...notice anything familiar about the last paragraph?
Oh...and...if you have the time...please review. They're much appreciated.