Disclaimer: I'm just playing with someone else's toys..
This one is really short but I'm actually really proud of it. Like, ridiculously proud, which might just be because it's a different length than what I normally end up writing. Let me know what you think. And thank you to everyone who reviewed my other Underworld fic... it was my first one and I was a little worried it didn't or wouldn't fit, if that makes any sense. So thanks and please review!
He had never stopped thinking about her. He had never stopped seeing her as a patient in the hospital or a girl on the street or that woman who was shot in the subway. He would see her face on all of them, hear her voice or her laugh and she was as alive to him then as she had ever been. He never forgot her because there's nothing stronger than a memory but he worries sometimes because now when he remembers her face it's not hers but hers and he's not sure if he's entirely comfortable with that. He doesn't want to forget her face because now he can't remember anything else and already the expressions he knows must have existed outside her photograph have become blurred and fuzzy and faded. He knows her eyes didn't, couldn't, flash an electric blue when he sank into her, that she'd never trailed sharp fangs over his neck, piercing the skin over his vein as her body tightened around him, fingers clawing into his back. But that's what he had now and it's all he recognizes.
His fingers remember a ticklish spot, there, where the smooth flat plane of her lower stomach melted into the flushed skin of her inner thigh, but her skin is cold and white and frozen, different, and the thought is forgotten as quickly as it came.
They are struggling with each other for a hold on him unconsciously, but Samantha isn't putting up much of a fight because twin Berettas and a slinky black cat suit trump sun-kissed freckles and picnics and a gold wedding band and those are the rules. He worries sometimes that he is all too eager to abide by them.
He wonders idly now how many times he's been in love because he loves them both but that can't be right and now isn't really the time anyway because his hands are gripped on her waist possessively and their bodies are still moving together in tangled sheets. His grip tightens enough to bruise and she lets out a breathless gasp. They both understand this isn't easy.
He had loved Samantha the way you were supposed to love your high school sweetheart, with clasped hands and soft touches and sweet kisses. But he loves Selene with blood and sweat and war clinging to their joined bodies, with a vulnerability he would always find but she could never offer, and she felt more real to him than anniversaries or Valentine's Days. So.
He cannot have them both and he knows it, but it frightens him that the choice is nowhere near difficult.
She lays now, draped over his body, exhausted, panting, and he is the same. They are covered in sweat, his, hers, and the sheets are sticky and hot as he begins to pull them up around their bodies so he pushes them off. They remain crumpled at the foot of the bed, letting the moonlight slanting into the room cover the pair instead. Her eyes flutter, hand ghosting over the heated skin of his chest as she mumbles his name drowsily, and he feels his heart melt.
That night he finally lets go of his memories because he doesn't need them any more.