(no subject)

He wakes up to an almost-forgotten longing, right in the pit of his stomach, at the sight of the head of silver-blonde hair falling in rivulets against his shoulder. There's a brief moment of Oh, fuck, what have I done? but he lets it go; the bed is warm and Fleur looks so peaceful, so contented.

Bill knows he loves her.

He also knows he doesn't.

He also knows he does; he leans over and kisses the top of her head so softly it's almost like butterfly wings caressing her.

Fleur, Fleur. You and I make so little sense.

Compare, contrast: at one point his skin was golden-brown from spending so much time in Egypt, but now it's pale and freckled, in contrast to the smooth unblemished peach-white of hers. In a way that's so symbolic: she's perfection and he's never been. She's smooth where he's rough; she's graceful where he's clumsy; she dances where he walks. He's older, but in some ways he feels so inadequate next to her.

But he loves her.

And he doesn't.

And he does.