Cap I:

He rushed in like a hurricane. He had this thing in his eyes. This thing always caught her; it was like magnetic-organic to her, some reaction in a subatomic level deep in her cells, some morphogenetic condition. It was instinct. Despite the violence in his walk, the thing in his eyes was brigther today. His right hand was severly hurted, bleeding. He had deffinatley punched someone. And savored the process with pure joy, she concluded.

_Let me help you with this.

_It is nothing.

_It’s nothig but my job to take care of it.

_I am fine. I told you, it is nothing.

_I’m not asking anymore. You are the bad cop, I got it. I’m not beeing nice with you, don’t need to get all allergic. Your hand is covered in blood and dirt, it will be infected in 3 hours and as far as I know, you are right handed. I am cleaning this.

She finnished the sentence grabbing his hand, the left one, and put the right one under water. It was ugly, really. ‘The other guy is probably a hamburger now’ she thought. If she knew him well enough, the first punch was in the middle of the chin, to disorientate the opponent. To make a statement. He wasn’t subtle when it comes to be about his job. He is sheriff, so people expects of him some…things, and posture. In addition, to keep his position, he should play his part. The truth is it was not some vulgar violent male-tale. He was bigger than that. He was classic. He act classically, and it worked well. So far so good.

Now she noticed that his left hand was hurted too. The knot fingers were pealed-off. So after the first punch – that was for sure a phenomenal thing to watch, brutal enough to make the poor thing/other guy past out for a few seconds, Neil lifted the guy up, probably by the jeans jacket he must be wearing. That should be burning like hell. Then came the forehead right in the nose, as the bleeding point in the middle of his eyebrows indicated. Nevertheless, his right hand, was really, really fucked up. Minced meat with bones, miraculously whole bones. Maybe four, five heavy jabs in the face of his opponent. He used to have this ridiculous micro-skull tattoo on his hand that certainly wouldn’t survive to the new scar. Nothing else was ridiculous about that man. It’s funny, he hadn’t the obvious beauty, hadn’t symmetry, wasn’t a beautiful warmth smile, perfect teeth or blue eyes. However, when the pieces were together, his constantly frown, the mid-long dark brown hair that blends with the honey brown beard in a sort of mane, the deep-shadowed eyes, lips that were indescribable and serious. A physical constitution of a soldier, a strong skilled soldier. He was actually a veteran, but they never trade a word about that. They barely spoke… they used words to each other carefully, because when the sound of his voice were heard, or hers, it was pure synesthesia. Listening to the sound of that voice initiated a chain of events in both bodies, hard to bare, almost impossible to stop.

Their relationship were based on this tacit agreement, it seemed. They looked each other several times a day, more with the intention of knowing that his/hers satellite was there. No exchanging glances. In their voiceless, wordless agreement, no cliché romance allowed. Neil was severe, in all aspects of his personality, at least that’s what she perceived of him. And she was an excellent observer, an essential part of her talent for read people, an essential part of their relationship. She used to be gorgeous, years back, when in the old Earth. Now she was too tired, with the soul too old, with too many problems to solve. Everything was there, resisting to the tough years, the beautiful black silk hair, the honey green eyes with small brown dots, those succulent tights, like ripe fruits, the strawberry lips, the freckles against the porcelain skin. But the years were cruel to everyone, hardened her character, and she eventually lost her exuberance. Well, not for him. He could admire her for hours, all of her movements were gracious. He loved to observe her muscles responding to her elegant and fierce walk, as if there were an inaudible song guiding her legs and hips. She was his everyday damnation, fuck. So impossible to deal with. Back in the days, when he hadn’t that much of weight on him, things would be different between them - he said that mentally every fucking time she appeared with that baby-blue dress. Or every time she was simply brilliant, which happened a lot. He began to feel in his bones he needed to fix things with Cali. Urgently. Fuck the Ragnarök. She finnished the first aids, her delicate hands made him feel nothing. The touching was unbearable. Was all about the eyes, between them. But things would change now.

(in progress)