((Hope Crowley doesn't mind; we just thought considering their history, it would make for fabulous awkward later on. XD))
John woke up certain that he hadn't been sleeping on that knife last night.
The knife that belonged to his father, the one that he would use once he reached into the chest and stabbed the heart...
He jolted up from his makeshift bed, rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple. He tried to remember if his shirt had been that, er, poofy yesterday, or if he had been quite so concerned with--
Turning and staring down, his eyes lit on that gorgeous cascade of hair, the delicate curve of her cheek. There was so much he wanted to tell her (and he should, he should tell her the truth, but he wasn't sure he could trust her), but instead he stole himself, played the upright hero and held his tongue.
Well, not entirely. He did lean down to her ear and whisper.
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John woke up certain that he hadn't been sleeping on that knife last night.
The knife that belonged to his father, the one that he would use once he reached into the chest and stabbed the heart...
He jolted up from his makeshift bed, rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple. He tried to remember if his shirt had been that, er, poofy yesterday, or if he had been quite so concerned with--
Turning and staring down, his eyes lit on that gorgeous cascade of hair, the delicate curve of her cheek. There was so much he wanted to tell her (and he should, he should tell her the truth, but he wasn't sure he could trust her), but instead he stole himself, played the upright hero and held his tongue.
Well, not entirely. He did lean down to her ear and whisper.
"Elizabeth..."