Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years
I'll love you for a thousand more
White ribbons slash though the air, sharp eyes narrow, teeth bare and then snap closed. Before her, Bexley Briar is a snake readying to strike, caution still a wire in her spine, still pushing her to snap and spin like a dancer, like a blade. In every motion there is beauty, something that the Tonnerre girl wants to capture forever. If only skin could be made into cloth for paintings, if only the life would not bleed out of it the moment it is put on paper.
However, it is not her art she thinks of next. Gold eyes, honey eyes, sweet soft cow-eyes shine, and as she leans closer to offer the cocoa again, they whisper to the Day-girl that it's okay. She knows, she knows what it is to have ghosts lurking, and she will wait. She will wait for the clock to tick down, for eternity to settle, for the sun to set and the moon to set, as long as necessary for Bexley to know that she is safe here and that Moira will let nothing happen to her while they are together.
Here, Bexley is safe. Here, Moira is both gentle and fierce.
Every facet of the golden girl is beautiful and welcome. Were they alone, Moira might kiss the ghosts of her wounds, offer a bath of Epsom salts and rose hips, of something so sweet and succulent that it is more than just love and a tender heart, that it is affection bleeding into every action and reaction, every hidden moment that the phoenix only sometimes dares to reveal.
With grace, the sunburned dancer takes the cocoa, holding it close for warmth in the winter morning. Blankets and pillows float about them as Moira picks up more and pairs them together. Soft peaches join the teals and golds, peeking their bright, pale cheeks out to accent some pattern or another. Lips are pursed and eyes half lidded, and with an almost-purr that would have Neerja looking at her questionably, the Tonnerre girl lets her eyes stray towards her friend once more.
First she looks to her bold face and brilliant eyes, carving mountains of memories just from the sigh of lashes and the carefully tipped ears. Then down to flaxen hair that swallows a burning neck, down to tight muscles and soft curves, down to pale socks and cold feet. Honeyed gaze comes back up, up, up just as slow as it traversed down, committing everything about this morning to memory; from the way soft white puffs of air float around them as clouds, to the way Bexley stares at her. And with a little secret smile, with a knowing tilt of her head, Moira places a teal pillow down in favor of a rich gold replacement, tassels hanging from four corners, a great lion screaming in the center, and says only "Yes, I think so too."
