[ He's memorized, by now—long ago, in truth—the pattern her heart makes when she begins to wake. He'd learned it because sometimes, he thought, if he could hear it, he might be able to catch it in his sleep. Catch it and wake himself, before she could leave without a word. And yet. Never could do it. It's funny, considering how lightly he normally dozes, how easily the smallest sound or twitch wakes him. It's only around Yennefer that he slept like the fucking dead. That always, he never noticed her leaving until it was too late and her scent had already begun to fade.
When she stirs now, his hand pauses for only a second. She doesn't pull away, so he doesn't, either. Lets his fingers curl a few strands around. He can read the relief on her face. How calmed she looked when she saw him close by.
His own expression softens further. That's the problem, isn't it? None of this is strange. None of this is what she isn't. It is simply not what they have any longer. But they did have it, these quiet little moments, where he could believe that they had found an important piece together, rare and fragile. (He had it. And then he lost it. And it hurts a hell of a lot more to be faced with what he once had and could never have again, than to face something that'd not ever existed.) ]
I never left. [ A low murmur. In a way, that's true. The wolf had returned to her as soon as he'd gone. Some part of him can't quite leave her, no matter how much he might try to. Some part of him doesn't want to.
He lays down next to her, stretched out on the bed, boots and all. Turned on his side to face her. His fingers trail down to her shoulder. (Why is it every time he sees her, it always feels as though it might be the last time?)
His gaze drifts towards the slumbering wolf. They're here now. She won't leave and he can't bring himself to. In the morning, he will regret it. He'll regret it and still not know if he should've chosen differently. So he lets himself settle, into this moment. He lets go of what should be or what will be and says quietly, ] He hasn't got a name.
[ The wolf, that is. It's an offer; a suggestion that he is, perhaps, admitting he doesn't want her gone as much as he's been insisting. It's selfish. To want this, knowing it'll only hurt them both. But the two of them have never been anything but. Maybe that's why they always find themselves caught in the same whirlpool. ]
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When she stirs now, his hand pauses for only a second. She doesn't pull away, so he doesn't, either. Lets his fingers curl a few strands around. He can read the relief on her face. How calmed she looked when she saw him close by.
His own expression softens further. That's the problem, isn't it? None of this is strange. None of this is what she isn't. It is simply not what they have any longer. But they did have it, these quiet little moments, where he could believe that they had found an important piece together, rare and fragile. (He had it. And then he lost it. And it hurts a hell of a lot more to be faced with what he once had and could never have again, than to face something that'd not ever existed.) ]
I never left. [ A low murmur. In a way, that's true. The wolf had returned to her as soon as he'd gone. Some part of him can't quite leave her, no matter how much he might try to. Some part of him doesn't want to.
He lays down next to her, stretched out on the bed, boots and all. Turned on his side to face her. His fingers trail down to her shoulder. (Why is it every time he sees her, it always feels as though it might be the last time?)
His gaze drifts towards the slumbering wolf. They're here now. She won't leave and he can't bring himself to. In the morning, he will regret it. He'll regret it and still not know if he should've chosen differently. So he lets himself settle, into this moment. He lets go of what should be or what will be and says quietly, ] He hasn't got a name.
[ The wolf, that is. It's an offer; a suggestion that he is, perhaps, admitting he doesn't want her gone as much as he's been insisting. It's selfish. To want this, knowing it'll only hurt them both. But the two of them have never been anything but. Maybe that's why they always find themselves caught in the same whirlpool. ]