This one-shot was inspired by the Oscar Isaac version of "Hang Me, Oh Hang Me."
I wrote this in a few hours, and it is un-beta'd.
Any mistakes found are my own.
I do not own these beautiful characters.
"Hang me, oh hang me.
Put the rope around my neck,
Hung me up so high.
Last words I heard 'em say, won't be long now for you die, poor boy,
I've been all around this world."
This moment, this guarded dance, this raw ebb-and-flow: it was inevitable.
Soft and malleable, she half expects him to melt between her spread fingertips. He's large and broad, formidable and imposing, all-encompassing. Yet, she finds her eyes drifting to the hardwood floor for evidence of a Booker-shaped puddle for how gentle and smooth he is beneath the indelible callouses of her palms.
The belt feels soft and buttery in her grip – it looks expensive, and Nile wants to ask why he bothered; it's only going to get ruined – caked in blood or gore or both in the evidence of their temporary demise. But then she aborts that line of thinking. If they can't indulge themselves over the years (over the many, many years), what was even the point? That line of thinking could lead down a dangerously dark road, so she cuts it off at the pass and refocuses her thoughts on the goose-flesh erupting beneath her fingertips.
She follows the natural path of his body's outline with the flat of her hand, pressed firmly against the warmth radiating from his golden skin; up, toward his rib cage, then back and over the broad slope of his shoulders, to the nape of his neck, clutching the sweat-dampened strands of hair clumped there.
She closes her eyes, draws in a slow, deep breath through her nose: he's sweet and musky, like an old leather-bound book; honey and butterscotch, like a glass of amber-colored bourbon; sharp and clean, like a cool Winter's morning.
She slowly opens her eyes.
Loose strands of his dirty-blond hair had fallen from their carefully swept-back position, unhindered by any product and hanging limply at his temple, some long enough to brush against the ends of his voluminous lashes. He effortlessly pushes them back with a broad swipe of his hand; some tumble back down, defiant, but they're not in his line of sight, so he doesn't bother to try again.
Nile is tempted.
Her hand is raised, fingers twitching with the need to push away the insubordinate escaped pieces of hair; he rears his head back like a startled horse, and she freezes.
"Book?"
His beryl eyes, wild and spooked, visibly soften in the light of her genuine concern. His breath leaves in a wry puff of laughter and decidedly Gallic roll of his shoulders as if settling back into his world-weary bones.
"I'm sorry." He lifts a hand to his neck but doesn't touch it, just lets his long fingers hover above his bared throat. "It's how I died."
The "V" etched between her brow deepens.
He offers her a charming grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The first time." He lets his hand drop back to his side but holds himself from her in a subtle way; it's almost imperceptible, the angle of his large frame, but it's there.
"Like me?" She manages to ask, and she's surprised by how low her voice is.
"Hanging."
"Oh."
He simply hums in reply.
Then he looks at her, long lashes partially covering his bright, leonine eyes.
His reflexive swallow is audible, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement.
Her thumb pressed against it.
She doesn't recall placing it there. She presses harder against the cartilage.
The sharp glint of his eyes in the honeyed light of the evening is the only indication of the subtle lowering of his head. He presses the cold tip of his nose into the meat of her throat; his breath is a hot puff of air, leaving her skin cold and damp when he gingerly inhales.
She's nutty and tropical, like a freshly cracked coconut. Saccharine and vanilla, like almond butter. Earthy and flowery, like a warm Spring day.
She's lavender, like the vibrant flowers with their fragrant leaves his beloved wife used to press within the last page of his books—a special surprise.
He places a reverent kiss on the corner of her mouth.
She chases his pink lips when he pulls away. He kisses like a form of art; She kisses like a punch to the mouth. He smiles under the welcome assault.
Je t'aime, he presses against her jawline, nuzzling the umber skin with the tip of his nose.
Je t'aime, he sighs against her bare clavicle, lips open and chaste as he drags them from one end of her collarbone to the other.
Je t'aime, he finally whispers, breath sweltering and hovering above the hollow of her throat.
The tobacco burns slowly, turning the cigarette paper to ash with every passing second. He has the cigarette resting between his pointer and middle finger, his thumbnail resting on his lower lip, before he pulls back sharply with a murmured, "Whoa." The cherry must've burned the tip of his finger like he forgot he lit it. Interestingly enough, he doesn't bring the filter to his lips for a drag but instead flicks the gray ash from the tip to the floor.
He murmurs something, his voice rough over the throaty tone of the fricatives, before settling back in the armchair with a wistful sigh.
She follows the wisps of smoke to the fractured cracks of the alabaster ceiling.
"Those will kill you, you know."
His laugh is an unrestrained bark that pierces like a gunshot.
Plastic slats that helped filter the crisp outside light in the otherwise darkened room fluttered with a placid breeze; the window must've been cracked.
Bonded leather squeaked underneath the bulk of his mass as he shifted forward, the light source catching across his eyes and casting his handsome features in chiaroscuro.
"Ma Cherie, we have all the time in the world."
"Hang me, oh hang me.
Now, if you meet a rich girl, boys, send her down the line.
Now, if you meet a rich girl, boys, send her down the line.
If you meet a poor girl, bet she's a friend of mine.
Been all around this world."
The End.
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