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When you fell like a feather from out of a plane
The first time, it's a spontaneous thing. It's his hand cradling her jaw, hers slipped into the pockets of his jeans, his back curved to make it easier even as she stands on tiptoe. It's laughter and teasing comments, and they stay curled up for a while just talking, passing around one of his last cigarettes. It's easy, neither them have to worry much about any complications or strings to get tangled in.
And so there's a second time, a third, a fourth -- until it's easier to count the nights they don't end up curled up in one or the other's bed. It's still easy, still something they can pass off as uncomplicated, and yet it's changed. They don't talk about it, don't bring up anything, and that's okay, that's alright; they live on with what they have.
But one day, one jump, Russia wakes up and she's not there. There's no hint of her and it aches like someone cut open his chest, broke sternum and rib, scooped out the tender beating organ beneath the surface. Quite suddenly, he becomes aware of the invisible strings tied from his fingers to Jackie's being cut off in the middle. He hadn't even known they were there until they were gone. For days, he's in a daze, going through the motions but distant, lost. He finds the Pearl and keeps it safe, but she's not here and that aches even more than he ever thought he would.
Jumps go by, the ache lessens and tempers, but never quite leaves. And then one jump he hears familiar cursing, sees the familiar shape of her curved back as she chokes on bile and blue. The noise around them lessens into static, distance eaten up by his long legs as he practically races towards her on the slippery field.
"Jackie!" He gasps, a desperate heaving sound as he reaches for her. She might not remember him, she might not remember them, but the thought doesn't settle and grow roots. She's here, she's back -- he settles one hand upon her shoulder, brushes hair out of her face. And god, she's covered in stasis fluid and dazed, but she's beautiful and her mouth curves in a familiar grin at the sight of him. He smiles in return, a breathless, hitching laughter leaving him even as he draws her in against him.
"You're back."
And so there's a second time, a third, a fourth -- until it's easier to count the nights they don't end up curled up in one or the other's bed. It's still easy, still something they can pass off as uncomplicated, and yet it's changed. They don't talk about it, don't bring up anything, and that's okay, that's alright; they live on with what they have.
But one day, one jump, Russia wakes up and she's not there. There's no hint of her and it aches like someone cut open his chest, broke sternum and rib, scooped out the tender beating organ beneath the surface. Quite suddenly, he becomes aware of the invisible strings tied from his fingers to Jackie's being cut off in the middle. He hadn't even known they were there until they were gone. For days, he's in a daze, going through the motions but distant, lost. He finds the Pearl and keeps it safe, but she's not here and that aches even more than he ever thought he would.
Jumps go by, the ache lessens and tempers, but never quite leaves. And then one jump he hears familiar cursing, sees the familiar shape of her curved back as she chokes on bile and blue. The noise around them lessens into static, distance eaten up by his long legs as he practically races towards her on the slippery field.
"Jackie!" He gasps, a desperate heaving sound as he reaches for her. She might not remember him, she might not remember them, but the thought doesn't settle and grow roots. She's here, she's back -- he settles one hand upon her shoulder, brushes hair out of her face. And god, she's covered in stasis fluid and dazed, but she's beautiful and her mouth curves in a familiar grin at the sight of him. He smiles in return, a breathless, hitching laughter leaving him even as he draws her in against him.
"You're back."