Sooooo I'm already complete Emerald City/ Dorothy and Lucas (do they have a ship name yet?) trash. I couldn't find any fanfics for them so I decided to write one. This was supposed to be a much more lighthearted (slightly angsty) smut piece but it turned into something different. So the smut will come next time!
Anyway! Here's a little angsty drabble that picks up right where episode 2 left off. Unbetaed and unedited and written in the middle of the night because I couldn't sleep and this ship was calling me. (AKA sooo many commas!)
Haven't written fanfic in a while so I hope you guys like it! (And please leave a review if you do! Reviews make my heart happier than you can imagine!)
He'd been repeating it for miles now. Always met with her silence. For a long time he'd continued insistently, his tone harsh, as it had been when he'd first started. Then he was quiet. And that was worse. The tension and the fear and the silence a physical, palpable presence between them. It was nearly an hour before he had spoken again. Softly this time, hesitant.
Still she hadn't answered, her back to him, her pace steady, just fast enough that she knew he wouldn't be able to catch up to her with his injuries. But still he pressed, his voice a steady, rhythmic timber behind her. She faced forward, away from him, away from the truth.
He believed she feared him. She knew he did. That he'd terrified her with the brutal display in the apothecary's home. It was murder. She knew that. She'd watched a man - a man she didn't know at all, someone she'd begun to trust - murder someone. She knew she should be afraid of him, should run away from him, shouldn't be able to trust him. But it wasn't him she feared.
His tone was soft again, desperate, his voice cracking from exhaustion and pain and something else she couldn't name – refused to name. No, he hadn't made her afraid of him. She'd seen him react, violent and savage, bloodthirsty and dark, caught up in a glimpse, a fleeting memory of a person he couldn't remember being. Someone she couldn't accuse him of being now. Muscle memory, brought on by a need to protect. No, he hadn't made her afraid of him. He'd made her afraid of herself. Afraid of the truth, that had he not done it, she'd have done it herself, with no warrior's muscle memory to blame.
She snapped. Whirled around to shout at him, strike him, silence him, silence herself. No words came. Seeing him finally – seeing him properly – his face still splattered with blood and dirt, the imposing strength and presence of him. His eyes scared, vulnerable - terrified. Her heart lurched for him, for the hollow, frightened man, small and helpless before her. A soul begging to be saved, to be cared for, to be soothed.
Silence. He'd given up on getting an answer. She wasn't sure he'd ever had one ready.
Finally, "I don't know."
A tear. A hot streak tracing through dirt and blood and sweat and pain.
"I don't know."
A voice breaking. A sob wracking a body. Narrow arms draping around broad shoulders. Gentle fingers running through matted hair. Rough fingers clinging to soft leather. An unwanted sob muffled into a welcoming shoulder. Home. Lucas was home.
"I don't know."
"It's okay," she hushes, soft lips pressed against salty ones. "I do."