September 11, 2004, 12 noon, Richie's Apartment
Asher awoke within Richie's arms, held within the secure of his bent arms around her stomach, and his bare chest. Legs twisted beneath the sheets, and against the kin of her thigh, she felt the cotton of his boxers. He still slept, and in sleep, he appeared softer in appearance. In sleep, he possessed what Immortals could not possess in consciousness: innocence, and in watching him, Asher found her emotions stirred in way she had assumed to be dead.
She touched tender fingers to the stubble of Richie's cheek, and touched tender lips to parted lips, and only feigned frown when the male eyes opened. "Guten Tag, mon ami."
A smile crossed Richie's lips. "I always loved a woman who mixed her languages," he paused, expression twisted in thought. "French, and German, no?" Asher nodded. What other languages do you speak?"
"French, German, English. Italian," she paused, and shifted within the strength of his arms. She had been good to come here. Here, wrapped securely in the cotton sheets and blankets, and held securely in the grasp of Richie's arms, she felt safe. She felt loved. She touched fingers to cheek, again. "Merci, Richie Ryan."
"For what?"
"For keeping me safe. For keeping me here."
Richie kissed soundly, lacing passion with the words he did not speak. Asher did not know how to respond, and wisely she did not.
***************************************************************************
Asher did not eat breakfast. She assured Richie it was due to nerves. She had not eaten breakfast the morning she had died, and every anniversary since, when the butterflies returned, she found the very thought of food to be revolting. And, while Richie ate (microwaved instant oatmeal and strawberries), she read skimmed the book titles he kept, and observed the paintings he had collected.
It was only after he had cleared the breakfast dishes, and both were showered and dressed, did Richie, with her hand in his, lead Asher to the roof, to show her the view of the city.
"It's no Eiffel Tower, but," his words trailed.
"No, no. It is beautiful," and her words were marked with tears. She felt alive. With every anniversary, which had come to pass, she had wished herself dead, and knew had she had sword in possession, she would not have hesitated to take her own head, and to take her own Quickening. But here, and now, in the company of Richie, she felt a certain freedom to live again, and a certain freedom to feel again.
Seeing her tears, Richie brushed thumb across her cheek, and whispered soothing words to the air, and to her ears. "Fear not, Richie Ryan. The tears are good."
She stepped from his tender grasp, and the black sweater-coat she wore over borrowed clothes, fluttered behind her in the autumn breeze. She side-glanced him, hands in pants pockets, eyes watching her. "How did you die?"
"I was shot. Mac owned an antiques store in the States at the time. Mugged. I rose Immortal. Tessa did not."
"Tessa?"
"Mac's girlfriend."
Asher nodded, and digested the information. "When?"
"October 1993. About a month after I turned nineteen."
This information too, she digested. Both had died roughly the same age: she the week before, and he the month after. Cheeks still streaked from the salt of her tears, she closed the distance between them, and touched her lips to his.
When having once again returned to the apartment, they gave what they could not give last night: sex. Infinitely tender, and the very thing Asher needed to further prove she was still alive.
Asher awoke within Richie's arms, held within the secure of his bent arms around her stomach, and his bare chest. Legs twisted beneath the sheets, and against the kin of her thigh, she felt the cotton of his boxers. He still slept, and in sleep, he appeared softer in appearance. In sleep, he possessed what Immortals could not possess in consciousness: innocence, and in watching him, Asher found her emotions stirred in way she had assumed to be dead.
She touched tender fingers to the stubble of Richie's cheek, and touched tender lips to parted lips, and only feigned frown when the male eyes opened. "Guten Tag, mon ami."
A smile crossed Richie's lips. "I always loved a woman who mixed her languages," he paused, expression twisted in thought. "French, and German, no?" Asher nodded. What other languages do you speak?"
"French, German, English. Italian," she paused, and shifted within the strength of his arms. She had been good to come here. Here, wrapped securely in the cotton sheets and blankets, and held securely in the grasp of Richie's arms, she felt safe. She felt loved. She touched fingers to cheek, again. "Merci, Richie Ryan."
"For what?"
"For keeping me safe. For keeping me here."
Richie kissed soundly, lacing passion with the words he did not speak. Asher did not know how to respond, and wisely she did not.
***************************************************************************
Asher did not eat breakfast. She assured Richie it was due to nerves. She had not eaten breakfast the morning she had died, and every anniversary since, when the butterflies returned, she found the very thought of food to be revolting. And, while Richie ate (microwaved instant oatmeal and strawberries), she read skimmed the book titles he kept, and observed the paintings he had collected.
It was only after he had cleared the breakfast dishes, and both were showered and dressed, did Richie, with her hand in his, lead Asher to the roof, to show her the view of the city.
"It's no Eiffel Tower, but," his words trailed.
"No, no. It is beautiful," and her words were marked with tears. She felt alive. With every anniversary, which had come to pass, she had wished herself dead, and knew had she had sword in possession, she would not have hesitated to take her own head, and to take her own Quickening. But here, and now, in the company of Richie, she felt a certain freedom to live again, and a certain freedom to feel again.
Seeing her tears, Richie brushed thumb across her cheek, and whispered soothing words to the air, and to her ears. "Fear not, Richie Ryan. The tears are good."
She stepped from his tender grasp, and the black sweater-coat she wore over borrowed clothes, fluttered behind her in the autumn breeze. She side-glanced him, hands in pants pockets, eyes watching her. "How did you die?"
"I was shot. Mac owned an antiques store in the States at the time. Mugged. I rose Immortal. Tessa did not."
"Tessa?"
"Mac's girlfriend."
Asher nodded, and digested the information. "When?"
"October 1993. About a month after I turned nineteen."
This information too, she digested. Both had died roughly the same age: she the week before, and he the month after. Cheeks still streaked from the salt of her tears, she closed the distance between them, and touched her lips to his.
When having once again returned to the apartment, they gave what they could not give last night: sex. Infinitely tender, and the very thing Asher needed to further prove she was still alive.