He loved to watch her.
Quite often, she would hum, and then he would listen as well, letting her tuneless, enthusiastic music drift over him, filling the room and his mind.
But mainly, he would watch.
Their place was dark, and dank and entirely unsuitable for her presence to grace, though she'd somehow made it liveable. Her touches were evident – the splashes of colour from the potted flowers, the rug on the floor, the matching bed sheets. The cushions that she had scattered without logic around the room, a fact she had commented on with a self-depreciating look. But he didn't despise it. Without her, he'd still be living in the dark, in the grey.
Her smile too, that was colourful. Before, it had been rare, and to catch a glimpse of it was like spotting a shy animal, a fleeting creature that danced away before you could fully appreciate what you saw. Now though, now she had had time to adjust and was beginning to…She was trusting him, he had to admit it. It was a strange, alien sensation that brought a responsibility he had never known, but he would never refuse it. He felt the urge to provide and take care of her, and to let his touch drift all over her body. Now her smiles were common, and never fleeting, but each was as special and significant as the other. Her eyes would sparkle and gaze into his, and, tentatively, he would smile back.
He had never been told about this. He had never had reason to smile.
Throughout his youth (for whilst he was still considered a child by some, his eyes had viewed a million tortures most adults couldn't conceive) he had fought hard to survive. Had undergone pain, and suffering, knowing that unless he was deathly efficient in all that he did, it would mean the end for him, and for Holtz.
Holtz. He was the closest person he had ever come to feeling love for, before now. Indeed, the low-voiced man, with fingers cut and raw from finding food and shelter every day they had been in that place, had been the reason he had survived. Of course, once he'd matured, and out-shone Holtz in everything he had except experience, hunting had become his chore, as had evading the demons and predators that waited around every corner. It was his way of repayment. A thank you for his survival, and for Holtz's revelatory tales of the truth.
And fighting? He was good at it. His senses, far superior to his guardian's, were finely tuned to every nuance. His ear could hear the footfall of a demon half a mile away, his sense of smell could define between blood of different creatures, between sweat and saliva, and his eyes could discern movement undetectable to the human eye.
Not that he wasn't inhuman.
Truth be told, he didn't know what he was.
And, had you asked him a year ago, a month ago, if that bothered him he would have replied vehemently by tearing your head off. His identity, his purpose, questions that plagued all 'normal' humans, were tenfold because of his parents. Their existence, their being, immortal creatures of the night that killed viciously without conscience, had somehow made him and that…
Two wrongs don't make a right. A saying Holtz had often uttered, before dryly adding 'but they don't half make you feel better', with a wry glance and motivational punch to the shoulder.
And he too, oh yes, he knew about wrongs, and right. He knew which way up the world faced, and the affinity those around him had to evil. If that meant he was evil too, that he had become contaminated…well, he'd bleach it out, fight it out, kill all the evil until the word no longer had meaning.
Fighting was what he did, was the only thing he knew in that place, in his life. The feel of a kill, the power in your hands or blade, as you stole the life from a creature that had no right to live…that liberating feeling of power – there was no equal.
And yet here he was, not fighting, not killing, simply watching. She was a contradiction to everything he had even known, and, hesitantly, he welcomed it. She was beautiful, comforting, needy, and able to make him feel like he was the most special person alive. He wasn't fighting for his life in a barren land of fire: he was fetching her belongings, in order to make her happy.
Of course, perhaps, there was some malicious enjoyment derived from loving her. His father's face: that dying look in the vampire's eyes, that look of hurt and pain, was a victory. Poetry, as the one the vampire loved stole away his only other.
Even when he watched her, the hate he felt for his father still plagued him. Holtz-killer. Murderer. And he was made of that still, lifeless blood!
But it was less with her. She could quiet that rage. The sound of her soft voice, like silk over a naked limb, was a tonic, and when she touched him, stroked the unruly hair back off his forehead, or took his hand in reassurance, he…he almost knew silence.
Always, he had known the roar of his thoughts, of his blood in his ears and the ferocity of his rage. He had thought it normal; taking every event at the speed of light, turning and acting in a split-second because sometimes that was all you got; fighting and cutting and bringing down, all in a red hot rage that was the fuel on which he fed.
He had never known the quiet until she had led him there.
When they lay side-by-side, beneath freshly laundered sheets and matching pillow-covers, with her hand tightly threaded through his, and they talked softly, his racing heart would calm. His eyes, which would normally dart anxiously, intensely round every crevice of the room, searching for any evident danger, would stop, and simply fix their gaze upon her.
Watching her sleep – that was the best. Watching the movement of her eyes beneath her eyelids, dreaming dreams he could only guess at, watching her full lips twitch and part occasionally, so enticingly. Her hands would sometimes grab at the covers, before she would curl up on her side, as if hiding from something, burrowing beneath the sheets, stealing them to reveal his bare legs.
Sometimes she would cry; silent tears that fell whilst she was still buried deep in her dreams, and only then would he reorganise the covers, letting his hands drift along her back and neck, murmuring words of heartfelt comfort.
He had to do all he could, following an instinct of responsibility, to ensure her safety, her happiness. Though she kept a strong façade during the day, at night, she revealed her inner weaknesses, and it was his duty to protect her. Curled up and so vulnerable in the middle of a city, populated by thousands of untold horrors, he was grateful that he was able to protect her. It wasn't just fate that had placed her in his arms, brought her this close to him. Something else had had a hand in this, and each day he would thank it. He knew no God, no truth, but he knew to respect…something. It was the way the world worked.
She was a higher power, to him. Her brilliance outshone all he had known, and, to be able to hold her like this, to help her and keep her safe…Idly, one hand would caress through her short hair as he rested on his elbow, the other lying protectively across her shoulder, whilst he gazed through the window above them, out and upwards to the stars. Watching.
He didn't need sleep. In that place, it had never been possible, you were always awake, always hoping that your next breath would be followed by another. And here – whilst she lay beside him, sleep was simply unimportant. The day he slept for more than a moment, would be the day everything else had been lost.
If she was there, guiding him, needing him, and filling a previously unknown void: that would never happen. She had provided him with strength, a resolution; he had made a promise to himself that he would never let harm come to her. Whilst she lay in his arms, under his watchful gaze, he didn't care what he was, or who his parents were. None of that mattered whilst they were together.
She gave him faith in himself, gave him something to live for that wasn't black or white. Each word she spoke to him, appreciating his talents, his efforts, were seeds that blossomed inside. He had self-belief, and he had the belief of her in him, and, suddenly, everything seemed less important compared to her. He saw colours where previously there were none, and if she wanted it, she would get it. His personal vendettas, what had previously given his life purpose, could be placed in the background, could be dealt with privately, secretly. When he was with her, she was his only reason.
Of course, he would continue to fight. Of course he would, he had made promises, not to mention the kick that it gave him was…Fighting was in his blood, but that wasn't the only thing. Not anymore. He had her to return to.
His Cordelia.
And her smile.