Blood & Brimstone

It was family.

Only family, and yet they barely fit into the living room. The party warm, lively, and full of just-a-sip from drunken merriment. They had won the day. Dayne's ambitious moves, a few bumps and scratches, and a bullet wound or two; had been a small price to pay for the family's safety and future.

For her family's safety.

The only family she had left.

Her shoulder ached and burned, but she'd cleaned it well. She had enough experience in the field to know the so long as she kept it honeyed and sterile, she was as good as healed. So was Dayne.

Being shot had been something... Something terrifying and horrendously unbearable. The hot sticky feeling of blood. The burning agony of the scalding metal tearing its way into her shoulder. It was something she would remember for years to come, and surely wince at every reminder.

But.

When she had watched that man, raise that gun; heard the bang and watched Dayne stumble back into his brother's arms...

There was no feeling like it. Nothing so grotesque and horrible. No matter the number of soldiers she had tended to, limbs she had been forced to remove, boys she had been forced to pronounce too-far-gone in the wars.

She had seen that spray of blood, his blood, and her world had stopped— her stomach had fallen through the cobblestones and into the earth... along with her heart.

How was this some fickle crush? As Rosette had called it...

How was this feeling something to be teased about? Young as she was; there was nothing funny about it. It was terrifying.

But that thought was for another day.

Dayne was fine and well; they had both survived, and there would be enough money in their success, that worry would be a distant memory itself.

Even now the pile of diamonds gleamed in all their splendour, sparkling in the light leaking in through the dusty window, clouded only from the smoke of cigars and cigarettes.

She raised her hand to rub the ache in her shoulder away, but stopped herself. Her stitch work, in her own hazed pain, had been loose, and shoddy at best. Instead, to distract herself she turned to gaze at the man behind her.

The man of the hour.

He was a sight. Strong jaw, straight nose, hair a slash of ebony in the hazy room, eyes bright and clear as the Indian Ocean.

He towered over her, even when leaning back against his mahogany desk—the most expensive furniture in the house— with a wide grin on his face.

Watching the family celebrate around them, he was subdued and quiet in his pride, even though it had been his victory more than anyone's.

He turned to her then, all too quick for her to look away, or pretend she'd been staring at something past him.

His smile was warm, though, and she swallowed at the look when it brought bubbles and fireflies fluttering within her belly.

It was terrible.

She was a decorated field nurse, not a school-girl anymore. As much a Rosette would like to say otherwise.

She had seen men die, hundreds if not thousands less than a year prior, and yet this one made her feel like that was a distant nightmare. Like she was just a girl.

He set down his scotch a moment later to do what she had only barely resisted doing. Prodding her stitch work in his shoulder. His was much tidier than her own—

The realization hit her quick and hard, and she nearly snorted, before concealing her glee behind a frown.

"My God!... Dayne!" She stared up at him, with a stern, appalled look. And pursed her lips.

He sobered a bit— as he always did when the rare occasion that she seemed serious occurred.

The only one, really, who took her seriously at all.

"Yes?"

The room had quieted a bit at his deep commanding voice, as it always did, all attention suddenly on them.

She ignored it, and his questioning looks, shaking her head. Lips twitching.

"Don't move."

He didn't.

She couldn't hold her grin much longer though, and her lips twitched again as she turned her back to him; lining up carefully with the broad plane of his chest.

His brothers were watching all wearing variations of the same confused frown. God, they looked so similar. The only difference was the peace in their eyes.

Dayne was tall enough to gaze over her head as she lifted a hand and dragged back the collar of her shirt. All the way back over her shoulder.

She couldn't help the snorty chortle that escaped her mouth now, as she broke into a teasing grin.

"John?" She called, he was already grinning, obviously seeing what she was seeing, "Do we match?"

Rosette's cackle was as loud and rapturous as the rattling starter to an old car next to him, her heavily pregnant belly bouncing with the movement.

"Like a fookin set," John finally chuckled out, throwing an arm around his wife, His beer spilling down onto his shirt in his laughter, the room bursting back into boisterous celebration and chuckles around them.

The couple's youngest pointed and laughed, distracting John from dabbing his ruined shirt just long enough for him to threaten to 'throttle that bloody curly mop right off his head'.

Everyone laughed even harder when the child continued, too much like his father to be deterred by a mere threat.

All distraction died out, though, when Dayne's arms curled around her waist; and a breath from his own light, laughing voice tickled the hairs curling around her ear. His body leaning down over her, as she curled herself into the warmth of his chest. Of his scent. So alien, so familiar. And all his.

"'Like a fooking set,'" he agreed.

She grinned, she could not fight it, itching its way to her lips. Her eyes falling closed as he held her, leaning back against that expensive desk.

His hand—the one he should not have been using—caught hers, tracing lines into her wrist and palm. His hand was massive and warm, but Pale and milky compared to the dark complexion of her own.

"Let's not try to match anything else,” she whispered, still smiling.

Her chest felt warm, and something strong, and unwavering, and confident, held her along with his arms. And she realized she felt... safe there. Encircled in him. His heart beating against her back.

Like they could take on the world.

Like they had and they could again.

Like he felt safer with her there too.

"Nothing else?" he asked, and she opened her mouth, but closed it again.

Only then did she notice the track his fingers were tracing, up and down her ring finger.

He pressed his forehead into the back of her curls.

They lingered that way a moment, his soft breathing, tickling the baby-hairs at the back of her neck. His warmth encasing her.

Her heart stuttered when it came to an end, and he straightened and brought her hand slowly upwards over her shoulder—her eyes trailing its journey, to where it met the smooth curve of his lips.

"Nothing else?" He whispered again against her hand, his eyes, warm and light as she'd ever seen them.

Face inches from her own.

"One day." She swallowed, turning to face him in his arms; settling her body against his.

Her cheeks burned bright, as she pressed a kiss to his collar, carefully, like she was leaning in to check it.

So quick and subtle, just a caress of her own, to the unfamiliar feeling of his warm smooth skin.

Just for a moment.

To encompass herself in the smoke and scotch scent of him, and let the world around them be forgotten, just for now... just for this moment, and maybe...

No one would notice.

No one would see.

"Maybe, one more thing."

But that was years ago. A lifetime ago.

And things were different now.