I went a little different than I normally do...this takes place months down the road. No illness, DYAD is kept at bay, and there's just some introspective on behalf of Cosima.
Cigarettes and apples. This is what I smell when she's near. It's not a combination one would think is sexy, but for me it drives a chill down my back and an aching through my heart. It's completely illogical.
Sometimes I wonder just how real this is. How real are any of us? I can see their entire being opening up before me, blood cells telling stories that I read like never-ending novels. My...sisters? It's what Felix calls us, but is that because we really are or because his longing for family is never-ending. We are the same, but nothing about us is similar. Genetically we are sisters as much as any twin or triplet is.
Delphine doesn't love them. I can see it when she looks at Alison or Sarah. She sees them as passing associates, people she would not normally speak to if not for the situation. When she looks at me, I see her world unravel. She barely glances at them, but her eyes meet mine and I see her knees buckle slightly. I see her sway and lean towards me.
The first time we were together, it was a mess. She had tried to lure me in with sensuality and bravado, trying to dominate in a game she'd never played before. I can still feel her hands shaking when the initial bravery had worn off. She jumped at my touch, as if it burned her. I can still feel her uncertainty and I'm torn. Part of me was so wrapped up in the need I felt, but part of me was questioning everything. "Stick to the science." Sarah had said. I'm sure that's not what she meant.
That was months ago. Now, I have no hesitation, no doubt. When I look at her and she looks at me, it's obvious to anyone in the room. We've put up with so many comments, so many "get a room"s that I've stopped counting. I only count the seconds we're apart. I count the strides from the door to my seat on the couch when she comes home. It's only 4 steps from the door to my desk. Four seconds of eternity until I'm engulfed in a cloud of cigarettes, apples, and a need that hits my gut.
She smiles and I can't help but smile. Her blonde hair falls over one eye as she slips out of her coat, and I want to reach out to push it back, to run my fingers through it and feel the silkiness of it. She leans against the edge of my desk and my dissertation, my research, everything is forgotten. "Bonsoir." I can hear the awkwardness of my response because I've never been good at French. It makes her smile, and it's genuine. I've learned many things about her since we began this road together, and one is that she's an awful liar. She wears her emotions on her sleeve and I bathe in the love and affection she radiates.
I've never fallen in love before. I thought I had, twice before, relationships that lasted over a year in which I was pretty sure I had found the one, and both times I had tumbled into a relationship of love and devotion, or so I had thought. I had no idea. This was nothing like that. I never thought anything would feel like this. I never thought I would die every night and see heaven. I never thought a touch would send me spiraling like this. I run my knuckles over her knee and she leans into it like she needs my touch to survive. There's no hesitation, only understanding.
"We are supposed to be going to dinner with your sisters at 6:30, Ma Cherie." She says this with a smile, as if she can sense my need for her right now. Despite her reminder of our plans, she leans down and kisses me. I taste chai and cigarettes, smell the scent of the sweet apple-toned perfume she wears and it's sexy. I pull her closer, my fingers threading through her hair and she nearly topples over before bracing herself against the arms of the chair. As she tries to stand, I follow her up, not wanting to release her lips. She laughs against the kiss, her arm slipping around my waist as I feel her touch against my throat. If this is heaven, I'd be alright with dying now, but no one's dying. The illness is gone, but DYAD is still out there. The peace we traded for the cure has kept them at bay. All there is now is living. It's blissful contentment and her hands undressing me, cold air defeated by warm hands and bare skin.
It's no longer a mess. She knows me so well, every inch of me. She knows exactly when I need release, and when I need it drawn out, and damned if she doesn't know exactly which I needed even when I didn't know myself. We spend hours, trading touches, kissing, caressing, tasting. Of course by the time we're content, it's almost 6, and we're going to be late.
She looks at the clock and a knowing smirk crosses her face. "Late as always." Her fingertips travel a path up and down my back and I lean into her, content but still needing. I don't imagine it will ever go away, and I don't want it to. "Share a shower with me?" Her words tingle with amusement.
We're going to be so late and I'm not even sorry about it.