Published: December 13, 2016
Day to day, from the moment she wakes and sleeps, her routine is the same. She waits for the weight of sleep to dissipate before she rises, and feels around for the hairbrush on her night stand. When her hair is absent of knots, she scuffles to the kitchen, repeating the same gesture with her hands to find the bread and butter knife. Only after she's had her breakfast will she sit by the window and watch the grey light in her eyes shift in vibrancy and contrast.
She waits for him patiently, but her heart beat is vociferous.
The moment Nicolas arrives varies. Sometimes he comes alone, others he's accompanied by Worrick or Nina. Either way, she's promised him she won't wander off and submit herself to the dangers of the city, or fiddle with anything he's offered to fix until he gets there.
[Name] doesn't think her disability makes her helpless. She's been without sight for quite some time, long enough to learn how to survive without it. She knows Nicolas doesn't find her completely useless either, but he is a Handyman, and possibly wouldn't take "no" for an answer even if he could hear it. It wasn't enough that he and Worrick rescued her once, now they were sticking around to see her safety through.
She couldn't complain. In the end, she likes the company. She longs for his.
For [Name], it was the only way of knowing that they were all right.
A specific pattern of knocks sound on the door and brings a smile to her face. [Name] turns as the hinges squeak, and stands to meet the heavy footsteps. She can smell him before she's even left the window: an intricate mix of whiskey and tobacco, and the jingling of his tags tickle her ears. She nearly gasps when a large, calloused hand gently takes her outstretched, searching one and places it against the rugged surface of his cheek.
He's warm, and freshly shaved.
Her other hand rests on his chest, and she can't help but giggle, "Hello, Nico."
With the pads of her fingers, [Name] traces his mien over his brows, down his nose and around his lips; every wrinkle and scar were tenderly caressed. To her, he felt handsome. He felt kind despite his often stolid countenance. She's known him for years now, but she can't stop herself from blushing when she reaches his hardened chest. It's not solely for pleasure that she skims across it's broadness to his boulder-like shoulders, but to insure he's unharmed.
Nicolas's grabs her before she reaches the place under his arm, his thumb gliding over the base of her palm. He grunts, and she recognizes it's disapproval,
"How bad were you hurt? Did Worrick get hurt too?"
He shakes his head in her touch.
[Name] sighs, "Of course not. You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Nicolas."
She feels his cheek twitch, and plump, chapped lips press a kiss into her knuckles.
He spends a few hours there. [Name] had taught him how she likes her tea, and now he makes it better than she use to. Nico sits catty-corner to her at the table, but she is unaware of the way he stares while she sips from her mug. Not once does he break contact, reclined and arms folded across his chest. Should she choose to speak, he doesn't want to miss a word.
The sunlight transforms [Name]'s sight from muted tones to over-exposed whites when she walks outside. She imagines it is the rumored light one might see before entering the Heavens: so brilliant and pure. However, when it is her time to see such holiness, she hopes it doesn't hurt so much and she hopes Nicolas is there to lean on.
With one hand on the small of her back and the other resting atop the hilt of his sword, ever watchful, they take their stroll.
There are times she has much to say, but [Name] prefers to communicate through her silence. A simple touch to his shoulder or squeeze of forearm conveys her affections or her concerns. It is her own unique version of sign language, and Nico will often act in accord with the added grumble or humored snort.
She's doing it now. Standing in the entry way, a day spent, [Name] cups his face almost desperately, her paled irises irreproachable. Nico stands just a few inches taller than her, yet she finds herself on her tip-toes. It's important to her that he knows, even if he's deaf to the strain in her voice,
"I always worry that each time you leave will be the last."
Nico's shoulders lift, and a slow breath fans over her face. She half expects him to slur some smart-ass comment or pinch her nose between his knuckles. Instead he encases her wrists and she feels his body lean in; his lips brushing over hers. It's surprisingly soft coming from a man who carried a dangerous aura about him, and it's the very first time she sees stars.