Dark Angel; Cold Burn (Syl)
Feb. 29th, 2008 09:22 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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jam_pony_ficTitle: Cold Burn
Author: Lexie Jayne
Genre: Character sketch
February Prompt: Season/Weather
Characters: Syl, Krit
Words: 291
Notes: A year off from DA writing and I randomly wrote this in celebration of having my account back. <3 Written for LJ’s jam_pony_fic monthly prompts. Xposted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lexiewrites.
Summary: She always liked the colour blue, too. The way the colour mottles over skin, eats away the colour of the flesh. It’s almost pretty.
Disclaimer: Property of James Cameron. I make no profit. In fact, I could do with some sort of employment at this point.
She relishes the cold.
She likes the burn on her hands.
She likes to see her breath puff out in front of her (for awhile, that was the only thing that kept her smoking).
She always liked the colour blue, too. The way the colour mottles over skin, eats away the colour of the flesh. It’s almost pretty.
He blows at her icy, chapped hands when he drags her in from the cold; rubbing her hands between both of his, to encourage circulation. He wraps her in bathrobes and blankets, his own hands tracing her cold skin, allowing it to draw the heat from his own, but never really warming.
She relishes the nightmares too. Of birds, and choking on blood; of delicate electric shocks that rattle her teeth in her head, and fling her out of sleep and into an ugly world.
They remind her of how lucky she is to be here; to not be rocking back and forth, underground, locked in the sort of insanity that begs for death. To know that human contact does not end with bruises and broken bones. That sometimes the meaning that can be quoted from the dictionary couldn’t be further from what it really means, when she’s out there, feeling lips pressed to her cheek, a hand on the small of her back.
Every time she feels the cold, she gets a little further away from that place, from the reality that now stalks her sleeping mind. And she likes that her dreams are all that is left – dreams and running, and that she is still here to feel snow on her feet, her cheeks whipped red by the wind.
Any distance she can get from where she came from, she’ll take.
Author: Lexie Jayne
Genre: Character sketch
February Prompt: Season/Weather
Characters: Syl, Krit
Words: 291
Notes: A year off from DA writing and I randomly wrote this in celebration of having my account back. <3 Written for LJ’s jam_pony_fic monthly prompts. Xposted to
lexiewrites.Summary: She always liked the colour blue, too. The way the colour mottles over skin, eats away the colour of the flesh. It’s almost pretty.
Disclaimer: Property of James Cameron. I make no profit. In fact, I could do with some sort of employment at this point.
She relishes the cold.
She likes the burn on her hands.
She likes to see her breath puff out in front of her (for awhile, that was the only thing that kept her smoking).
She always liked the colour blue, too. The way the colour mottles over skin, eats away the colour of the flesh. It’s almost pretty.
He blows at her icy, chapped hands when he drags her in from the cold; rubbing her hands between both of his, to encourage circulation. He wraps her in bathrobes and blankets, his own hands tracing her cold skin, allowing it to draw the heat from his own, but never really warming.
She relishes the nightmares too. Of birds, and choking on blood; of delicate electric shocks that rattle her teeth in her head, and fling her out of sleep and into an ugly world.
They remind her of how lucky she is to be here; to not be rocking back and forth, underground, locked in the sort of insanity that begs for death. To know that human contact does not end with bruises and broken bones. That sometimes the meaning that can be quoted from the dictionary couldn’t be further from what it really means, when she’s out there, feeling lips pressed to her cheek, a hand on the small of her back.
Every time she feels the cold, she gets a little further away from that place, from the reality that now stalks her sleeping mind. And she likes that her dreams are all that is left – dreams and running, and that she is still here to feel snow on her feet, her cheeks whipped red by the wind.
Any distance she can get from where she came from, she’ll take.
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