call me Deacon Blues

Summary:

A half-gone memory. “You’re still kicking, kid.” A hand flat on your chest, sliding up your collarbone to your neck. Swaying toward him, your hand on his hip, looking down at his wet mouth - No, you are sick of Harry’s “miracles.” You have lived through too many of them. There is no miracle for you. Miracles don’t happen in Revachol, not anymore.

Pairing: Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare

Rating: T

Word Count: ~7,500

“But I feel it. Here.” He splays a hand out over this chest. “I felt it in Martinaise, too.”

“That’s heartburn.”

“Don’t you feel it too?” He reaches forward and puts the Commodore down. Then he leans forward to you, hand outstretched towards your chest.

You knock his hand away. “Yes - when I eat too many kebabs.”

He studies you, that half-cocked head. You stare back at him, your heart pounding. “Do you even feel anything, I wonder?” he rasps out.