[Who does he think he is, just...saying things like that. Just four easy words that coming from anyone else she would've insisted were utterly untrue, except that when he says them it's just so natural to believe it. Who does he think he is, making this so easy, when somewhere underneath the dreamy disbelief she knows that she'd be petrified right now if he were anyone else, and yet here and now she isn't scared in the slightest.
She's so used to being scared, all the time, always. She's so used to scheming and planning, anticipating and manipulating. She's so used to expecting the worst and distrusting the best. She's so used to being alone, because she has to be, because she needs to be.
But as it turns out, all this time while he hasn't been seeing anything but her, she hasn't been thinking about anything but him.
He's tall, and he's warm. His lips are soft and a little chapped from where he bites them; hers are, too. His hands are smoother than she would've expected from someone who handles guns, but he wears gloves, he takes care of them. He takes care of her, too, even if he doesn't realize it. Even when she doesn't deserve it. Even when she ought to say how much she appreciates it and she can't or won't or just doesn't.
It's just the two of them, alone in a hideaway with flowers in her hair and forgotten soup gone cold on a table. His freckles look like fireworks across the night sky of his nose. She's wearing a pair of his pants because she hadn't wanted to give them back. His secret is under wraps on his wrist. Her scars lie hidden beneath the glamour on her face.
Her shoes aren't glass. His last name isn't Charming. No spell winds up broken. There was no spell there to begin with.
There's just the two of them, boy meets girl, him and her and this fragile hopeful eager thing between them, and she always gets let down by fairy tales, except that this time she doesn't.]
no subject
She's so used to being scared, all the time, always. She's so used to scheming and planning, anticipating and manipulating. She's so used to expecting the worst and distrusting the best. She's so used to being alone, because she has to be, because she needs to be.
But as it turns out, all this time while he hasn't been seeing anything but her, she hasn't been thinking about anything but him.
He's tall, and he's warm. His lips are soft and a little chapped from where he bites them; hers are, too. His hands are smoother than she would've expected from someone who handles guns, but he wears gloves, he takes care of them. He takes care of her, too, even if he doesn't realize it. Even when she doesn't deserve it. Even when she ought to say how much she appreciates it and she can't or won't or just doesn't.
It's just the two of them, alone in a hideaway with flowers in her hair and forgotten soup gone cold on a table. His freckles look like fireworks across the night sky of his nose. She's wearing a pair of his pants because she hadn't wanted to give them back. His secret is under wraps on his wrist. Her scars lie hidden beneath the glamour on her face.
Her shoes aren't glass. His last name isn't Charming. No spell winds up broken. There was no spell there to begin with.
There's just the two of them, boy meets girl, him and her and this fragile hopeful eager thing between them, and she always gets let down by fairy tales, except that this time she doesn't.]