#mo ghrá || edith barton

[whosxafraid]

Luka and Edith!

Meme: Married Life MemeStatus: Open

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Sometimes he’s not that great of shot. Sometimes he leaves a trail of clothes from the front door of the house all the way to the tub. That sit there like a breadcrumb trail for her to find when she gets back from dropping the boys off at school. Because once again the job they don’t talk about him having, kept him out all damn night. 

But bless her that she’s there when those sometimes happen. Bless her that she follows behind, picking them up and starts the washer without a word. Never asking about the grime and dirt and is that blood?. Instead she makes him breakfast. Instead she brings him a fresh cup of scald that neither of them mention has a hint of Jameson to it. Instead she nurses the aches and pains. Kisses the long night off his lips, and leaves nothing in her wake but peaceful sleep.

forgets to run the dish washer

He doesn’t honestly know how she does half the things she does. Maybe it’s just her. Maybe it’s a motherhood thing. Maybe it’s both. But everyone’s allowed a hick up now and then. Everyone’s allowed a mistake. So when it comes time for dinner and there isn’t a dish clean, and she’ll be home in five minutes with two starving boys—

He sets the oven to warm. He rolls up his sleeves and gets the hot water going. Because a man isn’t defined by his stature or his accomplishments. A man is defined by what he’s willing to do, to take care of those he loves. And he loves her and her boys. So he does the dishes, the old fashioned way. Has dinner on the table when she herds her offspring in the door, and they eat. And no one says a word about the dishwasher’s quiet hum from the kitchen.

pumps gas for the car

One am. Ten hours outside of nowhere Iowa. A state between them and him. And still his nose twitches. Still the palms of his hands itch. That makes it hard to keep hold of the lever. Breath coming in clouds amid the evening air. Green and yellow tracking every movement in the darkness beyond the hazy halo of the station lights. Eventually determining there’s nothing of import and shifting away. Flickering over his shoulder and into the back door window. 

He can just make out the red hair smushed against the heavily tinted glass. Barney’s been out cold for a few hours now, the wee blond on the other side even longer still. He should stop. Let them get some sleep in real beds, but they’ve miles yet to go and the risk to too high. 

The lever is released a second before it stops on it’s own. The nozzle replaced and he’s oh so carefully opening the driver’s door. Sliding into the seat and pulling the door shut again. The briefest glance at her in the passenger seat tucked beneath his jacket and lost to sleep same as her children. A small flinch and shift when he starts the engine up again and pulls away into the dark.

He’ll sleep when he’s dead. There needs to be as much distance between them and where they started as possible before they stop for any longer than a few minutes. He’d promised her safety after all. And that’s exactly what he was going to deliver.

Not ifs. No ands. No buts.

drives when they’re going somewhere

Five thirty-four am. Day lights breaking. The soft twilight between that he wished last longer at times. By six it’s enough to have her stirring, and by six fifteen she’s cracking her eyes open. Sitting up, stretching out the kinks. Blue blinking wide, and hands covering up a yawn. 

Quiet good mornings between them. The offer of coffee at the next exit that has something worth while. And they push onwards down the highway. Silence as it has been all night. Because what do he say? What can make this all better. Make this all less terrible than it is? Make this feel less like running and more like escaping. More like starting over fresh. 

There aren’t really words, so instead he simply offers a hand. Placed on the console between them. Offers a reassuring hitch of a smile, that he knows gets to her. And maybe it feels better than it should when she takes it. Threads her fingers between his and squeezes. Answers with her own little smile. 

And for a second–everything is right as rain.

rearranges the furniture

           “No…no over ther–no wait…ugh this isn’t working, hang on.”

He sets the couch down for the umpteenth time. Flops down in it and waits. Because he knows she’s going to be back in precisely seven point three minutes to have him completely undo everything they just did and start over again. 

But you won’t find him complaining. Manual labor and the sheer stupidity of how heavy the couch actually is…there isn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Because how domestic is this? Moving furniture around twenty times in twenty different ways til you end up with it all right back where it started. Pretty damn domestic if he has anything to say.

But he won’t complain. Why?

Happy wife. Happy life.

falls asleep with the TV on

There’s something to be said for movie and chill. It’s that thing that came before Netflix and chill. Only no body bothered to name it. Because when you’ve got kids. When their the center of your universe from six am to nine pm–you haven’t got a lot of energy left by the time you can sit down.

So he puts on her favorite movie. Pulls her away from the latest diy project she’s decided to tackle, and wraps them up in her favorite blanket on the couch. And he’ll sit there long after she’s fallen asleep on his shoulder. Sit there and watch the colors move across the screen, until eventually he’s carrying her off to bed. Tucking her in, bidding her the sweetest of dreams with the brush of lips against her forehead. 

He can’t stay tonight. He’s got work to do. And there’s a note left by the coffee pot. He won’t be home for at least a week, but he’ll see them soon. 

gets to use the bathroom first

Like clock work when he hasn’t been up for longer than any creature what needs to sleep should—he’s up just before the sun is. Careful not to jostle the bed when he slips out of it, more deftly than someone his size should be able too.  Onward to the bathroom, to get rid of things that yes still happen to him at two thousand plus years old. 

Then it’s light footed steps that carry him down the hall. Pulling on a t-shirt to cover things the boys don’t need to see. Peeling open the fridge, grabbing all the essentials he needs to make breakfast for an army of three plus one. And by the time three different alarms are going off plates are made and milks are poured. Ready and waiting, for two zombies and their ever herding mother to come filing into the kitchen.

And every morning it’s the same.

            You didn’t have to. I could have.

And every morning he simply shrugs. Hands her a cup of coffee made to her taste, a smile and kiss to her forehead.

           “Aye, oi’ know.”

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

          “Oi! Dunna even be d’inkin’ o’bou’ i’.”

               But it’s boi—

           “Ye ma be col’. Dunna touch i’.”

Teenage grade grumbling as bare feet shuffle away down the hall. Drowned out only by the crisp snap of newspaper as it’s folded and then folded again. A glass of ice water sweating its life away next to him on the table. He’s just as miserably hot, but Edith is sick and anything he can do to make her more comfortable he’ll do. And the boys will learn a the value of suffering so someone you love doesn’t.

sets up holiday decorations

When you’ve lived as long as he has. And spent a good lot of those years on your own. Decorating for any holiday, eventually just stops. Becomes a fairly useless task because what goes up must come down. And holidays were meant for families. Not people with not a person of significance to their proverbial name.

So he forgets until she mentions it one day, while their out window shopping. He forgets until she stops at shop filled to the brim with Christmas lights, fake trees and snow. He forgets until he sees the way her eyes light up and that one smile that could out shine the sun if it chose, settles in her features. 

         “Come on, lass. Le’s go see wha’ we can be foi’ndin’ fer ye’house.”

Because he’s on a mission now isn’t he? He’s going to make this the best Christmas the three of them ever had. And maybe he’s already pulled up a list of local tree farms on his phone. Because the best Christmas deserved a real tree too.

leaves the lights on

She always leaves the porch light on. No matter the weather. No matter anything. It’s always on. Because she says it’s like her own personal light house. Her way of being that little light in the dark, that you never know who might need it. And it stuck with her didn’t it? Carried with her across the thousand miles from one home to a new one. 

And maybe that’s exactly what it starts being for him. When it started he can’t say. But pulling into onto that street…when all other lights had long been extinguished–it’s there. There to guide him that last stretch of road. That softens the steps between the car and the front door. That shows the way for his keys. That halos him in an easy glow of warmth, like it’s silently welcoming him home no matter what hour it is. 

And eventually he stops himself from turning it off with the shutting of the door. Because lighthouses are not meant to go out. And he’ll not be the one to extinguish this one. Not now and not ever.

uses the bathroom with the door open

Years of living alone, you forget to do certain things. Things like shutting the damn door when you’ve got to take a piss. And the first time she’d walked into the bedroom and heard—well he’d felt the door shut before he heard it. And ever since it had became a tick. He’d forget she’d remind. Until eventually it became a wordless habit. A way things just went. And never her mind that he still chuckled about the absurdity of it, every single time.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

                  I’ll just call some–

          “Oi’ go’i’lass. Jus’ be o’leak.”

                 I’m standing in an inch of water!

           “Oi’ be in ta drive way. Have ta wee shoi’te open ta back door.”

And in he comes. Boots squeaking agianst wet tile. Stepping over a damn made of towels and old tshirts. Tool box set down and angling himself a bit weirdly under the sink.

             “Oi’ lad. Hand me ta d’ree qua’ers.”

Because call someone? No. He’s lived too long and had to fix his own plumbing and half a dozen other things breaking in his life to toss money at someone that will take an hour to get there. He’ll do it himself. With a little help from his best assistant of course.

[whosxafraid]

Truth, would you rather your soulmate gets to live forever and never remembers you, or stays in this cycle or reincarnation and can remember bits when you manage to find her, but that always includes the knowledge that you killed her?

Meme :   Let’s Play “Truth, Dare, Double Dare, Promise or Repeat” Status: Open

A narrowing of eyes at the grey faced unknown. A shifting of things beneath his skin. Because suddenly this game is no longer fun. And he wishes he’d never agreed to play. But the question–the challenge–has been laid before him and where maybe he should save face and refuse to answer…Instead he turns away. Turning over how to answer such a thing. Because both options are greedy. Both options self serving in their own ways. And yet…

            “Oi’ would ra’dder she live.”

             “Live an’forge’ me.“

      “D’ere be no forgiveness fer wha’oi done. D’ough she would grant me i’o’dderwoi’se.             She be t’good o’lass…o’ woi’fe n’o’mo’dder once t’be deservin’ d’at memory always.                 Oi’d give any’din’ n’d’world fer i’no’ t’have happened. Bu’ i’did.                       An’ one o’us payin’ fer i’…me payin’ fer i’….s’t’way i’should be.”

[whosxafraid]

Lazy Saturday Morning

Tracked from ( X )

Maybe if he was smaller, or she weighed more than a sack of potatoes the bed would have shifted more. He would have shifted more. But neither is a reality so neither do so. And there’s a sleepy sort of smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips. That has hands drifting up to find familiar homes along her sides. Hands that waste very little time slipping down to her hips.

The tease of a kiss rattling a hum in his throat, before lips lazily respond to hers. A two-toned gaze cracking open when she laughs. Correcting her previous statement. A chuckle of his own because he might be sleepy but he’s not dumb. And maybe he lets her settle a minute. Doesn’t say anything, letting the moment sink into his bones. 

Because every moment like this is a treasure. Something he’s learned to memorize every aspect of. Because tomorrow...the next...a month, a year from now it could all be gone. She could be gone. And if his long life has taught him anything it’s never to take the small moments, the little things for granted.

But even for all that he teases back. Nose brushed against hers ever so gently. As those hands move even farther down and back. Drifting only so far beneath a silk hem.

               “Go’som’t’in’ else n’moind, love?”

[whosxafraid]

So how many times have you killed your "soulmate?"

He eyes the grey creature. The being whose face he can not discern, the one who has no scent, for a long moment before eventually, his gaze drops to the table between them. The calm exterior masking the chaos the question has created inside of every piece of him.

How many times….

He could lie and say once. He could really lie and say none…but the truth is…the truth is so much more horrible than that. Because for every time she dies is it not his fault? Did he not damn her to die and be reborn again and again and again? Because when he was younger….oh when he was new….he had not been able to keep wolven parts of him in check. 

And maybe something dangerous flickers across two-toned eyes. Perhaps there is a baring of his teeth that comes and goes without his knowledge. But when he answers….it is the truth. And an old heart that has been broken and mended anew with each time she goes and returns to him again, hitches to a stop as the word cut–truthful–off his tongue. Leaving behind the bitter aftertaste of a wrong he can never take back.

           “Fer e’ery toi’me she be born oi’ve killed her.”

           “N’e’ery toi’me afta…oi’ill do so again.”

[whosxafraid]

Grip [edithbarton]

Meme: SEND “GRIP” TO GRIP MY MUSE’S JAW IN YOUR MUSE’S HAND Status: CLOSED

It’s like waking up dying. Actually it’s exactly like that. Because that is what is happening. The poison wrought blade having done what it was meant too. Stealing away his strength with every haggard breath he takes.  Burning away the magic that has staved off old age and death for millinea. And how oddly clear his sight despite the fact he’s dying. Despite the fact parts of him are already failing. 

          Wha….what….what have I done?!

Gentle hands on his shoulders, the collision of a body beside his own. Green swims in the blue over head, before it finds the will to shift. To move towards the sound of his name. The tendrils of golden hair that wash over him, the edges already stained in his blood. And he knows doesn’t he? Knows there was really no other way for this to end.

             Luka hold on…ju—

        “S’o’…..o’roi’gh’ love.”

             What!? No it’s not I…I’m so sorry I didn’t….

         “Shhh.”

And maybe that is a funny thing. The act of him shushing her. But he does it all the same. Blood stained fingers finding painfully weak purchase against her cheek. And how quiet she falls with the gesture. The pair of them so still that time could bend about them without suffering so much as a wrinkle. And perhaps that is not so far fetched given the memory of life times that pass between them with every second.

And he watches it doesn’t he? The realization dawning in those Irish blue eyes of hers. The way the emotions filter through as the moments of her lives…the first one and all other after it fall into place as he fades. As the red in his hair dries and flecks away. Leaving behind the coal black it had not been since before men ever wrote down their tales of fair folk and magic. Tales that are reflected in the glassy mirror of her eyes. Because she knows now doesn’t she? She understands. And fingers form themselves around the breath of his jaw. Lie snug against his cheeks. 

          Stay with me.

The brokenness in her voice, weaves into him. Leaves him raw and worn down with a hurt that breaks his will. Because he knows what this feels like doesn’t he? Knows what it is to kill the person you love most. And how desperately he wishes he could spare her that pain. But he can’t…so instead he gives her the only thing he can. A smile. Bloodied and weak as it is. Green locked in blue, even as his fingers slip away; and he along with them.

         “i gcónaí.”

[whosxafraid]

Tracked from { + }

The thing about being what he is, that perhaps most mortals do not understand...he can detect a lie. Sharp ears recognizing the change in a  heart rate the way that their scent changes just slightly. But he can also tell...she doesn’t wish to speak of it. So he’ll let it lie. Right now isn’t the time to waste on things that can not be undone; and in the wake of her words he simply pulls her closer. Leans down, presses a kiss to the old wound.

               “Aye i’ye say so, love.”

She isn’t the only one that can lie. And not for the first time, he very much wish death upon a living creature. The kind that was slow, agonizing and by his own hand. Because man he may look, but at the end of the day--he is just as much wolf. And the fury that comes with it.