P is for Prismatic – resembling the colors formed by refraction of light through a prism; highly colored, brilliant. Bright. Bold. Drenched in color. His life prior to, and after her, could be likened to that of a prism; a shard of glass that looked like any other until the sun struck it. And then it exploded into brilliant colors beyond even his artistic mind's imaginings. It'd often left him a little breathless, and frankly, it'd been a little painful, to be surrounded by all that light after living in darkness for so long. And it was certainly nothing akin to his flat existence to date, especially as most people surrounding him tended to be one-note.
None of them affected him like she did; none could make him feel like she did, but if he were to attribute colors to the people and places in his life, he knew exactly what he would choose.
Hank was gray. A gray so deep and murky, it was almost black. A taint that had overtaken his youth until he felt weighted down by it; drowning, struggling for breath and unable to pull himself free from the mire. It was cold, bleak, and stark; that is, until everything began to fester.
And that was so much worse.
Instead of exploding, blasting him free of the mess, Hank had spewed a deeper virulent, blackness, coating him in a thick, oily sludge, which further trapped him within the mire's depths and sunk him into a deep despair.
Until what little light shined on him snuffed out.
Until he hardened.
Until he formed his mask.
He had to in order to survive.
Roswell was a glaring orange – uncomfortable, fraught with uncertainty and warning. His entire life in this town had been one of confusion and that constant sense of waiting for something, anything to happen. And yet, a small, secret part of him had hoped nothing did, because while change was good, he'd found that it typically preceded something far more painful.
Max was green; of the envious kind, of course.
They had had come from similar backgrounds – both were orphans, both had been found abandoned, both had that taint that put them on the government's most wanted list. But Max had landed in a honey pot, while he had been tossed into the sewer. Max had the loving home, doting parents, an irritating, but devoted sister and was the golden boy in everything he touched and did. And then to add insult to injury, for a while, he had even had a love that made him seethe with envy.
That is, until the golden boy fucked it up.
So, perhaps that was one less reason to envy Max Evans.
Isabel was purple – he'd known she was royalty long before that message from her and Max's mother had told them so. She had always put on airs from the time she was eight years old, lording over the masses because she was an Evans and the prettiest girl in the third grade.
It was mildly irritating, and would have tried his patience more than once, if he hadn't also known that it was also a mask. The true Isabel was blue, a beautiful, bright, shimmering blue that she hid away because she was terrified of not fitting in.
It was a shame really, that she hid her true beauty; he could have fallen in love with her and completed their so-called destiny had she been just a little less prickly. But one volatile individual was more than enough in a relationship and he had enough of that on his own.
Maria was red – a deep, passionate red that held him in thrall for a time. She was beautiful in that pixie way and so utterly unstoppable in deed, and belief, that it awed him. She had made him feel for the first time in years, and he couldn't help being drawn to that fire like a moth to a flame.
Bright, bold and glittery, she had matched him in temperament and was more obstinate than a mule when determined to get her way, and he had to admit that he had been dazzled by the package. If only for a short time.
But in all his rhapsodizing, he had forgotten a pivotal thing –
While red is indeed passionate, it is also erratic and can turn on a dime. And the words she flung at him did more damage than Hank, Roswell, Max and Isabel combined.
But Liz – Liz was a fucking rainbow. Ever-changing, ever-flowing with bright, beautiful, bold colors, and every time he thought he had seen all there was to see, every time he thought he knew everything there was to know, he caught sight of some new facet and he was stunned all over again.
And he didn't quite know what to do about her at times.
P is for Protective. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't a soldier or general in his past life, but he could have been. He had a sound, strategic mind, with the ability to see beneath the surface of anything presented to him and he'd utilized it well over his lifetime. In the past and the present.
But that was another story, for another time. It held no importance other than he thanked the stars everyday that those skills kept him, and those he deemed important, safe.
No, what his notorious protective streak stemmed from, was simply love, and a deep, unshakable devotion for those few that he'd let into his heart. If the rest of the world went to hell in a hand basket in this lifetime, he wouldn't have cared less, so long as those few he held dear were safe. And he'd literally do anything to ascertain their health and well being. He had done anything, including shooting down the man that was getting far too close to their secrets for his comfort and burying him in a shallow grave, deep in the desert. True, it had been an accident, but if he'd had the chance to do it all over again, he wouldn't. His family was all and any threat to them had to be eradicated.
P is for Polar. That is was they – anyone outside their relationship – called them. Polar opposites. And he couldn't really blame their assumptions, as, by all outward appearances, she and he seemed completely at odds in character.
She was energy and light. He was dark and brooding.
She was logic, reason, methodical. He was action, conflict, chaos.
She was controlled and analytical to a fault. He was a force of nature that refused to contained.
She was calm, cool, and diplomatic. He was edgy, brash, and brutally honest.
She was science. He was art.
She planned everything to death and liked everything organized in neat little boxes. He was more apt to fly by the seat of his pants and liked that life couldn't, wouldn't, be caged, or labeled, or organized.
She had known love all her life. He had been thrown out like trash.
She was all. He was nothing.
Or, at least, that is how he once felt until she managed to change his views on that matter; and quite forcibly at that.
So, he understood how those standing on the outside would think that they were opposites because they weren't privy to the heart of their relationship. Most didn't have the desire, or the fortitude, to delve past the surface to their core personalities.
At the heart of it all, they were both warriors – fiercely protective, loyal and devoted to those that they allowed into their inner sanctum; a place where they sheltered those few, so long as they never betrayed them.
They both went against the grain to seek the answers they needed, relentlessly pushing, pulling and prodding until whatever or whomever they sought yielded those same answers.
They both had a single-mindedness about them when on the scent of some injustice done and they didn't fear how it would manifest or affect others, so long as it was corrected.
They were both intuitive, almost prophetic in a sense.
If anyone in their group were to sense something wrong, it was likely one of them that did so first. It was eerie the way they would freeze, almost in tandem; the way their eyes would meet, each knowing what the other was thinking and feeling while those they protected from outsiders, and even to a degree themselves, went blithely on as if nothing had changed.
Even when her powers manifested, due to that rash healing in the diner, they were more akin to his – volatile, tied to their emotions, reacting violently under stress. It was actually this little problem that brought them together in the end. She didn't know what to do when her powers flared to life in the wake of what they liked to call 'The Destiny Kiss,' and sought him out when the lines of green electricity began to dance along her arms.
So polar opposites? He didn't really think so. True they tended to approach things with very different methods, but it didn't negate their very real and deep similarities.
P is for Passion. He didn't expect it from her; in truth, he never felt he deserved much more than a careless regard and admiration in spite of that kiss they'd shared nearly a year prior.
She'd been mourning the end of her relationship.
He had been caught up in the implications that there were more of them out there, somewhere, than he'd ever dreamed. That he was part of a far greater path than he'd ever imagined.
So, when it sparked between them one rainy afternoon, when they couldn't go out to the desert to practice their respective powers, and instead holed up alone in his apartment talking and watching TV, it had been unexpected, at least on his part.
Rain had always seemed to play a big role in the significant changes in their lives.
It was raining the day he stumbled into the diner and found a bit of peace as he watched what a real family was made of; what familial love should look like as she and her parents displayed it loud and clear. How he had envied her in that moment.
It was still raining when he saw the first bit of unconditional regard and care reflected back at him, shining through bright chocolate eyes as she fussed and coddled him.
Getting him something dry to wear.
Making sure that he had something to eat.
Making certain he had something hot to drink.
And then bundled him up with a care package when he left.
It was raining as she ran to him for comfort when Max screwed them all royally by kissing Tess. And it continued to rain as she curled up on his chest, like a contented kitten, sleeping unconcernedly - as if she trusted him to keep the monsters away.
It was raining once again when she came to him in a panic, fear radiating from every pore as lines of green electricity shot down her arms, those same eyes flashing as she demanded answers; and then they set up a plan to keep her safe from those who sought to destroy them all.
And it was raining that day, the day they first made love; he wouldn't call it anything else, as there were no other suitable words for what happened that damp, cold afternoon.
It had started innocent; the two of them sitting on his futon, watching TV and eating popcorn, alternatively making fun of the cheesy horror movie that had been playing and talking about anything and everything, and yet nothing at all. He hadn't realized just how close she had gotten until they had turned simultaneously to make some smart remark about the hysterically screaming female lead, and their lips brushed together.
They had frozen like that for a long moment, their lips just touching, their eyes wide and staring and uncertain. He'd meant to pull away, to laugh it off, to pretend it meant nothing; but then her lips had shifted, and a soft, wet, damp heat pressed closer, seeking an answer to the question that had long preyed on their minds -
Had that mad kiss in the diner been a fluke?
The air charged around them, thickening like a cream as their lips met, compressed, slid and brushed, and then pulled away time and time again, each kiss intensifying and growing in passion until they were laying together in his bed, and he couldn't quite recall just how they had gotten there.
And then there was heat unlike anything he'd ever known; like they had been standing at the edge of a volcano's crater and that liquid magma flashed through and melted them…
Until they were one.
Until she was surrounding him in all ways possible.
Until he couldn't quite tell where he ended and she began, and he couldn't breathe.
It was pointless - they were joined in a dance, a pleasure older than time and it was indeed, greater than anything he'd ever imagined and left him shaken to his core as they sky rocketed to the very stars he came from and then floated back down to Earth on a cloud of bliss.
No, he hadn't expected that from her, even as she kissed him softly and then curled around him like a contented kitten once more, all but purring as she laid her head on his chest.
But he didn't deny that he wanted it.
He wanted it with an undeniable ferocity unlike any he'd ever experienced in his young life.
And as he laid there, awed, holding her close to his heart, he vowed that he'd do whatever was necessary to be worthy of her gift.
P is for Promise.
