So yeah, that's me. Somewhat damaged. A pain junkie -- like my adrenaline addiction, only twisted. But I never met anyone I couldn't rescue. Until Viggo. *** He was altogether the most stubborn man. Infuriating. Maddening. Closed-off. Biting sense of humor that hid a despair so deep Virginia Woolf would have shied away from it. Utterly fascinating. "You don't let anyone get too close, do you?" He shrugged, squinted at the harsh sunlight beating down on the ground. "Some." "But not me." "No, not you." "Why not?" "Because." He turned to face me, dark hair glinting with red highlights, eyes reflecting patience. "You want it too much." "I don't..." "I won't be another notch." He saluted me with his sword, walked off. Taking the light with him. *** "Here." I pressed the coffee mug into Viggo's hands, sank beside him on the damp ground. "Figured you could use it." "I'd kiss you, but I don't know if you brushed your teeth." We both smiled, and I went with the urge to push his hair back, noting the dark circles under his eyes. "Nightmares again?" He shrugged. "Everyone has them." "You have them every night." "I'm not looking for a shrink." "That's alright." I got up, brushing myself off. "I'm not looking to cure you." He looked up. "Then what are you looking for?" I simply smiled. "You know." *** "Alright, tell me something about yourself." He twisted in his sleeping bag, nylon rustling. "Like what?" "I dunno." I glanced at everyone else, all huddled and sleeping under the stars. "Something no one here knows." "There are lots of things no one here knows." "Tell me about the nightmares." I could feel his gaze -- hard, probing -- on me, opened myself up to it. "Why do you even care?" Slight shrug, picking at the dirt under my nails. "I believe our fears define us." "Getting philosophical?" I flashed him a quick smile. "There are many things about me you don't know." *** "So, what about you?" I twirled the pasta on my fork, considered his question. "I'm terrified of heights." "Really?" Slow blink, eyes wide with disbelief. "So why do you...?" "Throw myself out of helicopters and off bridges?" "Yes." I set down my fork, reached for my glass of wine. "Because I won't let the fear define me." "And you think mine do?" Viggo asked, thoughtful look on his face. "Tell me about the nightmares." "I never remember them." "Then what do you remember?" His reply was soft. "Waking up alone." My hand found his across the table. "Then change it." *** "I don't need you to rescue me." "Yes, you do." "Orlando--" "Don't." I cupped my hand acround his neck, rough skin under mine. A soft sigh was his only acquiescence. I stepped closer, invaded his space. Walked through his barrier. Prepared myself to face the dragon. How did one go about rescuing someone from themselves? Grimm and Walt never covered this in their twisted fairy-tale endings. I went with instinct -- seemed to serve me well so far. His lips were chapped, tasted faintly of smoke and chocolate. Trembled under mine. And the hand on my hip shook. Imperfect. Beautiful.
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