Passing Ghosts
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So he’d sit in his armchair, and brew her her tea, with a teaspoon of honey, and a small butter cookie on the side, and listen. And laugh. And if he felt brave, he’d try to coax a blush or two.
Series
- Part 1 of Passing Ghosts
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To be truthful, he couldn’t blame her for the distance the last couple days. Iris. It was undeniable that something had shifted that night and it would not allow them to simply go back to the before of it all. Wouldn’t allow him, rather. Not when he now knew the wooden scent that clung to her, the softness of the chiffon scarf and her hair and skin. Not when he heard her fear laid bare, and now knew her as Iris. For you, she had said, and it quickly invaded him. Dragging him back to the gardens in the dead of night like some criminal to steal just a few more affections from her. For her. The patch of irises was well known to him, and that all consuming part of him he had tried so hard to contain for years now had so fully cracked open under the meaning he gleaned from it. And it didn’t take long to transplant a few of those thriving flowers to the forgotten corner she thought he was unaware of. With one, of course, to bring to her.
The yearning to know and be known in the midst of a world ending threat, mostly in between moments of Rook and Emmrich
Series
- Part 2 of Passing Ghosts