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Senses

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Title: Senses
Author: juko_juko
Rating: K
Word Count: 766
Characters Involved: Chrno, Rosette - Sister Kate, too?
Notes: Just a bunch of junk that's been rotting in my brain for a long time. I hope I didn't make Chrno too much of a crybaby. Please don't hurt me - this is one of my first fics, and I'm not a very good writer. Excuse the lame title.

I'm not sure if this community is dead or not - no one has posted since december, no? It'd be pretty sad pathetic if I came and joined once all the action was over!! Well, please comment. Constructive critisism is very welcome.


He’d look down on her pale, tranquil face, illuminated by the moonbeams that streamed through the windowpanes.

He’d listen to her steady, rhythmic breathing, warm air escaping her delicate lips, her chest rising up and down as she slumbered.

He’d cautiously, hesitatingly, reach out with his pinky and caress the side of her creamy cheek – you are mine, he’d whisper to her, as he’d kneel and position his crimson eyes in front of her closed ones.

He’d smell the damp, frosty scent of new snow outside, fresh and pure, like –

Rosette. He’d taste her name on his tongue, soothing himself as the smooth syllables washed over him.

But does she . . . love . . . me?

~ & ~ & ~ & ~

He’d feel her fingers, deft from handling the triggers of a thousand guns, yet so careful and tender now, ghosting along the nape of his neck. He’d feel her tug gently on his violet tresses as she wove them together.

He’d smell the strawberry-rose scented shampoo she’d used the night before – fragrant and light; summery, like his partner.

He’d hear her breath catch and let up again as she tucked in the loose strands; imagining her brow slightly furrowed in concentration and her azure eyes focused on the back of his head.

He’d see her hands tying the ribbon at the end of his braid, teasing the yellow silk until the bow was perfectly even.

He’d taste the sound of her name on his lips. Rosette. Rosette. Rosette.

And he’d wonder if she loved him.

~ & ~ & ~ & ~

He’d watch her snarf down helpings and helpings of gingerbread, and drain glasses and glasses of hot apple cider, never seeming to satisfy the bottomless pit of her stomach; he’d wonder, without realizing, how can she manage to stay so slim?

He’d hear her cheerful, boisterous laugh, Sister Kate groaning softly as the blonde nun elbowed the water pitcher; he’d hear the splash of the water and the tinkle of the ice cubes as they hit the tile floor one by one.

He’d touch the lacey white tablecloth, his limp hand resting inches away from hers, as she chattered blithely to the distracted demon.

He’d inhale the warm, fruity, apple smell that drifted through the cool air.

He’d taste that apple, too – taste it as he sipped slowly from his mug, and mouthed the word against the hot rim. The word that comforted him so.

Rosette . . .

And he’d bite his lip and ask the wind, does she love me?

~ & ~ & ~ & ~

It wasn’t possible.

He’d listen, only to hear her screaming, swearing, cursing, her shrill voice echoing through the hallways, hurtful words cutting him, slicing through him, embedding themselves deep inside where they couldn’t be shaken off.

He’d put a hand to his own face, finding his cheeks damp; he’d try to swallow the painful lump he felt creeping up in his throat.

He’d see her face contorted with rage – some petty reason, they all knew – all but him. Surely not because . . . , he thought. But the hidden guilt, the old scars, the ones that she had tried so hard to make disappear resurfaced, drowning him in remorse.

He’d almost smell the smoldering scent of spite and fury that radiated from his contractor, like the bitter ginger aftertaste still tingling his senses from that afternoon.

He’d taste her name, mouthing it softly through the salty tears. Rosette . . . Rosette Christopher.

And he knew it was foolish to hope, insane to wish.

But yet . . . he did. Something in her glistening, angry eyes made him wonder, still –

Rosette, do you love me?

He’d never live with himself if he didn’t find out for sure.

~ & ~ & ~ & ~

So he asked.

He heard the quiet between them, the fire crackling merrily on the other side of the room in the otherwise silence, the air pounding in and out of his tapered ears as he awaited her answer.

He could smell the evergreen scent that permeated the air, wafting through his light head.

He saw her blotchy features soften for a split second; saw her frightened, tearstained face behind the defiant mask she wore.

He felt his heart thumping wildly in his chest, each individual beat resounding in his ears; he felt his whole body sway as he stood in place. Does she love . . . me?

At last, she spoke.

“Is my name Rosette?”


A/N: No, she doesn't have amnesia. It was a rhetorical question. I'm not sure if that's obvious, or if there's no way anyone can tell. XD And i have NO IDEA how snow smells. Never really seen it before (unless you count that time in Colorado when we drove up the mountain), much less SMELLED it. So use your imagination, please? ^^

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[User Picture]
On June 23rd, 2006 06:48 pm (UTC), sistercrosette commented:
I enjoyed this. Sorry I dont really have constructive criticism but I did want to comment and say it was very well written and I enjoyed it. thank you for the a/n at the end, that was unclear to me. I am not sure how you would clear it up.
[User Picture]
On June 24th, 2006 02:00 am (UTC), juko_juko replied:
Haha, thanks. ^^
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