Far from it, actually, when there are no open wounds under that blood. There’s nothing on her skin except the knotted scar on her shoulder now.
But she can’t miss the look on his face, when he’s working at the blood left. This expression that is almost like a flinch that isn’t. It’s inside his eyes and the hold of his jaw. These little things she thinks the whole world misses, but she knew them so well. She’d wanted to memorize him completely during those years. And she’d seen this face enough times.
Which makes two other faces blend into it, suddenly, without a pause. The face she'd last seen on the floor of The Roadhouse, the mix of fear and shame that twisted into horror right as she vanished, and his face when she'd first caught up after landing in that garage. That combination of dark pain and dangerous fury. None of those here now, as he dabbed at her blood and she refused to look away from his face. Banged up, scratches and blooming bruises.
Focused, words trying to help as much as his hands, and her head tilted. It's less a choice than she'd like if she looked back.
"Sorry," is soft and entirely sincere, before three things happened all at once.
She raised a hand inside to graze her fingers down his right cheek, along his jaw, and she flinched, like someone had suddenly shined a bright light in her eyes, against a pain that wasn't like slamming a mountain but more like stubbing her toe, and warmth should have suffused Dean's skin like sunshine on it suddenly, quick but true.
As the fourth, and entirely unspoken part of it, Episkey, was barely even a whisper in her thoughts.
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Far from it, actually, when there are no open wounds under that blood.
There’s nothing on her skin except the knotted scar on her shoulder now.
But she can’t miss the look on his face, when he’s working at the blood left. This expression that is almost like a flinch that isn’t. It’s inside his eyes and the hold of his jaw. These little things she thinks the whole world misses, but she knew them so well. She’d wanted to memorize him completely during those years. And she’d seen this face enough times.
Which makes two other faces blend into it, suddenly, without a pause. The face she'd last seen on the floor of The Roadhouse, the mix of fear and shame that twisted into horror right as she vanished, and his face when she'd first caught up after landing in that garage. That combination of dark pain and dangerous fury. None of those here now, as he dabbed at her blood and she refused to look away from his face. Banged up, scratches and blooming bruises.
Focused, words trying to help as much as his hands, and her head tilted. It's less a choice than she'd like if she looked back.
"Sorry," is soft and entirely sincere, before three things happened all at once.
She raised a hand inside to graze her fingers down his right cheek, along his jaw, and she flinched, like someone had suddenly shined a bright light in her eyes, against a pain that wasn't like slamming a mountain but more like stubbing her toe, and warmth should have suffused Dean's skin like sunshine on it suddenly, quick but true.
As the fourth, and entirely unspoken part of it, Episkey, was barely even a whisper in her thoughts.