Skin

A/N : This was cowritten by my wonderful RP partner, who helped me get through this. He's the same guy I stole Evanader from in the chapter Shiny Happy People. It's another Zeng(Tseng)/Elfé piece. Yay character development and angst

Warnings: There is nakedness, but it's nothing sexual in nature.

Elfé was sitting on the bed when he came up. She wasn't reading, or drawing. Just sitting, staring at the door, and waiting. The moment he entered the room, she stood up and wrapped her arms around his middle and buried her head into his shoulder.

He stiffened, trying to figure out what was wrong.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was soft naturally, but now it was muffled by the fabric of his shirt. He would have had to strain to hear her, had she not been practically speaking in his ear. Sorry? Why was she apologizing? He began to fear the worst but she kept speaking. "I didn't even think how hard this was for you. I am so selfish."

"What?" He tried to shift to get her to face him but couldn't dislodge her from his shoulder.

She moved again, without warning, and put her hand on his neck. The touch was slight, the brush of a butterfly's wings, but he still tensed immediately. His hand clasped hers and jerked it away before he could stop himself.

"See."

She apparently had proved a point. Zeng was confused. She knew about his triggering spots. She always avoided them, just like he did hers. They'd done enough damage control already.

"No, I don't." They were standing there, him holding her hand at an awkward angle and she still had her head buried in his shoulder. She moved back away from him and he let her hand go. It dropped loosely to her side. She was focused on her feet.

"Elfé?"

Silence. He didn't need words, with her, nor did she with him, but this was one of the rarer times he wanted them. He was patient with her, however, and didn't mind waiting. Minutes passed, her eyes falling closed time and time again, and he didn't hear the breath before she shattered the temporary wall between them.

"Let me see you." This time, although her words were not buried against him, he strained still to hear them. She was a phantom, and her request likewise. It hit him a second later, however, and he frowned, shifting slightly closer, the sound so loud. So loud it hurt.

"What?" His own voice was just as soft, but she heard him with more certainty, and when she looked up at him it was abrupt, a flash of something that might have been anger, but was more probably fear, in her eyes. It said everything, or so Zeng thought. He moved closer, and reached out to touch her face. To his surprise, she didn't withdraw, although her eyes had fallen again.

"Elfé …" Soft, still, but gentle now rather than confused or shocked. He was used to this by now. "You don't need to do this." There was no response, and he pulled her close, slowly allowed his arms to come around her. She stood against him, rigid, her face against his chest. When she shifted, he allowed her to, trusting her, a sigh breathed just barely against her hair. What startled him was the manner of her touch, and how he noticed it. The familiar fabric of his shirt, under the jacket he'd worn his whole life, shifted up against him, freed abruptly from under his belt. As though he'd been shocked, he withdrew a half step – and her eyes caught him instantly. Don't, they said, and it was a warning, a plea. He held still, and after a moment she continued. Rough, worn leather slid up his chest, pressing between them, and he watched with quiet interest as she began, carefully, to unbutton his shirt. Each movement, the gentle but sharp shift of the fabric separating, made him tense minutely more, a rough swallow seeming to send back a complaint. He was not comfortable, not anticipatory. This was not how things happened between them, rare though they were. This was different, far different. By the time she'd finished with his shirt, he was as a wall against her, unyielding. She didn't seem to mind, and brought her hands up to his shoulders, slid them under all three layers – shirt, holster, suit jacket – and brushed them back, catching the fabric behind him to let it come to rest gently behind him. Zeng was still staring at her, and she met his eyes without reluctance.

"I just want to see you." It was meant as a reassurance, but it did nothing to help Zeng feel any more comfortable. He remained unmoved, standing as tall as he would were he under inspection by any of his superiors. This time, a frown ghosted across Elfé 's face, and it was she who crinkled her brow against Zeng's quiet voice.

"I expect you to return the favor." An ultimatum, a bargain, bartering for something which should be so natural between them. She stared at him, and he finished the thought silently. Inch for inch. It is all I will agree to. For a long moment, they warred between themselves, until, abruptly, and with a tiny sound of displeasure, she dropped her chin, shook her head, and sighed. Agreed.

Finally, the man's body relaxed, if only a little. His own hands, broad and graceful, came up to her face once more, and tilted her head up gently, until their lips met. It was not a request, but rather a promise. He did not wish anything more of her but that which she asked of him. As always, things happened on her terms. They must, however, occur equally. The response from Elfé was just as subtle, her own muscles relaxing just slightly. The kiss broken, their exchange finalized, they shifted apart once more, and the movements continued.

Like a dance, two warriors working alongside one another as they would fight the same way, they shifted and moved in fluid tandem. Two layers of soft cotton were pulled up Elfé 's lithe body, Zeng's hands rising away from Elfé's own as she worked free first his belt buckle, and then the snap and zip of his slacks. They relaxed as they moved, the actions becoming nothing more than work, each one comfortable with a task to focus on, mindlessly. Both stepped out of their shoes together, shifting their mutual piles of clothes aside with bare feet, near soundless. There was a hesitation, slight and shared, before Zeng stepped up to Elfé , and carefully, reverently, took one hand in his own. She flinched, but he didn't see it, the shadows cast by the single lamp on the bedside table far too harsh. His eyes had closed nearly instantly, and he blinked a soft-lidded gaze at the hand as he brought it to eye level with him. She was shifting now, just slightly, and he hesitated. She had said she wanted to see him, hadn't she? He could look… That moment stretched, however, the light flickering slightly as he traced each line over her torso. It was a beautiful web, a series of decorations which served as the symbols attached to the uniforms of soldiers, but so much more real, so much more intimate. Elfé 's own eyes moved over him in that time, measuring the shape of him, every valley and line, the series of discolorations that signified old scars, all of them so much less than her own, those she had hidden for so long – did he even notice? That there were so many of them… As her free hand rose, almost unconsciously, moved to touch the single still-apparent mark, the place he'd been killed most recently, that hand was caught, quickly but gently. Sharp gaze shot up, captured one which was quiet, still, but impatient.

The first hand was allowed to fall, and both of Zeng's moved to the closer one. Their eyes remained locked together, tension practically audible as Elfé tensed once more. His touch was gentle, however, almost cautious. He held his breath, the fingers of the glove tugged on, the object pulled gently across her hand. She showed no reaction, but when the tainted skin was finally revealed, Zeng could not understand why. The glove dropped nearly soundlessly into his own pile of clothing, and very, very gently, as though she would break were he to move too much, the appendage was turned between his own fingers. Shards of ethereal amethyst, sharp as glass and jagged enough to kill, stuck up from the back of her hand. As his fingers brushed her palm, he practically started, and turned it to stare there instead. Much shorter pieces poked through there, rough as sandpaper, but which looked just as painful.

"I guess…this was counterproductive," Elfé admitted, but Zeng didn't even seem to notice, he was far too enraptured by her hands. She shifted again, even more uncomfortable, and forced herself not to stare at the ground. That was weak, silly. He was just looking at her, after all, and they were going to get married. It was normal for people in their position to see one another naked, to touch each other… A lump formed in her throat, and she choked on swallowing it down, felt it travel down to sit heavily, uncomfortably in her stomach. "I wanted to make you comfortable; you're always so concerned about that with…"

Something was happening. Even before his lips touched her palm, her voice died, their consciousness shifting to balance between them. His head tilted as he shifted her fingers against his cheek, his eyes falling closed, and as close as they were she could feel him trembling, just slightly. Hot tears hit her skin, suddenly, and he moved just barely, just enough to be able to speak against her, his eyes remaining closed.

"Nika…my mother…" his voice was a ghost against her, as the memory was to him, "once told me…that the palms are the most sacred part of the body." They'd violated that, taken everything from her, every inch of her. He'd noticed the scars, exactly how many they were, and said nothing. She was still, was even more, the woman who amazed him every second, every breath she took. They both were, but Elfé had withstood so much, had become something which was not quite monster, no matter how much Zeng struggled to identify with her in that way. "She told me that to kiss another's palm is the most intimate gesture one could perform." Finally, his eyes blinked open, freeing another short wave of tears, though there was fire in the dark of his irises, not sorrow. Not pity. Anger, and protective rage. "Does it hurt?"

She wanted to draw her hand away when he kissed it. Like it was dirty, unclean…infected. Like he could catch all the pain, sorrow, and burden of immortality from simply having contact with the leftover shell that pierced her skin. Never mind that the contact of his lips to her palm sent shivers down her spine.

The words hang silently in the air until she draws herself away. He doesn't want to let her go. Does it hurt? Every waking moment, her eyes say. It hurts so much until it doesn't and that's the worst pain of all. But the words that slide out are a feeble attempt at being strong.

"I don't notice it anymore." She frees herself from his grasp and there's a noise like an exhale. The lamp goes out in the corner of the room and everything is plunged into darkness. He started to move, ready for whatever was coming, but the lights came back on that moment.

Elfé was sitting on the bed again, this time clothed in his shirt and wrapped up as if she were trying to disappear into it. Counterproductive, she'd said. He was beginning to agree, although he wasn't sure what she'd set out to accomplish anyway. He moved to her side and sat down, the creaking of the bed the only noise between them. Somewhere in the house, there was a clock ticking. He hadn't noticed before; she must have brought the object into the house when he wasn't looking.

Words formed and died on his tongue before he finally could say "What…were you trying to accomplish?" He knew he had to take the subject off of her hands. She wasn't ready, that much was clear.

There was a sigh, like a fire going out. The light flickered again as she drew her legs up to her chest and stared across the room. Her eyes painted pictures with the shadows.

"You're uncomfortable with touch." If he hadn't been expecting her to reply, he would have missed it. "I thought I could…" Her voice faded out again and he seemed to have lost her in thought. Her eyes drifted to her hands and anger was written clearly on her face. With sudden certainty, she stood up and placed a firm but definite kiss on his temple. "Goodnight."

"Elfé …" She stopped at the door, her fingers wrapped around the frame. Her knuckles were white. Briefly, he wondered if he'd be fixing that the next morning. Once again, as was so often, he was struck by her size. She was so very small, wasn't she? Even now he remembered the reports, the idea of this larger-than-life enemy. And maybe she was, at points, this grand and powerful being. But right now, she looked so frail and lost, swimming in the shirt that was at least two times her size. She just looked so…human.

And something about that terrified him.

Calling her name may have stalled her, but he could see she still wanted to leave. The frame creaked slightly under her grasp, and she shifted slightly but would not face him. The shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing more scars to his eyes. Wing scars, old wounds, and, although he couldn't tell in the light, what looked like ink. Perhaps she'd tried to hide her deformities under the cover of art. As much as he wanted to ask, he knew he never would.

"Stay."

She shifted again. The hand gripping the doorframe like a lifeline detached itself and hung limply at her side. He could still hear the clock ticking.

This was strange, he noted, more to himself than anything. She was normally the one seeking physical contact, although she'd deny it. He knew by now the need to be close to someone—to feel the heat of their body and hear the drum of their heart—was instinctual. Subconscious. A remnant from her days in a cold lab or from something in her training. He didn't know. They never spoke about it, but it was an unsung agreement. He never told her "no" if she asked for contact. It was always very simple, too, when she asked. A hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on…sometimes (although rarely), someone to snuggle up to. Sometimes she wouldn't ask at all, and he'd suddenly find her curled up in his lap, almost asleep. The closer to unconsciousness she was, the more likely she sought out another.

Dragon might have been her exterior, but he was going to start calling her a cat soon, from the way she bathed herself in sunlight and sought out comfortable lap-space, regardless of what he was doing.

She must not know how to respond, with him asking for her to stay, in a space that they still did not share (although, he mused, the basic law of a relationship labeled the same as theirs said it should be shared). In any normal occasion, they'd start off in separate rooms and if any nightmare accosted her, he'd find her in the morning, curled up at the foot of the bed. Or, if it was really bad, he'd be woken up in the middle of the night by her suddenly wrapping her arms around him before falling back into a fitful slumber.

But now the tables were turned completely. And some part of him wondered if she was going to say no and leave him in this silence that he had created. After too much time, she shifted again and came back to his side. She didn't sit, just stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed and stared off towards the lamp.

He stood up and worked around her, picking up clothing and sorting it, folding this and that. Turned down the covers and closed the door. Opened the window, because he knew the sounds from the outside provided more of a comfort than anything. Menial tasks, to ignore the statue of a woman standing in shadow.

Finally, he returned to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Carefully, he eased the shirt off of her again, and when she flinched he whispered into her hair. "It's alright." He felt like he was soothing a child. He hoped she didn't mind. "It's alright, you're alright…" She relaxed, after a moment, but still didn't look at him.

His eyes traced over the marks on her back, but before he could let himself stare, he moved away to fold the shirt and add it to his stack. For one moment, he thought about giving her back her gloves. Counterproductive, she'd said. He left the gloves where they were.

Returning to her, he guided her to the side of the bed that faced the window. Let her lay down and covered her with the blankets. She was shivering, but he doubted it was from cold. He walked around the bed and slipped under the sheets, keeping space between them.

Normally, she'd wait until he'd finished shifting to wrap her arms around his middle and fall asleep. Tonight, she all but ignored him. But he expected it, especially since she was trying to stay as far away from him as she could without falling off the bed.

So he waited, until her breath was all but inaudible (something that had startled him the first night they'd shared a bed like this. He'd shaken her awake in a panic after contemplating CPR. She'd sleepily told him that her heart all but stopped while asleep, and he'd spent the rest of the night counting how long she went between taking breaths). Now, although it was still disconcerting, he knew what he was waiting for. He counted the minutes between her breaths, and when it hit the point he knew was her slumber, he turned and carefully pulled her closer to him. She shifted in his arms, her body trying to get closer to absorb what heat he offered while her mind tried to wake up and remember.

He didn't let her, though, as he kissed the shell of her ear lightly before carefully placing his hands over hers. He hoped the actions seemed unconscious, he was doing his best to pretend to be asleep. Subtle motions, in her dreams, as it should be. For he would want nothing more than for her to be happy, to be comfortable, if only for these moments.

And, softly, he found himself singing, words lost and voice breaking in its softness as he offered her a lullaby.

Counterproductive. Comfort. The way it ought to be.

A/N: For those of you who read my other works, I apologize that I've all but stopped writing them. I hope to update over my breaks from school.