Cold Indigo - challenge #124 (PG)
Posted: Sun Dec 12, 2010 10:47 pm
Title: Cold Indigo
Author: redwinter101
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Moonlight or any of its characters
Note: for Champagne Challenge #124 - It's "Cold". This was inspired by Luxe de Luxe's beautiful Fall from Eden.
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--- Cold Indigo ---
Mick curled tighter, deeper into the warm glow, a blanket of isolation, the rest of the world blocked out beyond its barrier. He was inside, protected.
Safe.
Within, colour was true, an unfiltered spectrum, soft edges tinged with indigo and violet.
Points of light picked out a soft-focus blur of honey and sepia. No black, no white, no cold, no dark.
He felt her move against him, heat flowing through. The swish of her hair across his chest; the gentle rumble of her moan; her body welcoming his, connecting.
Muffled sounds as they turned and moved and held and laughed.
He didn't need to hear the chambers of her heart contract; he knew it quickened for him.
He didn't need to see the tiny muscles in her eyes tighten as her pupils dilated; he knew her desire flared for him.
He didn't need to gauge the changes in her body temperature; he knew she burned for him.
He licked his lips at this, the taste of happiness. Real, warm, human. He could let go, lose himself in the moment, forget.
No fear, no pain.
Safe.
Images, sensations, every touch and taste, flitting by, stuck on fast-forward, flashing moment to moment.
Mick clawed and gripped at the edges of consciousness, eyes pressing tighter, tighter, trying to force the retreat. A moment, just a moment longer, his silent plea. But the tide was relentless, unforgiving.
A shiver rippled through him as freezer chill forced out the dream's heat, a trail of goose bumps in its wake. His jaw clenched as the harsh, cold light filtered through. Perception's shutters rose, the prism adjusted; edges sharpened, points of pain pricking his skin as the sensory assault began.
The sluggish swirl of blood in his veins; the crackle of frost on lashes as his eyes flickered open; the buzz and hum inside his cold cocoon. Glass, steel, fluorescence, the hard edges and sharp lines of his seclusion. The start of another day.
Shaking off the foolishness of grieving for a dream, Mick rose and headed downstairs, pausing at the open door to the empty bedroom. The sinking sun recreated the dream's cruel illusion, casting a shaft of day across the bare bed.
"Is that you, Mick?" Beth's voice floated up the stairs, calm, warm, welcoming. She was here. Every night, now, she was here. The dreamtime perfection was fantasy but this reality held its own daily share of wonder. With a brief, sad smile, Mick shook off the last remnants of sleep and padded down to her.
"You slept late. Everything okay?"
He pulled her close and nodded against her neck, breathing her in. "How was your day?"
They settled on the sofa, their evening routine well-established: her day, his night, the highs and lows, holding, laughing, sometimes an argument, sometimes just the silent joy of presence.
For so long he'd imagined perfection; always slipping just out of his reach, the universe taunting him with other plans. But now, in their own imperfectly perfect existence, he had no idea what it was let alone how to achieve it. It had become a phantom, a wisp of smoke on the midnight air.
What value her humanity? What price his immortality? Where was their place in the world? Even in his momentary melancholy he smiled at the strange and wonderful notion that they might have one. It was a challenge, every day, to make it work, somehow. Each to be what the other needed. Amid the daily wonders of their life together, some days, his yearning for simplicity was overwhelming.
He rose and moved to the window, looking down to the bustling street below, the oblivious normality of the commuters and shoppers and muggers and street-sweepers.
He closed his eyes and he could see; his longed-for picture postcard dream.
He and Beth together, walking hand and hand under the glare of the setting sun.
Author: redwinter101
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Moonlight or any of its characters
Note: for Champagne Challenge #124 - It's "Cold". This was inspired by Luxe de Luxe's beautiful Fall from Eden.
*************************************************************************************************************
--- Cold Indigo ---
Mick curled tighter, deeper into the warm glow, a blanket of isolation, the rest of the world blocked out beyond its barrier. He was inside, protected.
Safe.
Within, colour was true, an unfiltered spectrum, soft edges tinged with indigo and violet.
Points of light picked out a soft-focus blur of honey and sepia. No black, no white, no cold, no dark.
He felt her move against him, heat flowing through. The swish of her hair across his chest; the gentle rumble of her moan; her body welcoming his, connecting.
Muffled sounds as they turned and moved and held and laughed.
He didn't need to hear the chambers of her heart contract; he knew it quickened for him.
He didn't need to see the tiny muscles in her eyes tighten as her pupils dilated; he knew her desire flared for him.
He didn't need to gauge the changes in her body temperature; he knew she burned for him.
He licked his lips at this, the taste of happiness. Real, warm, human. He could let go, lose himself in the moment, forget.
No fear, no pain.
Safe.
Images, sensations, every touch and taste, flitting by, stuck on fast-forward, flashing moment to moment.
Mick clawed and gripped at the edges of consciousness, eyes pressing tighter, tighter, trying to force the retreat. A moment, just a moment longer, his silent plea. But the tide was relentless, unforgiving.
A shiver rippled through him as freezer chill forced out the dream's heat, a trail of goose bumps in its wake. His jaw clenched as the harsh, cold light filtered through. Perception's shutters rose, the prism adjusted; edges sharpened, points of pain pricking his skin as the sensory assault began.
The sluggish swirl of blood in his veins; the crackle of frost on lashes as his eyes flickered open; the buzz and hum inside his cold cocoon. Glass, steel, fluorescence, the hard edges and sharp lines of his seclusion. The start of another day.
Shaking off the foolishness of grieving for a dream, Mick rose and headed downstairs, pausing at the open door to the empty bedroom. The sinking sun recreated the dream's cruel illusion, casting a shaft of day across the bare bed.
"Is that you, Mick?" Beth's voice floated up the stairs, calm, warm, welcoming. She was here. Every night, now, she was here. The dreamtime perfection was fantasy but this reality held its own daily share of wonder. With a brief, sad smile, Mick shook off the last remnants of sleep and padded down to her.
"You slept late. Everything okay?"
He pulled her close and nodded against her neck, breathing her in. "How was your day?"
They settled on the sofa, their evening routine well-established: her day, his night, the highs and lows, holding, laughing, sometimes an argument, sometimes just the silent joy of presence.
For so long he'd imagined perfection; always slipping just out of his reach, the universe taunting him with other plans. But now, in their own imperfectly perfect existence, he had no idea what it was let alone how to achieve it. It had become a phantom, a wisp of smoke on the midnight air.
What value her humanity? What price his immortality? Where was their place in the world? Even in his momentary melancholy he smiled at the strange and wonderful notion that they might have one. It was a challenge, every day, to make it work, somehow. Each to be what the other needed. Amid the daily wonders of their life together, some days, his yearning for simplicity was overwhelming.
He rose and moved to the window, looking down to the bustling street below, the oblivious normality of the commuters and shoppers and muggers and street-sweepers.
He closed his eyes and he could see; his longed-for picture postcard dream.
He and Beth together, walking hand and hand under the glare of the setting sun.