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Your pulse is so very heavy in your body. It is heavy in the way that the thunder outside rumbles low and hungry and shakes the bones of the house. The sea-kissed home is safe, of course, the stones may be old but the strength in their bones will last aeons. Sturdy.
Your pulse is so very heavy in your body. You feel it through your back. You feel it thud slowly and steady through your ribs. You feel it throb gently through your spine and down, down, down into the warmth your back is pressed against. His chest rises and falls in tandem with yours, moving the both of you in such a subtle way that the world seems to slow to a tumultuous crawl.
One of his arms is draped comfortably around your body, holding loose and gently. Your fingers are interwoven, linked lovingly together as his thumb runs across the back of your hand slowly. It’s a mindless motion. You’re certain that he does not even realise he is doing it as he reads. He is often reading like this. He feels safe enough to drift into pages with you there. He did not used to entertain volumes like this aboard the Terror . You’re comfortably settled ‘twixt his legs, his knees lazily apart to make room for your body as the both of you lay there along the length of the settee. You feel the press of his left leg against your own, trapped between your body at the back of the furniture. There’s a pulse there along the inside of his thigh and it curiously draws your attention a little as you cradle your cup of tea. Growls of violent clouds send soft jolts every so often through your body to remind you that time is still a moving force.
The clouds shift across the rippling rains outside the window. His broader frame is a security against the threatening winds that scratch pelting rain against the panes. The weaves of droplets etch obscure patterns that trickle down the glass. The shutters whine in protest as they hold back the storm that rages outside.
Brutality across the oceans crash and shudder the shore, distorted through the windows. You can see that it is roiling like a hungry beast, frothing peaks like clawing limbs and furling tendrils that clutch frantically to the stoney beach beyond. A glance out the window and that is all it takes for your hand to reflexively squeeze his. He squeezes back in warm assurance, his voice catching along the sound of the book closing its covers. He hushes you softly, smoothly, “It’s just a storm, love,” his brogue is buried in your hair, pressed against you. You can feel his lips kiss a spot just above your ear. “It’s just a storm,” he repeats and his other arm wraps about your middle. He is shifting his weight, sitting further up to support himself as he pulls you further up his body.
“I know,” it’s a croaked out whisper from you. “Just startles my nerves sometimes,” you confess, a pitifully weak laugh huffing past your lips. The words are meant more for yourself than for him as if rationalising it will ease the tension that you feel coiling in your belly. It’s as if he knows where the unease settles inside of you, the warmth of his hands settling both of your hands over your belly as he allows you to relax against him. He keeps you there, steady and stable.
“Would you like to hear the time Thomas and I got aboard the wrong ship as young midshipmen?” he offers, leaning a bit to look you in the eye. His steely blues are much calmer than the storm that rages outside, “It’s an embarrassing story but it is a good one. You'll laugh,” he promises with a soft toothy smile. Leather and salt comes to your senses and cold pine. It is distinct here.
“I would like that very much, yes,” You whisper; a kiss is pressed to your lips in a soft and reassuring way. It anchors you.
Your pulse is so very heavy in your body. You feel it deep in your body and inside your back. It thrums with the thunder that is slowly fading from your faculties. Your back is pressed against Francis’ and you can feel his heart through your spine.