Thursday Evening

A/N~ Reviews are awesome. Thanks for the reviews I already have. They make me happy.

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After he asked me if I was okay, he quit talking. Or rather, he said nothing. I wished he would say something. Not because I thought he was mad. He wasn’t.

He looked angry when he was mad. And he didn’t look angry. This time, he looked more concerned than anything else.

I wanted him to say something, anything. Reaffirm what I’d done, though I know he had disagreed with it in the first place. Or talk about how good the food was.

My arms hurt. My legs hurt. My face hurts. Everything hurt.

His voice would be distracting. I needed a distraction.

He half-carried me. I didn’t think he would have had the strength. I probably could have walked by myself, but he wanted to help. And I liked his help.

I laid down on the bed as soon as I could. I wouldn’t sleep. I just needed rest. I’d feel worse in the morning. My bruises would turn that bright shade of purple by then. I had not had them for a long time. I forgot I wasn’t great in a fight. I don’t think that is part of his idea of the perfect guy.

He’s looking at me. As if he has something to say, but can’t quite say it. I want to tell him that everything will be okay. And that he can tell me anything. But I don’t feel like saying anything, right now. My throat is too dry. My voice will be too hoarse.

But he leans forward, and barely grazes my face in a kiss. I feel it more than usual, but no pain. I wish he’d say whatever it was he wanted to say. He could say it this close to me. I would probably like it better than way. But he isn’t saying it.

He’s just looking at me, now. Smiling slightly. I have no idea what it is that he’s smiling at.


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I could kiss his bruises. Not because I liked the light shade of blue that have become. Or that I want to want to see how much pressure could be placed on them before he whimpered. Or that his skin is too irresistible to wait for him to heal. No, I wanted to kiss those wounds because of what they represented. I was thinking of the symbolism of it.

They were marks of a fight. A fight fought for me. And lost. But still fought. Against family. That was more than I could ask for. More than I’d be able to give.

That’s why I’m being quiet and not praising him for his bravery. Or his faith in his family. I still can’t comprehend it.

It’s not like out on the streets, where the motivation to defend or fight for a prostitute was for financial reasons. He did it because he wanted to. That was his only motivation.

I half-carried him. It must have looked strange. I’m so much smaller than him. Taller, but I weigh much less.

And I treated him with such delicacy. As if he were some fancy object that really *could* break if I dropped him.

I’m staring, now. That’s all I can do. Just stare. I can’t tell him that I’m honored. And he’s resting, looking so bruised and battered. Eye’s swelling. And he has so many bruises. Most are that pale shade of blue that I was so familiar with. The ones that hurt the most.

I had always hated them on my body. They had represented something much more painful to me. My family. My not-so-secret life. It was strange that on him, pain from family and a second life could be the cause of all my happiness.

I can’t say it. So I lean forward and kiss your bruised face. You’ll look less pretty in the morning. I’m smiling, now. Hoping that you’ll see I’m happy with you.

I’m too afraid of causing you pain to hug you, but, God, I want to.