Post by wordy on Oct 10, 2013 14:22:05 GMT 10
Title: The Wire
Rating: PG13
Warnings: some sexual suggestiveness
and references to PTSD/dark themes
Summary: Post-BM, Post-WotE. Briar should know by now that trying to protect people by hiding the truth only results in more pain.
A/N: Title is a song by HAIM, which I have been listening to on repeat of late. And if anyone (*cough* Ankhiale *cough*) should get the desire to write more Emelan or Briar/Sandry from this fic, I'm happy to take full responsibility.
Her fingers came across the scar quite by accident, and perhaps she would have thought nothing of it and moved on but for the way Briar tensed at her touch.
(That was new, too; everything was. The first time had been too hurried and fumbling, the both of them caught up in the lust and strangeness of it all. But now, the second time: Sandry had time enough to watch and learn, listen to the staccato twitches of his breathing, taste the unexpected softness of his mouth.)
She let her hand fall away from his thigh and rolled down beside him, nudging her head into the waiting space beneath his raised arm; after a moment, he sighed, and she saw his forearm leave his face, felt it land upon the pillow above her head, trapping her neatly, thoughtlessly, a weight upon her tumbled-down hair.
"What is it?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she raised a fingertip and traced the ticklish skin over his ribs.
He caught her hand, held it tighter when she tried to squeeze her fingers from his grasp. "Nothing."
"Don't you dare lie to me, Briar Moss."
He sighed again. "I didn't think it mattered. Didn't want you ninny-headed girls fawning over yourselves to pity me. It healed up fine, anyway."
Warmth spread itself over her skin, her face; not the pleasant tingle that she had come to associate with their lovemaking (his touch), but something more familiar, which made her jaw clench almost of its own accord. "Are you telling me," she said slowly, "that you were hurt? And you kept it from us?"
Small lines appeared at the corner of his eye as he winced. Sandry clenched her jaw so tightly that her teeth groaned against each other. The pillow was in her hand before she could think; the sound it made coming down on his face was so satisfying. "You - idiot!" she cried.
"Sandry," he began, but she was already at the edge of the bed, pulling her nightgown back over her legs as she rose, ignoring the tight feeling in her scalp that had come from her sudden weaponisation of the pillow. "I didn't think it mattered," he repeated.
"You think too much," she retorted. "I don't care if you were trying to spare our feelings, or your own damn dignity, but what I do care about is that after all these years, you haven't changed. Feelings are supposed to be felt, Briar, and keeping everything bottled up won't make them go away."
"Sandry—"
This time, he caught her; she let herself be caught and led back to sit on the bed. There was nothing more she wanted than to run her hand across his short hair and feel it prickle against her palm, and lean in to kiss all of this away, but she was too far gone for that now. Her face felt unbearably hot, and was surely a pink, blotchy mess; it was only her own stubbornness that held back the tears. Why was she the one who always had to feel so much?
"You're right," he said. "I thought that since Gyongxe was over, that I was alive, it didn't matter what I had felt back then. I didn't want it to matter. I was scared, and upset, and everything was just...hopeless." He shrugged a shoulder, not quite meeting her eyes. "Can you blame me for not wanting to feel that anymore?"
Sandry bit her lip, feeling suddenly selfish. She raised a hand to his face. "I'm not right. Not completely. While I'm hurt that you kept something so important from us, I...can understand your reasons. When it comes to war, I suppose that not everything can be black and white."
She glanced down, and moved the sheet aside from his leg. The scar did not look bad, exactly, but she knew that an enormous amount of healing magic must have gone into making it so. "Do you want to talk about it?" There was so much she still didn't know about what he, Evvy, and Rosethorn had experienced in their travels.
Did she want to know?
Briar covered her hand with his; the corner of his mouth twitched, as though trying to make his usual grin. "Not yet. Not some things, at least."
There was a promise in those words, though, and Sandry leaned in and let him kiss her; let herself be lost in the present, where they were all safe and where they belonged. It was a start.
Rating: PG13
Warnings: some sexual suggestiveness
and references to PTSD/dark themesSummary: Post-BM, Post-WotE. Briar should know by now that trying to protect people by hiding the truth only results in more pain.
A/N: Title is a song by HAIM, which I have been listening to on repeat of late. And if anyone (*cough* Ankhiale *cough*) should get the desire to write more Emelan or Briar/Sandry from this fic, I'm happy to take full responsibility.
Her fingers came across the scar quite by accident, and perhaps she would have thought nothing of it and moved on but for the way Briar tensed at her touch.
(That was new, too; everything was. The first time had been too hurried and fumbling, the both of them caught up in the lust and strangeness of it all. But now, the second time: Sandry had time enough to watch and learn, listen to the staccato twitches of his breathing, taste the unexpected softness of his mouth.)
She let her hand fall away from his thigh and rolled down beside him, nudging her head into the waiting space beneath his raised arm; after a moment, he sighed, and she saw his forearm leave his face, felt it land upon the pillow above her head, trapping her neatly, thoughtlessly, a weight upon her tumbled-down hair.
"What is it?" she asked. When he didn't answer, she raised a fingertip and traced the ticklish skin over his ribs.
He caught her hand, held it tighter when she tried to squeeze her fingers from his grasp. "Nothing."
"Don't you dare lie to me, Briar Moss."
He sighed again. "I didn't think it mattered. Didn't want you ninny-headed girls fawning over yourselves to pity me. It healed up fine, anyway."
Warmth spread itself over her skin, her face; not the pleasant tingle that she had come to associate with their lovemaking (his touch), but something more familiar, which made her jaw clench almost of its own accord. "Are you telling me," she said slowly, "that you were hurt? And you kept it from us?"
Small lines appeared at the corner of his eye as he winced. Sandry clenched her jaw so tightly that her teeth groaned against each other. The pillow was in her hand before she could think; the sound it made coming down on his face was so satisfying. "You - idiot!" she cried.
"Sandry," he began, but she was already at the edge of the bed, pulling her nightgown back over her legs as she rose, ignoring the tight feeling in her scalp that had come from her sudden weaponisation of the pillow. "I didn't think it mattered," he repeated.
"You think too much," she retorted. "I don't care if you were trying to spare our feelings, or your own damn dignity, but what I do care about is that after all these years, you haven't changed. Feelings are supposed to be felt, Briar, and keeping everything bottled up won't make them go away."
"Sandry—"
This time, he caught her; she let herself be caught and led back to sit on the bed. There was nothing more she wanted than to run her hand across his short hair and feel it prickle against her palm, and lean in to kiss all of this away, but she was too far gone for that now. Her face felt unbearably hot, and was surely a pink, blotchy mess; it was only her own stubbornness that held back the tears. Why was she the one who always had to feel so much?
"You're right," he said. "I thought that since Gyongxe was over, that I was alive, it didn't matter what I had felt back then. I didn't want it to matter. I was scared, and upset, and everything was just...hopeless." He shrugged a shoulder, not quite meeting her eyes. "Can you blame me for not wanting to feel that anymore?"
Sandry bit her lip, feeling suddenly selfish. She raised a hand to his face. "I'm not right. Not completely. While I'm hurt that you kept something so important from us, I...can understand your reasons. When it comes to war, I suppose that not everything can be black and white."
She glanced down, and moved the sheet aside from his leg. The scar did not look bad, exactly, but she knew that an enormous amount of healing magic must have gone into making it so. "Do you want to talk about it?" There was so much she still didn't know about what he, Evvy, and Rosethorn had experienced in their travels.
Did she want to know?
Briar covered her hand with his; the corner of his mouth twitched, as though trying to make his usual grin. "Not yet. Not some things, at least."
There was a promise in those words, though, and Sandry leaned in and let him kiss her; let herself be lost in the present, where they were all safe and where they belonged. It was a start.
