sunday_reveries You can fly.
Prompt: Image.
The Love You Take
"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." - The Beatles, Abbey Road
St. John comes to bed late one night. He's been on the phone. It's a rare enough occurrence that Shayera questions him about it. He doesn't know many people, and most of the ones he knows think he's dead or would like to see him that way.
She didn't know he even had a phone.
"I finished my book," he tells her in response to her question. "That was a publisher."
"You're dead."
He shrugs. "I told them I was a brother. Karter. Had St. John's notes, wanted to continue on in his name."
Shayera stares at him. After a moment she whispers: "Karter?"
"Yeah."
"Are you writing your 'usual trash'?"
St. John frowns, but those are his words, not hers.
"No."
"Tell me."
He climbs into bed next to her and she rolls onto her stomach so she can watch him. The edge of her wing tickles at his leg. "It's about a woman who flies on wings of fire, but only in her dreams. In her waking life she's nobody. Everybody. A face in the crowd. And then she meets a man, and he tells her of a world where everyone flies on wings of fire."
"She's not alone," Shayera whispers.
"She doesn't know. The man's mad."
"Mad?"
"Insane. Not in his right mind."
Shayera frowns, but St. John tells her the rest of the story. She listens to him talk for hours, asking questions occasionally, but mostly just listening. When he finishes, she nods. "Karter is okay."
"Oh?" He smiles. "Had to know what it was about to know if I could put his name on it?"
She reaches up and presses her hand against his chest. "Why did you write this book?"
"Because it was in me."
"I'm in you. It's about me."
He nods. "Yeah. And for you. And for Junior."
"Michael."
"Or Kendra."
"Junior. Why is it for Junior?"
"Yards don't come cheap."
Shayera turns, laying on her side. "We don't need money. We will when we have a family?"
"We are a family," he corrects. "And I reckon."
"Should I get a job?"
He laughs. "You have a job. To make sure the world keeps turning so the rest of us can go on living. Pays nothing, but you get a bonzer code name."
She looks at him for a long moment, and then she starts to cry. He doesn't know if it's the codename comment or something else, but the smile fades from his face. She shakes her head as he reaches out to her. "You're proud of me."
"Yes." There's no more laughter in St. John's voice. "Shouldn't I be?"
"I don't know." She sits up and climbs into his lap. He puts his arms to her waist. "You hate the world."
"What? No."
"You want to tear it down."
He shakes his head and presses his ear to her chest. Her heart beats faster than a human's heart, and he thinks it's perfect that way. "No," he mutters against her breast. "Yes. So it can be rebuilt properly. Or not rebuilt at all. Whatever a person decides. No governments, no laws. Just freedom. But I love the world. The world brought me you."
"No this one."
"All of them."
She wraps her arms around him and presses her fingers through his hair. "I love you."
"I'm proud of you."
He hears her swallow and feels the soft sob that starts in her chest, just beneath his ear. "Thank you," she whispers.
"Always."
"Always."
She pulls his head back kisses him through her tears. St. John can't remember seeing her cry before. They taste like human tears, and he kisses up her cheek until he's replaced her sadness with his lips.
She's smiling again.
So is he.
The Love You Take
"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." - The Beatles, Abbey Road
St. John comes to bed late one night. He's been on the phone. It's a rare enough occurrence that Shayera questions him about it. He doesn't know many people, and most of the ones he knows think he's dead or would like to see him that way.
She didn't know he even had a phone.
"I finished my book," he tells her in response to her question. "That was a publisher."
"You're dead."
He shrugs. "I told them I was a brother. Karter. Had St. John's notes, wanted to continue on in his name."
Shayera stares at him. After a moment she whispers: "Karter?"
"Yeah."
"Are you writing your 'usual trash'?"
St. John frowns, but those are his words, not hers.
"No."
"Tell me."
He climbs into bed next to her and she rolls onto her stomach so she can watch him. The edge of her wing tickles at his leg. "It's about a woman who flies on wings of fire, but only in her dreams. In her waking life she's nobody. Everybody. A face in the crowd. And then she meets a man, and he tells her of a world where everyone flies on wings of fire."
"She's not alone," Shayera whispers.
"She doesn't know. The man's mad."
"Mad?"
"Insane. Not in his right mind."
Shayera frowns, but St. John tells her the rest of the story. She listens to him talk for hours, asking questions occasionally, but mostly just listening. When he finishes, she nods. "Karter is okay."
"Oh?" He smiles. "Had to know what it was about to know if I could put his name on it?"
She reaches up and presses her hand against his chest. "Why did you write this book?"
"Because it was in me."
"I'm in you. It's about me."
He nods. "Yeah. And for you. And for Junior."
"Michael."
"Or Kendra."
"Junior. Why is it for Junior?"
"Yards don't come cheap."
Shayera turns, laying on her side. "We don't need money. We will when we have a family?"
"We are a family," he corrects. "And I reckon."
"Should I get a job?"
He laughs. "You have a job. To make sure the world keeps turning so the rest of us can go on living. Pays nothing, but you get a bonzer code name."
She looks at him for a long moment, and then she starts to cry. He doesn't know if it's the codename comment or something else, but the smile fades from his face. She shakes her head as he reaches out to her. "You're proud of me."
"Yes." There's no more laughter in St. John's voice. "Shouldn't I be?"
"I don't know." She sits up and climbs into his lap. He puts his arms to her waist. "You hate the world."
"What? No."
"You want to tear it down."
He shakes his head and presses his ear to her chest. Her heart beats faster than a human's heart, and he thinks it's perfect that way. "No," he mutters against her breast. "Yes. So it can be rebuilt properly. Or not rebuilt at all. Whatever a person decides. No governments, no laws. Just freedom. But I love the world. The world brought me you."
"No this one."
"All of them."
She wraps her arms around him and presses her fingers through his hair. "I love you."
"I'm proud of you."
He hears her swallow and feels the soft sob that starts in her chest, just beneath his ear. "Thank you," she whispers.
"Always."
"Always."
She pulls his head back kisses him through her tears. St. John can't remember seeing her cry before. They taste like human tears, and he kisses up her cheek until he's replaced her sadness with his lips.
She's smiling again.
So is he.