TIME WARP: All I'll Ever Need (Ivan)
Feb 26, 2014 9:17:51 GMT -5
Post by Anastasia van Drakke on Feb 26, 2014 9:17:51 GMT -5
2008, Russia
There had been nightmares, but that was not a new thing for either of them. What was new to Anastasia was being able to wake up from them. What was new to Ivan was having someone there when he opened his eyes. He had not said so, but the <confusion> and the <joy/surprised/love> was always clear when he presses her hand.
She's never had a man press her hand in the morning, like she was being thanked, for both existing and choosing to exist near him. No one had ever done something like that.
She'd had her portrait painted before, but never in nothing but one of her coats, her skin still tingling under the recent acceptance and return of more than she had thought she could contain any more.
She'd had men cook before, but none of them flipped their knives over their hands like they were scarves in a magician's trick.
It had never occurred to her that she would feel happy, and know truly and honestly that it was her own happiness, again. Now, it was dizzying. Still in her night clothes, and even those were different from the usual slips she wore around company, Anastasia raked her fingers through her hair and let it settle down over her shoulders. Her bare feet padded across the carpet of their bedroom onto the slate stone floor of the hall.
He was probably in the kitchen. She hoped so, anyway. He made good coffee as well. It just seemed so strange that he could pull off so much of what she needed to function so effortlessly. Even the coffee.
There had been nightmares, but that was not a new thing for either of them. What was new to Anastasia was being able to wake up from them. What was new to Ivan was having someone there when he opened his eyes. He had not said so, but the <confusion> and the <joy/surprised/love> was always clear when he presses her hand.
She's never had a man press her hand in the morning, like she was being thanked, for both existing and choosing to exist near him. No one had ever done something like that.
She'd had her portrait painted before, but never in nothing but one of her coats, her skin still tingling under the recent acceptance and return of more than she had thought she could contain any more.
She'd had men cook before, but none of them flipped their knives over their hands like they were scarves in a magician's trick.
It had never occurred to her that she would feel happy, and know truly and honestly that it was her own happiness, again. Now, it was dizzying. Still in her night clothes, and even those were different from the usual slips she wore around company, Anastasia raked her fingers through her hair and let it settle down over her shoulders. Her bare feet padded across the carpet of their bedroom onto the slate stone floor of the hall.
He was probably in the kitchen. She hoped so, anyway. He made good coffee as well. It just seemed so strange that he could pull off so much of what she needed to function so effortlessly. Even the coffee.
