| Title: "Evermore" Author: Mala E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com Fandom: "Witchblade" (t.v.) Rating/Classification: 'PG-13', P/N, angst, nongraphic sexual stuff. Disclaimer: Erm...Image? TopCow? TNT? People who definitely aren't me. Summary: Convoluted speculation on Pezzini and Nottingham's connection, based on the two-hour "Witchblade" pilot film. Notes: Dangit, Lex. You wanted Sara/Ian fic and here it is, lol. And it's got sex in it...sort of...I think my block might be melting a little.... "Have any dreams lately, Sara?" he asks, as he sometimes does. And, this time, she whips around, slamming him up against the wall, searching his face for a smile...anything...any trace of mockery. But there is none. "What do you *mean*, Ian?" He simply strokes her face with the backs of two fingers...and then he slips from her grasp. *Gone*. ~*~ Fire. Rain. Blood. Memory. He knelt before her and offered up his sword. And she accepted. She took it. She took it in. "Sara," he whispered, dark eyes empty of anything save the glimmer of the past. "Sara..." She followed him down to the ground, peeled the long coat from his shoulders. His mouth stroked the beaten silver bracelet...traced the smooth red jewel that was now dormant and dark. Her hands tangled in his dark hair as she moved above him. Below her, he looked almost helpless. Seer and stalker no longer. Here he was at his most vulnerable. At his most naked. Their bodies were flush against each other, moving to some ancient rhythm that bound them more closely than the Witchblade could possibly imagine. "Why..? Nottingham...why...?" she gasped. And he had no answer. Save the fire. And the rain. And the blood. And the memory of a long dark tunnel with him at the end and her at the beginning. The *beginning*.... "Sara..." *** She jacknifes up in bed so fast that she nearly tumbles out. And her heart is pumping double time. The dreams are getting more vivid. Coming faster and stronger since they tossed Gallo in the can. Not only the past, but the present, too. Present imperfect. Things that haven't quite happened, but could. Ian. Ian. Nottingham. A shadow. A mystery. A maniac, for all she knows. He appears and disappears, spouting wisdom like a fortune cookie. And she dreams of him using that cynical mouth for more than just double talk. *Why*? Who is he? Who are they to each other? She shivers and curls up under the bedcovers...closes her eyes against the winking red center of the bracelet on her night table. She is seeing what it wants her to see and she is helpless against it. But is she wanting what it wants her to want? And is she helpless against him? ~*~ Voices. She knew them. She understood. But the light was fiery and she could not see. She could only feel. Hands. Lips. "Jeanne," he whispered, dark eyes full of everything and the glimmer of the future. "Jeanne, mon cherie...." Flesh. Firelight. She rose to meet him and he welcomed her. As he always did. And he swore allegiance to her with his mouth against the Blade. Her blessing, her curse. Her destiny. She knew it would come to an end soon. She was going to die. And she knew he would be there. For he was always there. He was as constant as the Witchblade. And just as true. *** "Explain them to me," she demands, without turning around. "Explain the dreams to me." The power pulses through her, the jeweled eye, and she knows he is mere feet behind her. Her shadow. He laughs softly, mirthlessly. "You don't need them explained, Sara." Always with that odd cadence that makes him sound a little crazy. "You know. The Witchblade tells you." "No, the Witchblade shows me, with enough jumpy edits to make Baz Luhrman dizzy. It's half Dark Ages drama and half *porn*, Nottingham. I can't make sense of it." "There is no sense." And now she knows he's close. That his hands are floating over her...almost touching, but not. "There's no sense in it, Sara. Only sensation. Tell me, what do you *feel*?" "Pain," she says, automatically. Feeling her eyes flutter closed. "Pain. Heat. People all around me...destruction...and...*you*. Always you." The knight. In armor. Eyes so bright...French endearments slipping from his lips. The modern version. In his trenchcoat. Eyes so serious. Kneeling in the alley. "Yes...always *me*," he agrees. "You will always feel me." "And you? Will you always feel *me*?" she countered, tilting her head back, feeling her hair brushing his face. His lips move against the nape of her neck...the barest of kisses...like the barest touch of a saber's edge. "Oui, Jeanne...*toujours*...always..." She doesn't have to see through the Blade's eyes to know that he's gone. *Again*. And she doesn't have to see through the Blade's eyes to know that he'll be back. *Again*. For he is always there. He is as constant as the Witchblade. And just as true. --end-- |