It is early. He knows that she probably isn't up. He is only up at this
hour because he hasn't been down yet. He is not surprised when she fails
to answer the door. Turning the knob experimentally he gives her a mental
chiding for leaving it unlocked. Most people in this neighborhood would
wake up to ransacked apartments if they didn't latch their doors. He
chuckles to himself and thinks he'd probably feel sorry for any would-be
burglar who tries to knock over this place. Being a cop is the least scary
characteristic of the woman who lives here.
He silently promises to drop off the disks she has asked for and leave without waking her. He nearly breaks the vow as soon as he makes it. Screw burglars, he thinks when he sees that she's not alone. He recognizes the man at her side and bites his tongue on the sharp word that almost slips out. He'd feel sorry for a small invading army that tried to take on these two together. He gives a large army even odds. Then he thinks of Joan and revises that estimate too.
Though he knows that he never really had a chance, he can't help feeling a little wistful for the opportunity lost. There is a flare of red among the bedsheets and he takes an involuntary step backward. Wistful, not jealous, he thinks at it hard. There is a conciliatory pulse and he shakes his head in bemusement. Though he has spent half a short lifetime reading its stories, he is impressed to see that yet another of them appears to be true. It does have a mind of its own. And although he would dearly love to see it in action, he is wise enough to know that few who get that opportunity seldom live long enough to see much more. He is also wise enough to know that he does not have to see it unleashed to be in danger. Sometimes it is just as hazardous to be in its proximity as it is to be its target. Its friends are often as short-lived as its enemies.
Feeling more than a little like a peeping tom, he guiltily watches them for a moment longer. If he is not allowed to be jealous, perhaps he can be protective. If he cannot be her partner, he will be her brother. And as an honorary brother it is his duty to frown on the men his sister brings home. Frowning at this one is not difficult. They are not curled up together, cute and cuddly like new lovers. Instead they sleep sprawled across the bed like a couple long-accustomed to sharing the small space. The man's foot kicks gently, yet persistently at her shin. The woman gives way eventually, but not before kneeing him sharply in the thigh. It is too practiced a move to be anything but deliberate, even in sleep, and the boy shakes his head. He wonders why he ever hoped to compete against history, against destiny. Mortals and legends just don't mix.
Still, he knows that this cycle is sometimes broken. Her life crosses many others through the ages. The warrior moves in and out of the picture, weaving his own mystic bloodline. The bard gets his chance once in a while. There are occasionally others. Maybe after a lifetime or five of faithful service he might get his chance too. There is the faintest flicker of crimson. A whisper of a promise, he wonders. Or just the jewel catching the light as her arm moves across the form beside her? He wonders how many lives he has based on just such a tenuous hint.
He leaves quickly before the Witchblade decides to rouse them after all. He suspects that his life expectancy rate would drop dramatically if either of them woke to find him there. The disks that he left on her desk are a dead giveaway, he admits, but maybe she won't notice them until after tall, dark, and scary leaves. If his first death threat is any indication of how intense the guy can be when half-heartedly carrying out his master's instructions, he doesn't even want to think about how terrifying he'd be when voluntarily protecting his own territory. She is not one to cross lightly either, but he thinks that maybe he can claim sibling rights with her. She probably won't kill him for this unexpectedly early morning visit. He hopes.
He slips out the door again, making sure it latches behind him. He does not see the dark eyes that have opened slightly to watch his departure. His retreat would otherwise be more hasty.
He silently promises to drop off the disks she has asked for and leave without waking her. He nearly breaks the vow as soon as he makes it. Screw burglars, he thinks when he sees that she's not alone. He recognizes the man at her side and bites his tongue on the sharp word that almost slips out. He'd feel sorry for a small invading army that tried to take on these two together. He gives a large army even odds. Then he thinks of Joan and revises that estimate too.
Though he knows that he never really had a chance, he can't help feeling a little wistful for the opportunity lost. There is a flare of red among the bedsheets and he takes an involuntary step backward. Wistful, not jealous, he thinks at it hard. There is a conciliatory pulse and he shakes his head in bemusement. Though he has spent half a short lifetime reading its stories, he is impressed to see that yet another of them appears to be true. It does have a mind of its own. And although he would dearly love to see it in action, he is wise enough to know that few who get that opportunity seldom live long enough to see much more. He is also wise enough to know that he does not have to see it unleashed to be in danger. Sometimes it is just as hazardous to be in its proximity as it is to be its target. Its friends are often as short-lived as its enemies.
Feeling more than a little like a peeping tom, he guiltily watches them for a moment longer. If he is not allowed to be jealous, perhaps he can be protective. If he cannot be her partner, he will be her brother. And as an honorary brother it is his duty to frown on the men his sister brings home. Frowning at this one is not difficult. They are not curled up together, cute and cuddly like new lovers. Instead they sleep sprawled across the bed like a couple long-accustomed to sharing the small space. The man's foot kicks gently, yet persistently at her shin. The woman gives way eventually, but not before kneeing him sharply in the thigh. It is too practiced a move to be anything but deliberate, even in sleep, and the boy shakes his head. He wonders why he ever hoped to compete against history, against destiny. Mortals and legends just don't mix.
Still, he knows that this cycle is sometimes broken. Her life crosses many others through the ages. The warrior moves in and out of the picture, weaving his own mystic bloodline. The bard gets his chance once in a while. There are occasionally others. Maybe after a lifetime or five of faithful service he might get his chance too. There is the faintest flicker of crimson. A whisper of a promise, he wonders. Or just the jewel catching the light as her arm moves across the form beside her? He wonders how many lives he has based on just such a tenuous hint.
He leaves quickly before the Witchblade decides to rouse them after all. He suspects that his life expectancy rate would drop dramatically if either of them woke to find him there. The disks that he left on her desk are a dead giveaway, he admits, but maybe she won't notice them until after tall, dark, and scary leaves. If his first death threat is any indication of how intense the guy can be when half-heartedly carrying out his master's instructions, he doesn't even want to think about how terrifying he'd be when voluntarily protecting his own territory. She is not one to cross lightly either, but he thinks that maybe he can claim sibling rights with her. She probably won't kill him for this unexpectedly early morning visit. He hopes.
He slips out the door again, making sure it latches behind him. He does not see the dark eyes that have opened slightly to watch his departure. His retreat would otherwise be more hasty.