Title: What She Misses
Archiving: http://www.realmoftheshadow.com/harper.htm. Anyone else, please ask.
Disclaimers: I don’t own them, don’t suffer from any grand delusions that I do, and don’t particularly want anyone to sue me.
A/N: This is un-beta’d, short, and not particularly happy. It is Cordelia’s thoughts in RE: her lover. If you’d like to send feedback, I’d love to receive it. I’m at Email: Xfjnky2@yahoo.com
She misses the taste of tobacco. She always told her that she hated it, hated that thick tinge of smoke that still somehow managed to be laced with an elusive edge of sweetness when delivered on her tongue, when it was tasted on her lips.
She misses the deep, earthy laugh. Unrestrained, uncaring, uninhibited, just like its owner. She misses the way it always conveyed the depth of her amusement, the sheer pleasure that she managed to take from a life that often gave her little to laugh about.
She misses her eyes, dark pools of untamed emotion just shining out at her, carelessly spilling each and every thought and feeling like the stain of overturned ink. Expressive eyes, whether they were snapping in amusement, blazing in fury, or dimmed with the nearly hidden hurt of a heart that was much more tender than it tried to convey.
She misses her hair, the long length that flowed around delicate shoulders like a curtain of the softest silk, framing the exotic beauty of her face. She misses the way it felt under her fingertips, the way it would brush past her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, her thighs… misses the dark curtain it provided, the way it shielded their kisses from the world.
She misses her lips, the lush moue that was almost too sensual. She misses the way they beckoned, the way they pouted when she didn’t get her way, the way they would unfurl in a lazy smile that made every other single thing in the world suddenly blissfully unimportant. She misses the deep craters of parallel dimples that would form alongside those all too alluring lips, the way that smile would draw her in and make her a willing slave, more than happy to do her bidding.
She misses hearing her voice, the tone low and full of the scratch of sand and gravel. She misses the harsh slang that came with growing up on the streets, the utterly charming unsophistication that meant that she always said what she meant to say, no dancing around, no allusions, no overly fancy words. She misses hearing that voice whispering in her ear, full of dark promise and the warmth of true affection… love even. She misses the way she could make her blush uncontrollably with just a few well chosen words. She misses hearing the early morning rasp of an already rough voice grow warm.
She misses the way she made her feel. She misses the little shiver of anticipation that would chase its way down her spine at just one look, at the merest hint of seduction in that whiskied tone. She misses feeling like she was the most important thing on the earth, that nothing else mattered so long as they were together.
She misses the way she wrote, with her hand bearing down so hard on the tip of the pen that the words were scratched, indelibly, into the next four sheets. She misses having to squint to make out the letters, misses the bold slashes and the slightly forward and aggressive slant of her distinctive scrawl. She misses the notes that would always appear without warning, dug out of her pants pocket or found resting beneath her pillow, the ones that unfailingly brought a smile to her face and made her heart skip a beat.
She misses her strength, and the way it made her feel like she would always be safe, always be protected. She misses the warm, fierce cage of her arms, the ever careful restraint, the muted fear that she would touch too roughly, hold too tightly. She misses watching the dance of lithe muscles, misses knowing that all of that power was hers to command, was always ready to whisk away danger, always ready to bear her away to the privacy and comfort of them, together and alone.
She misses the warmth of her, lying along her back, the preternaturally warm furnace of skin that never cooled burning into her. She misses feeling that skin plastered to her, heating her to a nearly uncomfortable level, though she rarely pushed her away. She misses the way she would shove the covers down to the bottom of the bed, welcoming the cool air on her front just so she could tolerate the burn of that much heat against her. Just so she wouldn’t have to stop touching her, to stop feeling her.
She misses her sense of humor, born of the gutter and intent on making its appearance at the most unlikely of times. She misses the way she would make her laugh without her consent, the chuckles almost forcibly drawn from her, making their way unbidden into the open because she couldn’t hold things back when those eyes were looking at her, full of mischief and mirth and the enticing promise of safety.
She misses the way she thought, not at all logically or in anything resembling a straight line. She misses the way she would act without considering all the possibilities, the way she would do what she felt was necessary and never beg for forgiveness later.
She misses the slight hitch of her breath, the one that came with the first blush of arousal and promised to soon denigrate into the harsh, rasping pant of need.
She misses the way she lived without fear, doing what she wanted to do when she wanted to do it because she was never afraid to be who she was.
She misses her cocky strut and her arrogant smile and the apparent belief that she would always be that much better than everyone else.
She misses her.
She curses the same Fate that brought her here, the one that brought them together. She rails against the inevitability of her death, the easy sacrifice of one who knew it was her destiny.
She hates the way the statistics were right. She wasn’t destined to see her 25th birthday, wasn’t slated for a long and happy life.
She mourns the fact that she is alone and that, no matter how hard she searches, she will never find all of the things that she now knows she must have to be happy, will never find another being who possesses what she needs.
She cries at night because she hopes, yet does not know, if she knew this, knew just how much she mattered. She wishes she hadn’t been too afraid to tell her, too scared to admit the truth.
She loves her. She’s not quite sure if she will ever love another. She doesn’t really know if that’s even what she wants.
She senses, somehow, that its not what she wants at all.