#lassotruth

       ‘  i -------------  ’     her voice began to raise but as her grey graze found the woman in the room and once they found her it was as if lightening itself striked her throat, she could no yell --- or be rash ---- to her, not to her.       ‘  ..... i just need to alone right now.  ’

                                                         diana  &&  satine  (  @lassotruth  )

           HER STRENGTH  is one thing he knows to never underestimate  ---  he has seen her jump over rooftops and unroot tanks from the ground, has seen her in battle and amidst diplomats.   he is aware, more than anything, of his own frail mortality,  one which places him always in the danger of either hospitalisation or imminent death.        how easy it is to end  !!  one step wrong, swallowed by flame  &  time, only to be spit out once more,  how easy can his breath turn to naught.

                    but he also trusts her.  he knows that she would never willingly harm him in any way, that she treasures his life  &  well-being  (  as odd as it is, to have a goddess,  AN ANGEL,  looking out for him when he doesn’t know what he did to deserve it  .  .  .  ),  so when, in the midst of playful fighting, she wraps her fingers around him too hard,  he is about to laugh it off when she stands and runs off, leaving behind a very confused man.

                 he is HESITANT to follow,   mindful of the bruises blooming upon scarred flesh,  but he does not linger for long  ---  and when he finds her not too far, trying to make herself as small as possible in the dark,   he knows he had made the right choice.        “  hey,  hey,  diana  --------  ”      bones groaning from the movement, he kneels next to her, so he may brush aside long hair & guide her chin upwards  ;  there is WORRY evident in his gaze, but he tempers it, offering a gentle, lopsided smile instead. 

              HIS SHIRTS KEEP GOING MISSING  ---  in the beginning, he thinks it’s because he somehow  (  always  )  misplaces them before doing laundry, which, in retrospective, ought to raise a couple questions,  but he blames it on being forgetful and, well  .  .  .  busy in the evenings, so he lets it go.     that is, until he catches the culprit in the act.

                         weather in america is much hotter than gloomy old britain  &&  somehow he is thankful for the change of pace  ---  there is still a chill within his bones that cannot thaw, an ice shard through his heart when death ought to have taken him away but didn’t  &&  really, the war is won and the front isn’t calling out his name anymore.    instead, he gets happiness.  instead, he gets softness, a touch of scarred fingers down one smooth shoulder, long digits playing into hair as dark as night, lips touching and exploring  ;  love, he had learned soon enough,  is both drug and antidote.    love is love.   love is diana.

                  SHOWERS  ---  sacred place where one may gather his thoughts and confine in solitude,  moments stolen when he may find himself catering to the much needed break,  warm water loosening the stiffness of muscles hardened by war, warding off the perpetual chill which seems to have found residence within his bones ever since he had first stepped foot on british soil.   they are also a commodity the solider in him did not have  :  warm water,  soap, forgone for efficacy, for speed     (  sometimes,  he feels like the war took with it part of himself,  like it left him behind a person lacking something, adrenaline high burning the veins in his arms and leaving them behind scourged.  )

                          or well  .  .  .  that is what they might have been, were it not for diana.     he never minds the interruption, however, but has learned to welcome it as inevitable  :  she does not seem to understand the concept of privacy,  but the innocence of her actions, the manner in which she remains soft and warm and pure despite everything they have seen  --- everything she has seen  ---  is more endearing than anything else.  besides, he truly enjoys her company regardless of time or place, so after the first few incidents in which his lack of clothes may have embarrassed him,  he has learned that letting go of preconceptions when it comes to her is for the best.

                                         “  ---  hey,  ”     he doesn’t really need to look to know that she has entered the bathroom,  the telltale sound of bare feet against the granite, ever under the splatter of water, giving her away.  he doesn’t turn until a gush of cold air hits his back  &  he’s about to quip a witty remark to her lack of tact when she enters the cabin along with him and, well  .  .  .  he’s rendered speechless. as always, when in her presence.       “  was  ‘ showering with the male of the species ’  on your bucket list too  ??  ”        cheeky,  one hand reaches to touch a rapidly soaking strand of hair, push it over her shoulder, on which fingers linger as if drawn by thousands of magnets, before he reaches past her for the shampoo in the rack on the adjacent wall, uncaps it with one hand.    if his lips linger over her forehead, down her temple, only to finally settle on the apple of her cheek,  he can be proud to consider himself smooth enough to blame it on the proximity.

                       “  turn around, i’m gonna wash it for you,  ”   a nudge to her arm, the shampoo poured within rough palms,  soft motions lathering into her hair.  there is no URGENCY in the motion, no need to close the gap between two bodies,  just pure, unaltered softness,  the moment filled with nothing but affection,  nothing but LOVE, her back to his chest, his mouth to her neck,  his heartbeat echoing in her own.