Things We Lost in the Fire

[simplememes]

Mutual Healing Shipping Meme

Healing doesn't come quickly, whether the need comes from physical or mental wounds. But you're trying regain your strength - and yourself. People, as a general rule, are kind, or at least not outright inflammatory to you, it seems. Still, you just can't connect with them. No matter how nice, how caring, they don't understand. They've never experienced anything like what you've gone through, or they're not like you in a way that lets them see what you still go through; they have no frame of reference. Sure, they have sympathy, but it's not the same. So there's no real connection, despite any friendliness. It's so easy, then, to feel detached... ...until you meet them, in this place of both death and healing. They may not have been through the exact same struggles, they may not be exactly the same as you, but they know what darkness is light. How they handle this fact may be better or worse than how you do, yet you can see yourself in their actions. And for once? There's connection; more than that, too. Slowly, you can feel yourself opening up towards them, and then, falling for them. Is this something your used to? Will you fight your feelings, or will you jump at the opportunity to be with someone who can begin to get you? You may have little choice in the matter, as your instincts may just reach out to be with whatever compatible contact you can get. That's better, in the long run, though. Who else could have wounds like yours? Essentially, it's what it says: a "romance," in the loose definition, or "shipping" meme for characters who have been through the wringer or have hangups. Reply with your character, preferences, and any info you want to include. Remember, the more information, the more taggable you are. Respond to others. Thread.

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[utselet]

"Ooh." She grins. "And when do I get to see that?"

She tugs lightly at his shirt, then tells him, sincerely: "You should see me in a proper dress. With my hair done."

[bleak_midwinter]

"Let me take you out tomorrow," he says, suddenly, reaching up to cup her cheek again. "We can buy you a dress, and we'll find a place to dance. Eh?"

[utselet]

She blinks, then brightens all at once, beaming. "Dancing," she echoes. How easy a thing to forget: that they can go dancing now. "I didn't think I'd ever go dancing again," she murmurs, but happily, gratefully.

"What kind of dancing do you do?" she asks, just as suddenly climbing out of the bed, reaching a hand out to him. "Come. We'll practice. We're both..." She hesitates briefly over the word, then decides on: "...rusty, yes?"

[bleak_midwinter]

He laughs, delighted at her sudden spirit, her sudden need to stand up and do something. She's been locked up so long- he understands that feeling very well. He lets himself be tugged, still laughing as he puts a hand on her waist and holds out his hand for her to fold hers into.

"Very rusty," he agrees. "I'll need hours of practice, I'd say. Here-" He starts humming something, something upbeat but not so upbeat that he'll have to swing her around- there simply isn't enough space in the little room for that.

[utselet]

She is, of course, a natural. It's clear that she wasn't lying about having once been a dancer, but she's so light on her feet that it hardly even seems to matter, as if she must have been out on the floor and in the spotlight from day one. She is a little rusty, but only in her mind -- she forgets steps here and there. Her feet and her body know how to compensate, and though she wavers at times, she never stumbles.

As it becomes easier still and starts to require less concentration, she lets herself relax into it, lets her mind go clear so she can just feel all the joy and the sense of freedom that's been bubbling up in her ever since she saw him at the station. It's broad daylight -- or starting to shadow a little, now -- and they're dancing, could dance for hours if they wanted to, will put on pretty clothes and go out to dance amidst other people tomorrow, and there's not a damn thing anyone can or will do about it. She feels like she could dance for hours sustained by the power of that one thought alone.

[bleak_midwinter]

Tommy is less of a natural, but he's a young man who grew up with the idea that dancing is the ideal way to court women. He's relatively light on his feet, stumbles once or twice but his grip on her hand is firm and he leads with confidence.

It's amazing. He hasn't felt this happy and light in years, not since before the war. He wants to tell her every thought in his head and wants to listen to every thought in hers- he wants to swing her by the waist and tell the world that they belong to each other, and he wants to stay with her in this room forever.

Eventually he gets tired, and he puts a hand between her shoulder blades and gives her just the slightest dip as the corners of his eyes crinkle with laughter.

[utselet]

"Oh--" she lets out a tiny sound of surprise, but she laughs and lets herself be dipped, arching gracefully into it. She wraps her arms around his shoulders as she comes back up, still beaming. She could honestly keep dancing for ages, even now, but she can sense that he's grown a little weary.

"What next, my darling?" she asks, pulling herself closer to kiss him very lightly. "Shall we sit? Shall we eat? You could show me nighttime in Strasbourg."

[bleak_midwinter]

He smiles against her mouth, peppering little kisses against the corners, her jaw, her cheeks.

"The options seem limitless. But- I think I'm not ready to share you with the world yet. Just be mine for tonight? I have bread, cheese, we can make coffee and tea here."

[utselet]

"I would be yours no matter what," she corrects between kisses, carding a hand through his hair to push it back from his forehead, then taking his cheek in her other hand and looking -- still smiling, but also serious -- into his eyes. "In the middle of Paris, I would be."

"But--" she adds with another kiss, lightening again, "if you want to be selfish and keep me all to yourself for tonight, I can live with that, too."

[bleak_midwinter]

She makes him feel bashful, and it shows- he ducks his head a little, though he meets her lips for that kiss and he lets her meet his eyes. He knows that it's true, but it makes him feel humbled nonetheless to hear her say it.

"Think we're allowed to be a little selfish, after what we went through."

[utselet]

He shouldn't be surprised, perhaps, that her smile finally falters. She nods, giving him a quiet sound of agreement; he's right, of course he's right, but she's not sure that she needed the reminder. Her eyes fall briefly as she gently detaches herself from him and moves to sit back down on the bed.

"And chess," she says after a moment's pause, trying to rally all the same. "There's always chess." She glances up, the corner of her mouth ticking into a softer, sadder smile. "And I still have one-third of a book in my luggage."

[bleak_midwinter]

The problem is this: he doesn't want to make a habit of ignoring their past, how they met, at least not between the two of them. He'd meant the war and the camps, but he understands that she doesn't want to be reminded. He knows she might never want to talk about it, but all the same that place is how they know each other, and they didn't meet through friends at home. They met in a POW camp, and he can't ignore that.

But he also doesn't want to hurt her anymore, doesn't want that smile to falter. So he tells himself now to stop bringing it up quite so often: he can ignore it for the time being, until she feels a little more healed and safe to be with him.

He lets her detach herself from him for a second, as he holds up a finger to ask her to hold on- then starts rummaging in his back, taking out piles of clothing and other items before stumbling upon something he'd bought here on his first day in town: a tiny, tiny travel chess set.

"Never used," he admits. "I thought we could make this one ours."

[utselet]

That makes her smile more real again. She nods and moves down to sit on the floor with her legs tucked to the side, waving him over with it.

"It was my move last -- that means I get to go first, yes?"

She's grateful for the change of subject. She knows, at heart, nothing is ever going to be forgotten, and nothing can be ignored forever. He's a tunneler, a prisoner, an officer; she's a spy, a whore, a bit of a traitor, and the first time she kissed him it was because she had been ordered to. They've hurt each other -- she more than he -- and been badly hurt, in all kinds of ways, by the experiences of the last few years. Someday, she'll have to admit to all of this, just like she someday might have to tell him why she went silent for two months, or why she needs things just a little slow when they already know each other's bodies so intimately.

But there's always been a part of her, even from that very first night, that's wanted to live this as a fantasy. Here, in Strasbourg, she doesn't have to be any of those things. She can be just a girl, playing chess with her lover on the floor in a tiny boarding-house room, tearing into bread and cheese and tea like filet mignon and champagne, laughing -- giggling -- at his charms and his teases and his stories. Shedding her dress and curling up against him in her slip when it's time to go to sleep, warm and safe and thoughtlessly happy in his embrace. That's real, too.