Re: [(After)Life]
Nel drew one bare foot up onto the bench, the one furthest from him and nearer to the wall, and then she allowed the outside of her knee to rest against the sandstone. Her other foot was still flat to the floor, and it was that thigh he would've found himself in position to recline his head against. She'd watched all his movements, and unabashedly. Her gaze was direct, assessing. He was acting rather less like the cocky young man who had first entered her studio in a woman's body mere months past. He reminded her more of their youth now, and she watched him toke on the pipe with shower mist clinging to her artic lashes.
She'd no illusions about who he was. She'd no illusions about herself, and she'd no illusions about Fen. They were what they always had been, and it had always been the three of them against the gods. He was no angelic youth looking up at her through flop of fringe and with vulnerability etched upon his features, for all that he looked it. Well, all of it but the gaze.
She touched her fingers to that damp, soft flop of hair over his forehead. Her fingers were long and her hands no longer held claim to the plumpness of youth, but she'd no qualms about that—she'd no qualms about anything regarding her appearance. Her fingers slipped deliberately to the line of his shoulder, and then she lifted her head.
A sound. A scent. A knowing. "Fen," she told him, and she stood, fingers tracing traceries along his cheek as she rose to get the door.