Love Remains the Sameby nomelon
Fandom: Moonlight
~~~ She's four years old and she's terrified. You managed to hold it together just enough to sound reassuring when you told her you'd take her home, but now you're outside, walking away like your whole life isn't going up in flames behind you, you realise you don't know where she lives. You don't even know her name. You paste together an encouraging little smile from a whole lot of broken edges, but she doesn't answer your questions. She doesn't speak at all. Instead she reaches out and touches your face, careful little fingers testing the skin of your cheek. You tell her you're fine. You tell her it's just a couple of scratches. She doesn't believe you, and really, why should she? She witnessed your fight with Coraline. Nobody should be able to stand up to the kind of punishment doled out when the two of you were fighting. But you're healing already, your skin knitting back together, so you take her hand and press it against your cheek. Her hand is small and warm under your palm, and she believes you. You don't know what else to do with her. You're having trouble focusing on the little things, despair and shock commanding most of your higher brain functions, so you decide to take her to the nearest hospital. She needs to be checked over. She needs people around her. She needs familiar things: doctors, police, the whole glorious human system at work. They'll set the wheels in motion. They'll find out who she is and where she belongs. She's fragile and light, made up of delicate bones and trembling limbs, her scared little rabbit heart hammering in her chest. She clings to you, tucking her head under your chin like it belongs there. You wonder at this trust, not quite ready to believe that it's real. You expect the screaming to start at any moment, but instead she's quiet and still, a soft little bundle, bleeding warmth through the thin material of her nightdress. She's seen your true face, but with a child's single-minded clarity she has accepted you as safety, as saviour. Meanwhile you're having trouble just being inside your own skin. You're an evil man, a dark shadow with a tiny, trusting child in your arms, and the sooner you're away from her the better. The warm breeze swirls her nightdress around her bare ankles as you turn your back on your past, on everything you are, on Coraline's face at the window. You're hurting, and you're hungry, and oh god. Coraline. Coraline is gone, dead by your hand, and you are alone. Your life, such as it was, is over. You'll never survive this alone. Never. The child won't let go of you in the car, whimpering when you try to settle her in the passenger seat, so you strike a compromise, and she curls up under your arm as you drive. You don't remember doing it, but your hand ends up closed loosely around her arm, your thumb smoothing over and over the inside of her wrist, soothing both of you. She closes her eyes and tilts her pale face into the breeze coming through the window. Smoke lingers in her hair as it blows soft and tangled over your skin. You make a fuss in the hospital and they usher you through. Her eyes are dry when you try to hand her over to the doctors, but her fists clench tight on your shirt, ragged little nails catching on the material. She won't let go, digging her heels in when they try and get her to ease up. She won't answer their questions either, only looking at you, her eyes full of pleading. The nurse calls it shock. Labels it a perfectly normal reaction after a trauma. It's only when you set her on the gurney that she breaks down, jolting with fear at the thought of separation. It's only then that the tears come, real little girl tears, her whole body shuddering at your betrayal. Her damp, hot cheek brushes yours as she whispers a single word in your ear -- she makes it a plea, a bargaining chip -- but finally relinquishes her hold on you when she sees that she isn't going to get her way, sitting down on the gurney with a bump. She's suffering a child's exhaustion, no match for the determination of half a dozen well-meaning adults who have already decided what is best for her. Her eyes are huge as she seeks you out over the shoulders and between the bodies of the hovering doctors and nurses. You hate it, the trust implicit in all those needy little looks. You don't deserve it. You want to cry with her, feeling it build behind your eyes and in your throat, the urge to howl and rage burning hot in your chest. You hold it all inside, clamp down on it hard, brushing off concerns about your wellbeing, about the blood on your face and clothes. The doctor asks if you're hurt, calls you "sir". He asks if you can hear him, if it's your blood. You shake your head, never taking your eyes off the girl. You tell them to take care of her, and it's this, the reminder of a potentially injured child in their midst that makes you a secondary concern. No one notices as you fade into the background. You leave before the real questions start, before the police arrive. You leave her alone and overwhelmed and frightened, but they're looking after her, and they'll find out where she belongs. She won't be alone for long. She's safe now, but it's your fault that she got dragged into this horror in the first place. You should have known that Coraline was going to pull something like this. She's been unhinged for months now, and you, of all people, should have been better able to read her. You should have been prepared for something like this. You swear, right then and there, that you'll never let anything happen to the child again. She trusts you, and you owe her that much. Her name is Beth.
---
Beth is twenty-seven and she's smiling at you over the lip of her wine glass. The two of you are playing at having a relationship. You've been spending time together, going on actual dates, and every single time either one of you mentions the d word, it never fails to make you smile. You talk about your relationship like it's a project, like it's an experiment you're both watching closely, but you've been in a holding pattern for a while now. You don't know how long it'll last before it all falls apart, but you're waiting for it to happen, using your certainty like a shield. You can feel it prickle on the back of your neck, tension across your shoulders like you're preparing yourself for attack. You don't know the steps to this dance, and it's terrifying. You've been taking it slow. Cases keep getting in the way, and when that happens The Epic Romance of Mick and Beth gets put on the back burner, but in the quiet times you've been enjoying each other's company, learning each other, and you've been more honest with her than you can remember being with anyone else you've ever met. You've kissed her. You know her taste, like ripe strawberries. You know the scent of her. You know her moods, her tides, her heat. The way she holds herself when she's angry or scared. The tilt of her head when she's amused or aroused. The flare of her pupils when she looks at you, and the faint blush of blood just under her skin, hot and enticing, when she catches you looking back. She is your confessional. The truth, the whole truth, once such a closely guarded commodity, is now given freely. She is your test, your yardstick. You measure yourself in her eyes. You let her be the judge of whether your lofty morals have stood the test of time. Whether you've done right by her, changed enough to be forgiven for being a monster under your skin. There are still secrets you keep, memories you'd rather leave buried, but if she asks, you answer. You haven't shied away from answering her questions. You like her bluntness, her inquisitive nature. You love how infuriating she can be and how she isn't afraid of you, although you worry that she probably should be. That this would all be much simpler if only she didn't trust you so completely. She knows what you are, and what you're capable of, and she accepts it. You know in your heart it won't last, not this happy bubble. It can't. There are too many grey areas, and Beth is too good a person not to be conflicted by the life you lead. This is what you believe in your heart. This is what you're not strong enough to walk away from. She's greedy for your touch, eager to learn you, and she's started to ask for more, learning to tease and entice and sidestep when you play the gentleman vampire. You may be a vampire, but you're still a man, and when she abandons her wine and corners you in her living room, her hair pinned high on her head, still damp from her shower, you know how it's going to end. You push her up against the wall and she welcomes it, her kisses hungry and open, sweet on your tongue, her bare toes curling against the wooden floor. You run your fingers through her hair, letting it down, wanting a distraction from the long column of her throat. Her hair is thick and heavy, running soft and tangled through your fingers, and it smells like the citrus shampoo she uses. It smells like Beth. She reaches up to you, pulling you closer, and you catch sight of your bitemark on the inside of her wrist, faded, but not forgotten, never forgotten. You don't let yourself take her, not yet, but you touch her, palming her breasts, the curve of her belly, moving lower to the soft muscle of her thighs, teasing her, finding her wet and eager for you. She jolts and strains against you when you finally touch her where she needs it most. You drink down her moans, lick the sweat from her skin. You tease her, leave her half-naked, dishevelled and begging for it. She clings to you, shocked, stuttering, molten hot. She grips your shoulders when she comes, her knees betraying her, leaving you to hold her up, her eyelids fluttering, your name on her lips. You lick your fingers clean as she watches with wide blue eyes, her lips slick and red. She gets you hard -- it's blood, blood flowing through your veins, when she's with you you're excited and alive, it's like feeding, like drinking her down, she does this to you, makes you want, makes you need -- but your wait for her has become a habit. Her trust, her need for you twists something bitter and wrong in your stomach that you rely on and try to ignore in equal measure. You've waited so long already. You know you can wait a little longer.
---
Beth is six and she's miserable. It's been over a year since she last laid eyes on you. Enough time that you should have faded away with the rest of her nightmares. It's a dark night. She's sitting on a swing in a deserted play park across the street from her house, staring up at her home like it's the source of all the misery in the world. There's a little pink backpack on her shoulder, and her face is stained with tears. You wonder where your brave little Beth has gone. The little girl who didn't cry, who stayed strong when others would have broken down. There's no one else around, but you're furious that she's out here alone. How could her parents not know that she's here? How could they, of all people, not watch over their precious child every second of every day? It feels wrong, letting her see you like this, and you could have stayed in the shadows, just watching over her, but your heart goes out to her. Perhaps there's enough of a man inside you to still be touched by a little girl in tears. She looks up at you when you walk closer, wary, summing you up solemnly as she sniffles and rubs at her face with her fist. Now that the two of you are here, face to face, you're not entirely sure what to do. You have no experience with children. Beth takes the decision out of your hands. Her eyes widen and she goes very still. "You," she says. "Is it you?" The shock at being recognised hits you like a physical blow. When you shake your head, slowly, like an apology, it's too much. She refuses to believe you. She so badly wants you to be that man she half-remembers from the worst night of her life. Her saviour. Her guardian angel. She starts to cry, silent and unhappy, and you're at her side in an instant, brushing her tears away with the backs of your fingers. You make awkward shushing noises and you say, "Beth. Beth, don't cry. It's me. I promise. It is me. I'm here." She starts to cry in earnest, reaching blindly for you, and before you know it, you're sitting on one of the swings and she's bawling against your chest, her knees drawn up, your arms around her, stealing her warmth, sheltering her from the world. Your lips graze the crown of her head, her hair tickling your nose. You half-expect her to still smell of smoke, but the only thing she smells of is little girl. Today was her first day of school, she confides. She hated it. Hated being away from home. Hated the thought of spending all that time away from her parents and her own things, but when she announced that she wasn't going back, her parents told her in no uncertain terms that school isn't optional, and she has to go back tomorrow. "School isn't so bad," you tell her, thinking back to a school life you despised, where brutality and militaristic rules and regulations masqueraded as discipline. "How else are you going to learn about the world? How else are you going to make new friends to play with?" She tells you she doesn't want any new friends, and everything she needs to know about the world she can read in books and see on television, and when that runs out, she can make up her own stories. "What are you going to make up stories about when all you do is sit at home alone in your room? You can't have adventures cooped up in your house. And if you don't have any friends, who are you going to tell your stories to when you're done?" She scowls at this, frustrated by your logic, and you think maybe you've struck a chord. "It's okay to be scared, Beth," you whisper in her ear, a secret, just for the two of you. "But I know you're a brave girl. I'm sure of it." She's quiet for a long moment, but then she huffs out a deep sigh, gathering her resolve, and she nods. You dry her tears and smooth her hair, and she leans into your touch, all cried out, her eyelids drooping. You could sit here all night, quiet and still with her, rocking gently on the swing, but this isn't your place, and it certainly isn't hers. You say your goodbyes and send her back up the steps to her front door. You watch from across the street, hiding in the shadows as her mother opens the door, frantic and scolding, hugging Beth close and making her swear never ever to ever run away ever again. At home, alone in the dark where you belong, your fingertips tingle, your arms feel empty, your skin too cold.
---
Beth is twenty-seven and you don't like where this is going. "You killed him," she says. "You did that. You killed him for me." It's not an accusation. It's a statement of fact, one you can't deny. She's still wearing the bruises he gave her, her cheekbone swollen, her eyes shadowed, still unconsciously wrapping her arm around her ribs like a broken wing. She's still flinching when you come up on her too quickly. You've started making a lot of noise when you're around Beth, moving like a human, always letting her know exactly where you are, giving her plenty of warning. You tell her yes. Yes, you killed him. It's hard to hold her gaze, but you do it, deeply ashamed of who you are, viciously proud of what you've done. She says, "I don't even know what to say to you right now." There's nothing to say. What's done is done. No amount of conversation is going to change that. "Did you feed on him?" You take a long time to answer, but in the end, you admit it. Yes. You fed on him. You took his blood. Every last drop. You drank him down, made it slow, made it as painful as you know how, and when you walked away with a full belly and stolen blood in your veins, you did it with a smile on your face and vengeance in your heart. You try to apologise for it, but it falls flat, both of you know it's an empty gesture. You are sorry, though, but not for that. This life. Being with you, knowing what you are, what you're capable of. That's what you're sorry for. You should never have brought her into the dark with you. This is what lies at the black and twisted root of every good reason you have why the two of you shouldn't be together. You shouldn't be together, you shouldn't, but she never listens, not really. She never wants to hear it. She always talks you out of it until she has you believing it's right for the two of you to be together when you know better. Humans and vampires. It never works. You know you're only going to bring her heartache. You hurl the words at her, your temper fraying, and her kitchen table bears the brunt of your anger, skidding across the tiles to knock a chunk of plaster out of the wall, dishes shattering on the floor. "Don't say that. It's my choice," she says in the silent aftermath, her eyes burning with tears she refuses to shed. She's stubborn to the end, still angry with you, still disappointed, but always seeing the world precisely the way she wants it, never giving you the easy way out. She says, "This is where I belong. With you." "How can you say that to me now?" you ask. "You can't even look at me." She stands tall, and she starts to walk towards you, broken china crunching under her footsteps. And you're weak, you're so very weak, because you can't refuse her. You want her. You've always wanted her. You go to her, meet her halfway, and you touch her carefully, mindful of her injuries, wanting to know that you can still have this, wanting her warmth, her softness, wanting to know that she's whole and alive and safe, and she won't break under your hands. Beth doesn't flinch and she doesn't break. She folds herself into you and she takes strength from you. She lets you have what you need from her in return. You hold her in your arms, and it's then that you feel like you can breathe again, like the air would actually do you some good. You want to shelter her from the world, just the two of you, tucked away in the corner of her kitchen with the sun shining in through the little window, too warm on your back, rocking back and forth together, and you love her. Tomorrow is her twenty-eighth birthday. You haven't had time to buy her a gift.
---
Beth is sixteen and she's laughing, the sound trailing like a ribbon in the rushing wind. You're not sure when staying close, keeping out of sight, watching over her just in case she needed you turned into following her around like she's a case. These days, you've stopped pretending to yourself that it's anything less than stalking, but it's a habit now, ingrained. You'd call it blatant, except for the fact that you're good enough to never get caught. She never knows you're there. You check in on her from time to time, never far away, never leaving it very long between visits. You take photos of her that you file away like you're putting together a background on Beth Turner, when really they're your guilty secret, hoarded away in your filing cabinet, their presence needling at you at odd hours of the day and night. She's horse-riding on the beach with her friends, a little group of eight horses and riders. It's a relatively new hobby, but she's a natural. Still a little ungraceful on the dismount, but when she's up there, always perched on the biggest horse of the bunch, a feisty grey mare, she's carefree, full of joy, and it tightens your chest to see it. The sun is blinding you, making your skin prickle uncomfortably, and you've been out too long already, a headache throbbing behind your temples. It's time to go. The hunger is curling in your belly and your freezer is calling you, but you hesitate. They're racing now, and you want to see if Beth wins. Beth and two of her friends break away from the pack and gallop up the beach, thundering over the sand, wearing wide grins at the speed and the freedom. A car on the coastal road backfires three times in quick succession and spooks the horses, panic spreading through the group. The other riders manage to calm their mounts, some of them rearing but steadying, the horses' eyes rolling as they strain against the reins, one rider turning her horse into the sea until the horse stops of its own volition, but Beth's horse, the biggest horse, puts on another burst of speed and keeps right on going. Her friends call Beth's name, but there's nothing they can do. They're falling behind, they can't keep up with her... but you can. The grey mare leaves the beach by easily clearing an old wooden fence, almost throwing Beth out of her seat, but she holds on grimly, hunched in the saddle. The other side of the fence is an orchard, and Beth disappears from your line of sight behind the trees. You're moving, the world streaking by, your camera lying forgotten in the dirt behind you. You keep behind the foliage, moving as fast as you can, not caring if you're seen. Low branches whip at your face and steal your sunglasses, scratching your skin, but you ignore it all. You have no idea what use you're going to be, horses aren't exactly fond of vampires, but you have to try. You find her lying under a tree, the grey mare nowhere to be seen. You can hear the sound of distant hooves, but it's peripheral, unimportant, all the light and sound bleeding from the world, all your focus on Beth. You skid to a halt by her side and check her over as best you can. It's been a long time since you had to put your medical training to any use, but it's funny how it all comes rushing back to you in a crisis. As far as you can tell, she has no broken bones, but she probably has a concussion. She has some nasty bruises and a badly skinned elbow, and the beginnings of an impressive goose egg on her forehead. Her eyes are rolling behind closed lids, and she's murmuring, a faint frown marring her forehead. By the time you're satisfied that she can be moved, the first of her friends has arrived, hopping off her little dappled pony and running over to where you're crouched beside Beth. She's a slight little thing with a shiny black bob and thick, wire-rimmed glasses. She's panicked and babbling, grabbing at Beth's hand, too shocked to question you when you carefully pick Beth up and tell her friend -- Ellen, she says her name is Ellen -- that you're going to drive them to the hospital. It's been almost a decade since you last held Beth in your arms. She looks so young, still a child, apple cheeks and clear skin, her head resting on your shoulder. She looks peaceful there, just like all those times you've watched her sleep. She's light as a feather. She smells like sunshine and strawberries, leather and the sweat of the horses. You hold her closer and she murmurs and shifts against you, tucking her head under your chin. Lying in the back of your car, her head in Ellen's lap, Beth startles when you start the engine and starts gabbling things, half-remembered things. She's disoriented, trying to sit up, and she doesn't know where she is. When she sees you, her eyes widen and she starts babbling about fire and being trapped, and she's scared, she's terrified, she just wants to go home. She looks right at you, wild and unfocused, her harsh breathing the loudest sound in the car. Ellen tries to keep her calm, tries to soothe her, but it isn't working, and you can't drive with Beth like this. "Beth," you say, turning in your seat to look at her properly. "Beth. It's okay. Listen to me, Beth. I'm going to take you home." It's this that gets through. Beth sways a little, her breathing heavy, but she sinks back down onto Ellen's lap, and she's quiet. You keep reassuring them both, saying all the right things to keep them calm, keep Beth awake, but it's just noise, as much for you as it is for the girls. You carry her into the hospital, Ellen trailing close behind, and Beth doesn't open her eyes until you lay her on a gurney. Her hand darts out, grabbing at your shirt. You're caught, trapped in her eyes, and you know that in that second that she recognises you. The doctors hover, taking over, pushing you out of the way. You're instantly forgotten, and it's good, it's better this way. You walk out into the bright afternoon sunshine and you disappear.
---
Beth is twenty-five and she's met someone. His name is Josh Lindsey and he works in the DA's office. He seems like a nice guy: smart, diligent, eager, but you just don't think he has what it takes to go the distance in his job. You don't think Lindsey has what it takes to make Beth happy either. You don't examine too closely why you feel so bitter about the whole thing. You watch him buy her flowers on his way home from work. Yellow roses. He smiles and tips the vendor too much. It's so clear to you suddenly. He's in love, in love with Beth, and you can't blame him, but part of you hates him for it.
---
Beth is twenty-four and she's out with her friends, tipsy on champagne, celebrating her new job. She's been hired by some new website, a cross between a virtual newspaper and an online news channel, and she's giddy with her first taste of success. After you watch her get into a taxi, safe, on her way home, you go back to your apartment and have a look at the site. It's a little glitzy around the edges, but looks like it has integrity at its heart. You bypass the latest celebrity gossip, but there are a couple of hard hitting pieces that you read through, impressed. You add Buzzwire to your bookmarks folder before shutting down your computer.
---
Beth is twenty-seven and she's just broken your heart. You should have been strong enough to walk away, should have given her peace, but instead you pushed your way back into her apartment, into her life, and you shouldn't have, you shouldn't have, but you told her you love her. You gave her a beautiful speech about feelings, and living in the now, but you're still reeling from the idea of turning her into a vampire. It's not something you've allowed yourself to think about, not something you ever, ever want to do, but clearly Beth's been thinking about it. She's the one who has to think about the future, when you have to live eternally in the present. She loves you too. You can see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she kisses you. If you're being honest, you've known it for a while. She trembles when she touches your cheek, and you lay your hand over hers. It feels warm and small under your palm. You feel like you've been waiting your whole life for this.
---
Beth is twenty-eight and she's just let her secret slip. You were arguing about Josef's involvement in a case, about Beth going to him behind your back, and you're jealous. You can't help yourself. You don't think that either of them would betray you, but this isn't logic, this is the thought of Josef getting any part of Beth that you don't have. The thought that Beth feels she can't trust you with everything. The thought of Josef touching her, kissing her, god, drinking from her doesn't enter into it. He's your oldest friend, Christ, now he's your sire, but he has to know that Beth is strictly off limits. Josef likes to play, likes to push boundaries, but he has to know that. Josef knows you better than maybe anyone. He knows what it would mean if he crossed that line. But this. Beth's slip, revealing that she went to Josef, close to a year ago, when you were "enjoying" your fifteen minutes in the public eye, and she asked him to kill for you, for both of you. That photographer, the weasel who was going to ruin your life by exposing you as a vampire. He's dead because Beth asked for it to happen. She did that and now it's like you don't even know her. You've had your life ruined by outsiders before. It's never the end of the world. This feels like it might be. "How could you do that?" You're holding her too tightly. She squirms in your grasp, glaring at you, but she doesn't fight it, not really, like she knows it would be a waste of her time. "How many people have you killed, Mick?" "We're not talking about me. I'm making my peace with who I am." "You've killed for me. How is this so different?" "Because..." Because you've never talked about it. Not this, not cutting so close to the bone like this. Because this is different to pulling the trigger when someone's life is in danger. This isn't you feeding off an evil man who tried to kill the woman you love. Because this was premeditated and cold-blooded and it breaks your heart to think that Beth is capable of this. Because she did it for you. There's no way to pretend she didn't. She did it to protect you, but she also did it for herself. She did it to stop you from having to move on and start over. She did it to keep you with her, to keep you in her life, to keep your lives the same. "Because I thought you were better than that," you say. She jerks like you just slapped her. "I love you," she says, tears threatening to spill over, her chin lifted, defiant and proud. "I'd do anything." You take a shaky breath, the truth of it catching you off guard and defenceless. "I know," you say. "I know it. So would I." That's what you're afraid of. That's what you've been afraid of since this whole thing started. It feels like you've been in love with Beth your entire life, but the thought of sullying her like this, of turning her into a person who would do this... If the two of you keep redrawing the lines you're willing to cross for each other, the thought of where you might end up terrifies you. "I love you," she says, her words a whisper. She says, "I love you so much." You can't talk about this anymore. It's too much. You shake your head, denying her, because her words of love make you weak. You'd kill for them, you'd die for them, and you know it's wrong, but the thing is, you don't care. Wrong or right, you want her with you. You want it to be everything, to mean everything. This is how you love. When you kiss her, it's an assault. She whimpers, but she gives as good as she gets, kissing you back with everything she has. Her hands are under your shirt, scratching at your skin, rougher than she ever has been before, making you hiss. You sink to the floor, clothes getting pushed up and out of the way, and it's never been like this before. You've always been so careful with her, making love to her slowly, showing her just how much you love her with every kiss, every caress. But this... this is who you are, and she's not shying away. She's mewling low in her throat, biting at your lips, grabbing your hips, asking for more. She's ready for you, slick and swollen, and she throws her head back when you push inside. She arches up against you, her face crumpled like she's in pain only to melt into a gasp of pleasure. It's only when your fangs graze her throat in a parody of a kiss that you pull back, too lost in the moment, dizzy with it, too close to giving in. "Do it," she says, making your hips stutter against her, pushing in impossibly deeper, making room for yourself inside her, sinking into her heat. Her hand is a constant pressure on the back of your neck. "Do it," she says. "Please. I want you to." Too late, you realise she's been goading you into it, and you bite down, feeling her come apart beneath you. Another line redrawn.
---
Beth is twenty-six and she takes your breath away. She's walking barefoot through a freezing fountain at two in the morning, working her story, taking pictures of a dead girl. You know you're not supposed to be here. You know that talking to her, revealing yourself, isn't part of the plan. You know you're going to remember this moment forever. She looks up and her eyes narrow when she sees you. She asks you if she knows you, and you think, no, she doesn't know you at all. She tells you that you look very familiar, and she asks your opinion about her tagline. You smile, and you think that maybe this time it'll be okay if she remembers. This time, it could be a beginning. "Maybe I've just got one of those faces," you say. You say, "There's no such thing as vampires." The end. Leave a comment in livejournal. Email the author | nevermelon AT yahoo.com |