Saoirse :
The Drive Within
Chapter Four:
ádh mór(*1)
"May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past."
Irish Blessing
The snow was tumbling white and perfect beyond the frosty glass. He stood there, ankle deep and carrying a bag nearly as big as he was over a broad shoulder. Her heart hit her breastbone twice before she could bring herself to stop staring.
Beautiful - she thought as the moonlight and the myriad of white made a playground out of his perfect lashes - he was just beautiful. Was there a word in the English language for how she felt about him? She doubted there'd ever be one that could do it justice.
Her hands trembled as she opened the door.
She might have felt the cold if the warmth of his embrace didn't greet her first. The snow might have hurt her bare feet if she didn't fly across it like a winged fairy to hold him. He caught her, the big sack tumbling to the inert ground so he could envelope her in his arms. She pressed kisses against his face until he claimed her mouth.
He walked her backward into the house and pressed her into the warmth of the wall beside the door. They amorous touches turned desperate. He groped beneath her big t-shirt for her panties. She gathered up his belt and whipped it free of his pants with a woman's determined greed. His hand spent a moment playing in the warm pool of her waiting wetness and she begged, "...Piers."
His name was always synonymous with need.
His hands hiked her up around his hips as he buried himself in the swollen core of her. It completed them both, the high gasp and low grunt of male and female mixing with the crackle of fire laid pretty in her hearth. His thrusts were slow but hard, knocking her back against the wall as each inch of him laid claim to each inch of her. They held eyes, her hands gripping his face and the slow slap of sucking bodies turned into music around them.
One more word from her parched lips, "...god."
He was that too.
When the slow pace maddened, she arched faster. When he thundered there inside of her, they finally gave up being gentle. Her back slapped so hard it almost hurt. Her mouth opened on a silent cry. His right hand found her left breast and gripped it, his other holding those hips tilted for his assault. Hard, harder, harder...faster, filthier, far from sweet or soft or loving.
He fucked her standing like a man who wanted her to cum crying for him.
She did, whimpering and arching, slapping his face to release the urge to scream.
He held her, mouth moving to claim her tears. He licked one from her cheek and made her moan.
And then he kissed her, came in her, and knew...they both did...that he was home.
The crying woke her. She wasn't aware that she did that. She didn't know that weeping was almost nightly while she rested. Claire roused with trembling whimper.
He haunted her.
How long would she dwell in a place where her heart refused to heal?
How long would he hang above her and beside her and inside her and never let her say goodbye?
She turned her head on the pillow to find him looking at her. He smiled and his hand touched her cheek. She must have been insane or close to it...because she could feel it. She told him, "...I miss you."
His smile was soft. His voice echoed in her ears, "I miss you too, Red. You ever think about what our life would have been like without the fight?"
She trembled on the bed, "...every minute of every day."
His smile slipped and sadness crept in, "-it'll get easier."
Claire felt the grief well up and nearly choke her, "...yeah? When? Why are you still here, Piers?"
His hand lingered and slid down her chest. She felt her heart skip beats and her nipples tighten, but he wasn't groping her. He was showing her. His hand slid against her belly. He leaned close to kiss her forehead and told her, "...I'm still here, Claire. I'm still inside you."
Her eyes opened to find the bed empty and the faintest liner of his scent there where he'd been.
Her hands covered her face as she breathed and the ragged gasp of each inhalation filled the silence of an otherwise empty room.
Gone...but still inside her.
She took a lunch down by the water the next day to watch the fishing boats come in. The water frothed around their ragged hulls as they brought their wares to the shores of their birth to barter and sale. She watched the laughter, heard the conversation, felt the chill of a breeze off the water. She nibble a sandwich and pictured her bed waiting at home.
She wanted to crawl back into it and sleep.
Why?
She knew why.
When she slept, Piers was waiting.
Her left hand laid across her swollen abdomen. She stroked the soft sweater cover her flesh and insulating her gestating baby. Piers had come from a big family. Greek - he'd brought with him a huge influx of curious characters to her life. She was never alone with his family around.
She'd spent the days after his death swamped in family.
Not hers. Not really. Her family was one man. They shared the same eyes and a love of chocolate covered popcorn. She mourned him almost as much as Piers sometimes as they'd become inextricably linked when he'd finished the job their parent's death had left behind.
He'd raised a girl into a woman.
He was her rock. He was her shield. He was her family.
She thought of him almost as much as her late husband.
Leon helped. Having him there, feeling him close to her, it helped. Leon wasn't a man who let you dwell for too long in your misery. If he was close by, he was with her. He did stupid things to make her laugh. He took her places to break her out of her funk. He simply sat there sometimes and let her mourn.
He was the best friend she'd ever had.
She'd barely spent hours with him before this. She'd always cared for him, but never really knew him. He liked cats - animal. He liked Cats - the Musical- and was likely the only soul alive who did. Poor taste in performance theater aside, he played a mean guiter. He sang like a country sensation. He smelled like hearth and fire. He comforted with stories of his youth where he was a bumbling skin and bones of a boy. He charmed with tales of a tired baby agent in a big wide world of bioterror.
He was, always in his story, the underdog.
Humble, he made her adore the simple truth that he would never really be the arrogant hero that the world they operated in saw. He was too good to be anything but a nice guy. She wondered about what he'd lost in Ada Wong. The rumors said the love of his life, but that seemed too simple for such a complicated relationship.
Ada Wong had died on the cruise ship where Chris and Piers had failed to thwart the missile that had taken out Tatchi.
She knew Leon mourned her. What else was keeping him so quiet and thoughtful? Perhaps they shared more sadness than she'd originally thought.
She pictured Piers on the water, wading through the foam to toss a handful of cold at her. Her heart swelled. Her hands lifted to block out the dense sun and see the gaggle of girls that waded around the frothy waves laughing and kicking up spouts of it at one another.
Friends.
They were almost as good as family.
Almost, but not quite.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face. She knew if she drifted off, Piers would joy her in the sand and speak to her. She knew it wasn't healthy to hallucinate him. She knew that. She also knew it was entirely normal after a tragic death to still feel like that person was with you.
Sometimes, she literally thought he was.
She could almost smell him at night. She could almost hear him in the morning. She could almost taste him in bed.
Her skin was hungry for him.
With a sigh, she murmured, "...I'm tired of being alone."
There it was. There was the truth. She was so lonely. Her heart yearned. Her skin mourned. Her soul swelled with sweet need. She wanted to feel anything again but the pain of knowing her world was broken. She wanted to feel anything at all.
She was afraid she'd go numb before that happened.
She didn't know how to kick start her heart. It was in her chest pulsing and dying. She didn't think all the good humor and charm in the world could bring her back. She needed a miracle.
Her eyes opened.
Her miracle was crossing the sand.
The sun brought out the salt and pepper of his hair. It left his green sweater glowing almost in the golden rays. His beard was beautifully full in that way she adored. A thousand miles away and she wasn't sure how she knew it...but she was positive he'd heard her calling him.
Her face tried to collapse into tears and he cautioned, "Nope. Redfields don't cry, baby sister. I'll tell everyone you're a wienie if you do it."
She hefted herself up from the sand and he caught her in a fierce hug. Not a hallucination. Not a dream. Not a wish. The real thing. Her brother. Her world. Her heart throbbed happily in her chest.
Restarted. Resurrected. Restored.
She clutched him and he held her with two good arms.
Somehow, she could breathe again.
She whispered, "...what took you so long?"
And he answered, "I'm here now, Red. I'm here now."
The same nickname...so different from one man to the other. One given in passion and promise. One given in nurture and healing. She wasn't generally a woman who spent too long dwelling, Chris had taught her that, but she kept on holding him. He didn't let go.
Reunited, it felt like everything started make sense again.
In that moment, on the shores of strange place with ties to a past she couldn't let go, she was finally, totally, utterly...home.
*1 - (ádh mór) good luck