AN: Heyyy! It's a bit since I've posted anything here. I'm still alive btw, and still writing. I'm on AO3 now at Jack_of_All_Blades and I'm starting to crosspost my work here as well, so hopefully I'll be able to update both accounts in tandem :P Anyway, hope you enjoy!
.*.
He sits on the edge of the bed, arm braced against the headboard as he looks down at her. She looks so young, so vulnerable in sleep. Dark eyelashes brushing against round cheeks, mouth pursed in a moue of peacefulness.
He has a black curl looped around his finger and he examines it in the faint gold lamplight pouring through the door. Such a delicate thing, springing free of her sleeping braids. Amazing that he had been blessed with her, still thinks he doesn't deserve her.
"Let her sleep."
There's a rustle of skirts and the lamplight in the next room dims to a dull glow as a shadow passes before it. There's gentle reproach in her voice when she speaks. "You'll be gone in the morning before she wakes up."
"I came in to say goodbye." He finally looks up, meets tawny eyes that had ensnared him in a dusty saloon in Sweetwater years ago. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile. "But now I'm not sure I have the heart to wake her."
Her fingers stroke through his own hair, pulling the wavy strands out of his face. "She'll understand, darling. It's not like you haven't done it before."
"I won't be away long."
"Of course. And we'll be here."
It's simple. It's unassuming. There's no dramatic declarations, no unnecessary espousals of promises that may or may not be kept. But they don't need that. He catches her hand, presses a searing kiss to the delicate skin of her wrist. It's the least he could ask for, and she always has a way of coming through for him. She could have given up, long before, turned her attentions to more constant men. But while he has left for periods both long and short, chased by the law to the very edges of the Territories, he has never been inconsistent in his passion for her. And where one goes, the other follows, and he's been unable to do anything more when it comes to her.
His dark eyes return to the small face on the pillow, curls splayed haphazardly every which way. They'll be tidied up in the morning under her mother's quick fingers. He feels a faint laugh at the thought, imagines the sour expression that will transform into laughter. "Que sueƱos con los angelitos, mija," he murmurs, pressing a light kiss to her forehead.
His men are waiting, and there's a train that's calling his name.
.*.
