Work Text:
The first thing you noticed about her was her smile, and how you could coax it out. You got the impression she didn't smile much; she carried herself slowly and cautiously, always alert, always listening. The first time you saw it, you thought she wasn't. She was reading some book, looking down, and you said some joke and accidentally caught her eye—and you saw it, then, small, easy to miss, but you never would, never again in your life; not when you said good morning to her as she was just getting out of bed, not when you cracked a joke you knew was awful, not when you locked eyes on the battlefield.
You know there's something strange—unhealthy—about seeking the validation of a dark-haired woman, and in truth you often think about her when you see Blake. But it's not the pangs of guilt or anger you sometimes feel; instead it's the desire to take charge of your life as she does, to hunt down your mother with her at your side. You think she'd go with you. You think she'd understand what it feels like to want to do something so much. You hope she thinks the same of you: that you'd follow her, help her, be at her side through whatever she needed to do. She certainly does have a need to do: since you met her you've noticed and admired her, seen her driven by something noble and powerful, moving with purpose while you drifted along. Unlike you, she knows what she wants; unlike you, she's working towards it.
Is that what makes her so captivating? Her ambition? The amber glow of her eyes? The way her voice goes high when she's excited? You never paid much attention to boys that weren't in a music video. You never paid much attention to girls, either. So you're not certain what you're feeling. The warmth in your stomach when you see her; the surge of energy when she smiles at you; the spark through your veins when she says your name—they're all coming from the same place, the same thing, you think.
Sometimes you think about letting her know. You think about doing something stupid like taking her to one of the gardens where you've seen belladonnas, picking one up, and saying "Look! I'm taking your last name!"
But you never would, because what's the point? She's too busy figuring out how to save the world to figure out how to smooth over the awkwardness of some girl's little crush. And it's not like you don't have more important things to be thinking about, anyway.
And she has Sun. The guy's cute and he understands her better than you ever will. He's such a good guy that you know he's been through something awful. He's cheered her up, had her back, made her laugh more than you have, looking better than you doing it. What's your excuse? What's the worst that's happened to you? You got your feelings hurt. At least you've got a mother. A mother that saved you, probably more than once, more than you know. Some people don't even know who their parents are. Some don't even have any. And you have a mother that's looking out for you and a father that loves you—and an uncle who's there for you and a sister you'd kill for. So you should know better than to feel this way, so listless, lifeless. You should be acting like yourself, the kind of girl that makes Blake smile.
The thought of her makes you want to get up and get out again.