thecoolone | (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.

Threaded | Flat

*Fleur snuggles closer, warm and happy, and presses a sleepy kiss against Bill's shoulder. Sleepy sleepy. It's really the smell that starts to wake her up. Bernard smelled of gun powder and Roland, gun oil. And she is not snuggled against Ophelia because flat...and it smells like magic. That deep innate scent of home.*

*She blinks her eyes open and comes face to face with Bill's chest hair.*

Oh.