In those rare, still places between war, Vanessa Kimball, leader of the New Republic of Chorus, dreams.
Not proper dreams, not the ones that happen when heads are cradled in pillows too soft to be real, but the ones that happen fully armored, hand resting on her gun even as she's on "break."
Vanessa sighs quietly – because in this moment she can be Vanessa – as she watches the greenish-blue waves from the lake lap at the banks, watches the way the water recedes and leaves the ground glowing an ominous shade of too-green-for-grass. There's a low fog on the water, making the lake's backdrop turn into a muggy gray. It's enough to dampen her already dwindling spirits though, when she let's her mind wander, she can almost swear she can see lights peaking out above the gloom that has been lingering on the horizon.
She doesn't dream anymore, the best possible rest she can ask for being the ones that are mercifully silent, but she can still daydream, can still have some control of where her mind drifts off to in the quiet moments of daylight, so she does.
Vanessa imagines a shoulder, set at the perfect height for her to lean her tan, scar streaked cheek on. She imagines sighing, having an arm wrap protectively around her waist as she leans heavily into the side of her imaginary partner. She imagines a chuckle, the barest wisp of breath ruffling her newly graying-black hair, and a kiss being laid on the crown of her head. She imagines leaning her head back, having the cave ceiling disappear and, instead, having the twinkle of stars there to greet her, empty of war ships and laser fire.
These daydreams are always the same, always soft and sweet, though the characters on the stage change. She doesn't know what makes them change (though she supposes no one else does either) but she's never unhappy with what she sees.
Sometimes it's a man, quiet and calm. A wall, a reassuring presence. Someone she can stay up all night talking with without having to guard herself, without having to be a leader. She imagines a large, warm hand intertwining with her own, the callouses on his fingers rubbing against her equally rough skin. He'll smile warmly at her, encouraging her to go on without ever having to say a word and she'll smile, softly, privately, a smile saved for these moments.
He'll make her tea even though Vanessa has always preferred coffee. She'll complain and he'll only smile, a few degrees shy of a smirk, placing the warm cup in her hands as he sits beside her, arm draped comfortingly over her shoulders as she sips her tea, the warm liquid working wonders in making her eyelids flutter, slipping shut as her fingers barely hold onto the cup. She'll wake up in her bed, clad in her favorite pajamas, the ones that are the softest from years of use, with her partner's hand held lightly in hers.
Sometimes she imagines a woman, all smiles and happy laughter. She's bright in every way, kind, but takes none of Vanessa's shit. The woman will place her hands on Vanessa's shoulders and Vanessa will have to look up at her, watching as an expression of sternness settles into her features. No, Vanessa will not go out on patrol again, not for the third night in a row. Her partner can see the bruises smudged under Vanessa's brown eyes, can see the way that frown lines have worried their way along the edges of Vanessa's mouth, under her eyes, across her forehead. Her partner would lean down, kissing gently at each of the lines, stopping to press two light kisses on her forehead, head leaning down to rest against it when she's through.
Her partner will step back, offering her hand out with an imploring gesture, and it won't be fair: the use of the woman's dimples was a dirty, dirty cheat, one that her partner would know always warmed Vanessa's heart, and Vanessa will crumble, placing her hand in her partner's as she's lead to their bed, the both of them helping to get the other into pajamas, before slipping under the covers, Vanessa radioing to one of the other soldiers to take over her patrol before her partner lightly plucks the radio from her hand, setting it on one of the crates she used as a nightstand, before settling behind her, arm laying across Vanessa's abdomen, fingers absently playing with a frayed sting on her t-shirt.
And sometimes, on days when Vanessa is feeling particularly lonely, she'll latch onto the thoughts that told her that her love was endless and that there was plenty for more than one person to hold; she'll feel equal pulls to both of her fantasies, feel each of her hands held tightly in the phantom grip of partners that do not exist, and she'll march on, continuing her patrol with a gun in one hand, a knife in the other, and the hope that one day she'll have something else to hold.
A/N: The title comes from the song "A Kiss from a Rose" by Seal. It's quite lovely.
Written for doc-emily-grey on tumblr since he made a post about Asexual Biromantic Kimball (I added the polyamory).
Thanks for reading!