WoD fic, again.
Title: Hot and Cold
Characters: WoD!Nochi (Blood Eagle variation)
Summary: It's - he's - wrong, but she can't help not caring.
Rating: G
A/N: I give you full permission to thwap me for the title. 2-person POV.
Wrong. He's wrong, wrong, wrong, dead and cold, nothing coming off of him but an overwhelming sense of wrong. But it's him or his Child, the one you've started calling the Traitor in your head without any real knowledge as to why, and you figure you'll take the lesser of two wrongs.
You tell the story, trying to pull details from your mind, not knowing what might be important and what's not, and when his eyes widen you think you might be able to see a glimpse of who he used to be. There's something real and warm and human about fear, that panicked look when you realize everything's out of your hands.
And when he tells you the story, reacting to your confusion with patient clarification, it's nothing like what you saw before, a snapped temper or a cold stare. It's quiet desperation, a need for a plan, a grasping at straws that's almost comforting to you. You remember it. You remember feeling it, once, when your blood wasn't white-hot and your skin didn't double as a surge protector.
It's a far-away memory, buried under fear and scars, but you feel it when he speaks. It makes you think that, maybe, things will turn out like they should. It almost - almost - makes you feel human again.
You're not sure, but you think he might feel the same way. That under the titles and power and cold, he might want the same thing you do.
And, somehow, it feels right.
Characters: WoD!Nochi (Blood Eagle variation)
Summary: It's - he's - wrong, but she can't help not caring.
Rating: G
A/N: I give you full permission to thwap me for the title. 2-person POV.
Wrong. He's wrong, wrong, wrong, dead and cold, nothing coming off of him but an overwhelming sense of wrong. But it's him or his Child, the one you've started calling the Traitor in your head without any real knowledge as to why, and you figure you'll take the lesser of two wrongs.
You tell the story, trying to pull details from your mind, not knowing what might be important and what's not, and when his eyes widen you think you might be able to see a glimpse of who he used to be. There's something real and warm and human about fear, that panicked look when you realize everything's out of your hands.
And when he tells you the story, reacting to your confusion with patient clarification, it's nothing like what you saw before, a snapped temper or a cold stare. It's quiet desperation, a need for a plan, a grasping at straws that's almost comforting to you. You remember it. You remember feeling it, once, when your blood wasn't white-hot and your skin didn't double as a surge protector.
It's a far-away memory, buried under fear and scars, but you feel it when he speaks. It makes you think that, maybe, things will turn out like they should. It almost - almost - makes you feel human again.
You're not sure, but you think he might feel the same way. That under the titles and power and cold, he might want the same thing you do.
And, somehow, it feels right.