jamie
She does not startle.
And he delights in this, the way she turns to find his eye in the dark.
He is no monster, though he looks like one.
He is no monster, though he sounds like one.
He is no monster, though he thinks like one.
He is feeble and weak and he still wheezes when he breathes. He is no threat. Despite the sharpness of his teeth and the black ink of his mouth.
The water is to her as the darkness is to him. And he turns his head and cranes that dark, dark neck to peer into the darkness at himself. But not even he can see where he ends and the shadows begin. And he understands. It is really that simple. It is not love but necessity. He wonders, quite abstractly, if it is seawater that flows through her veins rather than blood. If he were to sink his teeth into her neck, what would it taste like?
He slinks out of the shadows then, thrusts himself into the slanted moonlight. Ponders. Blinks those big yellow eyes and slinks a little closer so that she might be able to distinguish him from the darkness. If only just barely. Because even the moon, fat and low, is weak in comparison. And his fog follows him and, though he is tired, he inclines his head and lets it itch up her legs, too.
He draws in a long breath and holds it. Studies her. She practically glows. The beauty is overwhelming when he’s this close, devastating. He is not unmoved by it. He is not immune to it. He fixes his focus to the opposite edge of the river. Shifts his weight because the joints have begun to ache.
“Perhaps you’re right.” He murmurs in that thin, thin voice. Sickly. Weak. “Tell me what you know about love.”