Drab-let Series (Guess it, pick next) – “The Reality of Breath”

jhelenoftrek:

This one is from/for @ailtara.  407 words.  I’m not sure it’s exactly what she was looking
for, but it’s a start to build from.
I’ll likely continue this story, because I will never have enough words
for this episode.  

For now, first person
to identify the ep gets to pick the next.
And if you can’t tell, then I’m either horrible at this, or you’ve never
actually seen Voyager.


He can taste the champagne on her lips.  Intoxicating wisps of alcohol spill from her
breath.  

Her cheek in his palm is warm and soft.  Her arms wrap around him, dragging him closer
with each prolonged second until he is unsure where he ends and she
begins.  

He is basking in their every movement, relishing the feel of
her supple skin as he presses his hand along her thigh.  He memorizes every sigh that escapes her
love-drunk tongue.

Until.

Everything changes.  The
lake grows dark, the boat ends its rhythmic swaying.  The ground is hard beneath his knees.  

Her lips are still.  

He rushes, not to savor and enjoy them, but to breathe life
back into them.  His hands are gripping
greedily, not to explore, but to claim her as his and chase away death.  He is pressing on her now, moving life-blood
around already failed systems, forcing his own stale breath from her lungs.  He shakes her and holds her and cries out for
only the wind to hear.

And then.

He is awake, hands clenched around fistfuls of sheets.  He closes his eyes, leans back on his elbows and
tries to ignore the hollow wail of anguish ringing in his ears.

But he does not succeed.

The chronometer by his bedside assures him it is
sufficiently late.  She will be asleep by
now, certainly.  And it’s too early to
wake her.  But he has to know which
reality he is living in.  

As he dresses he makes peace with this inappropriate, but
extremely necessary, thing he is about to do.

He passes no one enroute to her quarters.  Elicits no attention while he overrides her
door lock.  Is silent as he steals into
her bedroom.  

He watches as the covers rise and fall.  She is just the right amount of peaceful.

Turning to leave, he sees the rose in a glass vase by her
bedside.  He remembers how soft and
supple it was when he picked it for her.
He takes one single petal from the blossom.  

Back in the appropriateness of his quarters he regards the
stolen treasure.  It is delicate peach at
the edge bleeding down to deep rose and every shade in between that he knows
she blushed to.  The same, fleshy
softness is weightless in his palm.  A
similar, sweet smell is light in the air.

He rests.

Until it is time for her to breathe life into him once again.


Another note:  Like many
of these drab-lets, this one started out way over word count and I couldn’t
imagine cutting it down.  But I’m telling
you, fellow writer friends, crafting a story to a specific number is SUCH an
insanely awesome lesson.  Please try it
with me sometime.

Tell me where you live so that I can come over there and beat you up for this unsolicited trip to Feeladelphia, you heart-twisting auteur fatale! 

And please invite @ailtara to your house at the time, so that I don’t have to make the extra trip to beat her up for choosing this episode!

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2sUCIj4

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