This wasn't supposed to happen.
Then
again, taking into account the fact The Universe really, really hates one Seamus
Zelazny Harper, I guess it was kinda inevitable it did.
My worst
childhood nightmare - that dark and bloody horror that had me stumbling from the
nest of my bed night upon night, speechless with terror, came true. And then
whatever asshole runs the Universe decided I was too much fun to have around and
let me pull myself together like a bug scraped off the windscreen of life that
flutters limply back into the fray.
I got off too easy. I should've
realized there was at least one more landmine from my past waiting to be stepped
on.
And here I am.
I figure he probably isn't too happy
about it either, but he won't say anything. I'm sure not going to say anything.
We don't do talking - not that talking is his forte anyway. Talking is my
forte, but talking and not saying anything. Babbling really. Sometimes on
purpose, sometimes not. But hey, it works on most people. Irritates the shit out
of them of course, but makes them dismiss me as trivial, disregard me as a
threat.
Not him though.
He had the damn nerve to tell
me he approved of my survival strategy on the whole, but I could shut up in
private. When I looked at him blankly he said, "Nietzsche wrote 'Talking much
about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself.'" and gave that Uberman
smirk that makes me wish I was seven feet tall, and muscled like a heavyworld
bodybuilder.
For the obvious reason.
Goddam Nietzsche.
I bet he was a real pain in the ass personally. And I'm circling around the
issue.
Which is that I'm lying here, next to one large pureblood
Nietzschean alpha male, after having made love to him.
Yeah, after all
those years under Niety subjugation, struggling for food, water and shelter;
running from slave-sweeps and hunting parties; fighting with tooth, nail and
whatever illegal weapon I could macgyver together against Humanity's bastard
cousins, I wind up here.
If it were just fucking, it would be OK. All
right, not too classy on the morals front, but I've lowered myself much worse
than this before (Beka's ex instantly springs to mind). And shit, you get
your kicks where you can in this life, 'cos sooner or later life is gonna be
kicking you back.
But it isn't sex - it's making love. I know the
difference. Done a lot of the former. Virtually none of the latter. It isn't
even a species thing. I've been fucked by Nietzscheans before, even voluntarily
once or twice, and it's no different than with humans.
With all the
others, there wasn't the same gentleness there is when he kisses me. There
wasn't the warmth his eyes show. Or the affection that's revealed in his touch.
There's a marked dissimilarity between sensuality and tenderness, but you never
realise it's there until you've experienced it.
And it isn't a
one-way street, this tenderness. Yes, he makes me feel safe (not something I
ever would have reckoned - feeling safe encircled by limbs with armspikes), but
he also makes me feel protective. Pretty funny really, some scrawny little human
feeling protective of the big buff Uberman.
But it's the
non-physical stuff that really kicks the crap out of you six ways to Sunday, and
even a Nietzschean can't completely guard against that. No matter what the
Over-race likes to believe. That's what I want to safeguard him against - the
razor-cuts and sour twists that populate our lives.
Oooh, heading
into orbit 'round Planet Sap there, Harper. Romantic is not something we do
either. I'd say we were friends more than anything - another condition I never
would have pegged us sharing. Hey, I've been reading up Mr Know-It-All and he
also wrote, "Hold a true friend with both your hands." Maybe I should tell Tyr
he's been taking his dogma a bit too seriously
recently.
Nah.
He'd probably swat me one for
that.
Mmm. On second thoughts, that could lead to interesting
places...
I have to wonder what he sees in me sometimes. I know what
attracted me initially. OK, so I have this weakness for 'big and gorgeous'. And
between him and Dylan, the monopoly on 'big and gorgeous' is covered in this
corner of the universe. But what does he see in me? He likes to take charge in
bed, but he doesn't treat me like some weak submissive fucktoy. He never loses
sight of what I am or where I've been. He doesn't get blinded by my facades and
physical frailties like so many others do. He sees me, and he still comes
back. I don't know why. Basically, I don't even know what this is or where it's
going.
But I do know I wouldn't surrender it for
anything.
"You're thinking too much."
I glance over. His face is
relaxed, eyes shut, the faint sheen of sweat golden across his
brow.
"Huh?"
Oh, real eloquent Harper.
"I can practically
hear you thinking."
"Well, if I don't keep the hamsters running, the
wheels stop."
He opens those long-lashed eyes, looks puzzled, then shakes
his head briefly in dismissal, braids falling about his shoulders with a
sibilant rustling, black snakes swathed around my very own Medusa. Mesmerized, I
reach out my hand to stroke them. He catches it and then surges upward onto his
elbow, a monument of dark honey-colored muscle leaning over me. I must
look...something, because he raises my hand to his mouth and gently kisses the
palm. My breath catches and I look up into a foreign expression on his
face.
"Harper."
Oh.
Maybe we're going to do the
talking thing after all.