Work Text:
Jenny sits on the edge of his desk, her legs kicking idly. Dust motes catch the light from the windows and are sent spinning by the uprush of air from her swinging feet. She watches him work. A pen is perched between her teeth, and her eyes are ink-bright and playful. He can see it all, though his gaze is on the book in his hands, his focus on the words lined up in their tidy rows. One press of her soft, sweet mouth against the back of his neck is enough to send them all tumbling down.
Her hand is tight in his own as they climb a winding staircase. They are surrounded by gloom, and it only grows darker the further they ascend. He feels as though he is stepping into the blackest depths of space. She turns back to smile at him reassuringly, and the stairs dissolve beneath their feet to send them sprawling into the stars.
“Promise?”
He can’t, but does anyway.
The moor dips and rises beneath them, climbing to ridges and then sloping away. Jenny looks about in quiet ecstasy. He has told her a hundred times of the beauty of his homeland, but it has taken this journey for her to fully believe it. She gazes at the brambles and spindly grasses, and then bends to pick a sprig of purplish flowers. As their roots tug free, they reveal a scattering of bones embedded in the earth.
“Hey, England. What’re you thinking about?”
The question is such a foreign one these days that he must pause briefly to formulate a response. When he turns to answer, the sight of her instantly banishes all of his careful considerations.
“You,” he tells her. She cocks her head, not quite believing him, so he leans in with a kiss to convince her.
Jenny curls in her armchair, clutching that ever-present cup of coffee. Between sips, she peels an orange. The sharp sting of the citrus permeates the air and bites at his eyes and nose. The air is heavy and humming. She beckons to him languidly, her mouth curling and eyes full of desire. As he leans over her in the chair, green wings flutter above.
The woods are frigid and haunting, black branches clicking in the wind as though hollow. Jenny’s hand is pale, knuckles blue from the cold, but it is steady as it grasps his. All around them, the forest begins to burn.
He climbs to the loft as he has a thousand times before — stepping over roses, twinkling candlelight leading the way. This time, when his eyes rise to meet hers, there is nothing to meet. Her head is gone, and the gory stump of what remains of her neck has soaked his bedsheets in blood. He wants to vomit, wants to scream until his throat is raw, but he has been frozen in place.
She lays in the grass and holds him. The hill is sunny, the sky is clear, and the champagne bubbles up into their laughter. Jenny points at shapes in the clouds and feeds crumbs to the ants that go trundling by, and Giles loves her.
“Are you scared of the dark?” she asks. All is black as pitch around them, except for the candle clutched in her hands.
“No,” he tells her, because he never has been.
“Good.” She smiles and blows out the light, and it is only then that he realizes what he has lost.
Jenny’s hands guide his over the bizarre rows of keys.
“Seriously, this stuff is important. You know why Flutie brought me in to digitize all of those books in your library?”
“Because the sadistic bastard enjoyed tormenting me?”
“Think about it. What was the worst event in the history of all libraries? Alexandria, right?” She laughs at his pained wince. “Yeah, I bet that one still stings. The work I do helps to prevent that. I back things up. Make copies, spread the knowledge further. Isn’t that a noble goal?”
“Yes,” he mutters, only slightly sullen.
“Your books will fade, Rupert. It might take centuries, or maybe even millennia, but they’ll crumble to dust. Everything does eventually. We just have to do our best to hold on to them however we can.” She smiles at him, her hand resting on his. She is whole and bright and alive.
“I suppose we must,” he tells her, and leans in to let her kiss his temple.