#erikxelse

codenamebowie

Erik strove to keep his eyes on his own paper, but there was a primal magnetism that kept his gaze wandering away from his notes.

Since his revelation of accidental immortality, he'd been under the direct supervision of S.H.E.I.L.D., and the woman at the helm of his human relations was one Codename Bowie. This little agent had barged into his life and turned it on it's head. Since her arrival, his home had been turned and test, his bodily autonomy had been refused, and he'd more or less been kept until they could figure out what to do with him.

And yet, he couldn't be happier. If one could unconsciously slip into living past their time, he'd done it. Perhaps he'd passed on and this was all an elaborate fabrication of an after-life; if so, he didn't know what he did to deserve an angel like Else in his life.

Back in the realm of reality, she was fussing over a cookbook. Her delicate fingers danced over the page, eyes squinting at the ingredients and nose wrinkling at translating metric to the inane standards of American cookbooks. Their was flour on her cheek, and his ponytail bobbed back and forth as she grabbed new utensils and deposited used ones in the sink. Erik felt his pen drop down and meet the paper.

She was humming a song, though for the life of him he didn't know what kind of music it was. Something newfangled and modern. He didn't understand it at all, but he liked it coming from her lips. He gazed at those lips wistfully, his head slowly lowering onto the stacked support of his loosely curled fists. His smile grew slowly, then all at once it was wide and proud on his face. If she happened to look over, it would have been the most prominent feature about him, and not just because it was the only part of his face expose apart from his eyes. 

She made him want to write music again, to pay attention to his clothes and take care to eat regularly. More than anything, this girl made him want to live! Yet, he couldn't utter this aloud. How did one tell another that they owed them their life without sounding like a doddering old fool? An ancient and floundering ass? He was playing mental badminton now at the very idea of contemplating telling her that he-

Loved her?

Yes, yes he did.. He loved her. That spark of mischief in her eye, her ability to make him feel young by simply engaging in his petty annoyances with humor and verve. The little dimples in her cheeks, the perfect accents to her smile. 

Every little detail was a knife in his side, and he was glad to bleed. Watching her contriving to make a pie, cursing in her native tongue with a determined air at the dough-- it was all so precious to him.