Come closer

Set after Pascoe's death. Rated M. Reviews are always appreciated.

Their house was a dream. Kenna couldn't deny that but with the loss of Pascoe still raw in her heart, she didn't see the gleam of the sunlight on the timber floors or the broken walls Bash had forged together. Everything was clouded with grief. The Black Plague hung over them like terrible shroud

She sat on the lounge in front of the roaring fire. She heard his footsteps, then felt the weight of him sit down beside her.

Bash looked at her.

For the first time in weeks, Kenna wished he didn't. His eyes were the same colour as Pascoe's. She never realised that until now.

Suddenly his dry warm hands were on her neck. A gesture both soothing and forceful at the same time. Temperamental – like she is – like they are. He held her there, rough callouses scratching her as he slid his fingers warily up and down her neck. His breath hot on her face.

Comforting himself or comforting her – who knows?

Head against head – just resting against each other as if this is how it was supposed to be? As if there was no empty room for Pascoe or a smashed mirror in the bathroom, where she had thrown possessions at it in her anger. So uncalled for. Really.

Kenna didn't dare move. Didn't dare look at him. Afraid that he'll realise how empty she is and he too will disappear like Pascoe. His fingers signed across her skin, on her neck, her throat, in her hair, streaking across her face. She felt them trace her eyebrows, follow the arch of her nose, outline her lips.

He smelt like earth and air – a man of the forest through and through.

Her own fingers began to move too – across his scalp, caressing the millions of little hair that spiked up for attentions. That's real. It feels real. She felt the soft prickle against her face – a chaste kiss. That's real too.

She lifted her face up, drawing it away from him but the hand on her neck doesn't allow a wide breach, just enough so their eyes clash. Darkness against darkness.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm sorry for…" What was she sorry for? Smashing the mirror? Not being able to save Pascoe. For not being the happy dutiful wife that was expected?

"Hey." His hand ran up and down the bare stretch of her neck as if testing the waters. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Why us?" Even as the words slipped from her mouth, she felt childish saying them. Why all the loss? The betrayal? The heartache?

His mouth moved against hers, not kissing, just moves as if practicing what to say. What to answer. An impossible question.

"Damned if I know."

Suddenly, the grip around her neck hardened, forcing her mouth to meet his. Greedy, avaricious, single-minded, she gage into the sorrow, the wanting of him. She allowed his lips to drag her down beneath the surface, let them wash over her. The taste of him. Of penitence and life. And she thought, how can she survive, so much loss? It hurt too much.

But nothing mattered. Not now, with his tongue like that; the urgency, the teeth that clashed into hers. Make it go away. Make it better. You. I love you. Forehead knocked together, , noses rubbing, sneaking into crevices, behind ears, into hair. You. Lips and hands.

I love you.

She half expected him to come to his senses…that this is too soon…to raw. But there is no sense to his. Just hands, ablaze, fluid like hot oil, reaching, snatching, grabbing. The desperation of ripping at buttons, tugging at zippers, fighting with clothing. Scurrying to tug her shift up. The fabric got stuck around her and he wrenched it off impatiently hurting her ears in the process, her hair falling out in a mess across her face. Hurried as if he was afraid this moment too, will disappear – be stolen from them.

And oh, Oh. She came undone. The gentle life of his hands, warm and large. Fingers drawing, painting, circling. She wanted him, even in rawness and vulnerability. Equal measures of sadness and want.

It isn't right but exactly how it ought to be, at least right now – Bash hovering above, still dressed in a wrinkled cotton shirt and grubby pants. He's even got his boots on. She reached for his shirt and lifted it over his head, pushing her own body, until she is the one straddling him.

He tangled his hands in her hair and pulled her upwards slightly, but not painful, so that he could see her clearly. She looked down to where they intersected with each other. Surprised, as if wondering how they ended up like this. Her pale thighs against the coarse fabric of his pants– its abrasiveness against her nakedness.

"Come closer," said Kenna. She needed to stop the spinning. Need to find stable ground.

Hands move, frantic with purpose. She reached down and unbuckled his belt and reached inside. His tongue danced down her neck, biting her earlobe, moaning as her fingers found what they sought. She cupped his chin, pulling his face to her. Her lips captured his and their tongues duelled fiercely. Bash lifted her up like she was a ragdoll, swung her around and lowered her onto the ottoman. Kenna's mind shut down, her entire being focused on the rampant feeling coursing through her.

Afterwards, he lay atop of her, their laboured breaths mingling with the crackling of the fire. Bash lifted his head from its position on her chest, his elbows braced beside her head.

"Are you alright?"

Kenna rolled her eyes but couldn't contain the smile that split across her face. "Little late for chivalry, don't you think?"

The corners of hips lips curled up and it did funny things to her insides.

He chuckled and she felt the vibrations against her torso. Afraid of losing the moment, Kenna burrowed into the space between his shoulder and neck. He seemed to sense the melancholy too and wrapped his arms around her.

"You are going to be the greatest Mum," he whispered.

"You are going to be the greatest Dad," Kenna echoed. "Pascoe thought you were the coolest. He wanted to be just like you."

They lay like that for a long time, the firelight playing across their tangled bodies.