[Gradually, the stiffness in L's limbs begins to ease, melting into the kiss. It's easy, gentle, kind; it's what he wants and needs, and his guard finally slips.
For the briefest moment, an image flashes across the Bond. A scrawny, dirty child with saucer eyes and wild hair is curled in the corner of a bus stop shelter, fast asleep, grubby fingers gripping a molded sack lunch that was saved so long that the roaches got to it first. A name's written in smeared marker, water-damaged, impossible to read.
The image is contained, suppressed, but the way his fingers clutch onto the SQUIP's arm and shirt is exactly the same.
He wants to believe it. He wants to think that the scrap of affection is real, and that something gold can stay. And God, doesn't just the thought make him sound so weak?]
no subject
For the briefest moment, an image flashes across the Bond. A scrawny, dirty child with saucer eyes and wild hair is curled in the corner of a bus stop shelter, fast asleep, grubby fingers gripping a molded sack lunch that was saved so long that the roaches got to it first. A name's written in smeared marker, water-damaged, impossible to read.
The image is contained, suppressed, but the way his fingers clutch onto the SQUIP's arm and shirt is exactly the same.
He wants to believe it. He wants to think that the scrap of affection is real, and that something gold can stay. And God, doesn't just the thought make him sound so weak?]