title: aware
summary: His skin is salt and male and Dom, and she wonders why they never did this before. Kel/Dom.
notes: Was supposed to be sweet. Something went wrong. Five minute ficlet. Adult situations
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sight
She sees his courage in his hands stained with old scars, and his humanity in the tears he tries to hide - grown men don't cry glistening tears that turn cloudy mixed with blood. His grief is written with blood stains on his tunic, and desperation is four half moon crescents on his palms where nails bitten to the quick gouged the callused flesh.
He staggers to his feet, drunk with shock. She wants to go to him. To hold him and let him cry his grief into her arms. But grown men don't cry, and she is a warrior in armour today, not a woman with a soft smile and sweet smelling skin in which he can pound away his sorrows.
She sees her best friend on the forest floor, green fire cold, and thinks maybe they were right all along. Grown woman cry – they are not meant to be warriors.
sound
She lies in her tent flat on her back and listens to the rain. It thunders and roars and crashes with the wind against the trees. There is a drip drip drip next to her head and the drip drip drip is steady like a drum or the beat of a heart. She listens to the drip drip drip and imagines it as his heart still beating but it's an imaginary dream and Kel was never good at pretending.
His footsteps are hidden by the rain; they rustle and murmur over wet grass and she doesn't hear him until the canvas of her tent rustles beneath his fingers. She listens to the thud as his boots drop to the muddy earth, and the whisper of his stockinged feet as they carry him toward her.
In the silence of the tent she can hear the drip drip drip of Dom's heart as it pounds in his chest. His muddled thoughts scream silently from behind confused eyes. He's calling for her, she thinks, and holds out her hand for him.
touch
His fingers are callused as her own, rough and hard. They rub against her wrist and she imagines he can feel the flutter of pulse. His cheek is rough like a sharpening stone and angled with grief. Beneath her fingers his hair is wet silk.
She touches his lips with a thumb and feels the rough wetness of his tongue when they part. They shouldn't be doing this, she thinks, as his breath blesses her finger and his hands tug at her tunic. Her hands follow the planes of his chest and trace the dips between his ribs.
The warm air wraps around her shoulders, thick down lined with cool satin. She shivers and lies back on her bedroll; he covers her with his body and comforts her with his weight.
She closes her eyes and watches him with her fingers. He traces her skin like a fine porcelain design, and she thinks Neal never touched her like this. Like a woman.
She kisses him with her lips and banishes her grief from her bed.
taste
The taste of his smile kisses her soul. His skin is salt and male and Dom, and she wonders why they never did this before. His swallows her sighs and licks away her tears; when he pushes against her she thinks maybe she tastes something that reminds her of love.
The shell of his ear is cinnamon and the cavern of his mouth a hot apple pie against the cold of the night. He nips her bruised plum lips and whispers that she tastes like fine wine.
She is drunk on his kisses and full of his warmth; there is no room now for the bitter taste of grief.
smell
Morning smells like old leather, mud and the rustle of feathers. The air is stale and still.
If she closes her eyes she finds a trace of cinnamon and steel, but her sheets reek of dry sweat and old sex.
Her bed is empty and cold and smells of regret.
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Feedback, reviews and constructive criticism are very much wanted, and appreciated even more!