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[war]

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Brigitte is breathing too quickly, laying too still. She is not asleep. Brigitte is not still, not silent in sleep. She tosses beneath her blankets, restless, until her bedding is a tangled mess at the foot of her mattress. Her nightgown rises as Brigitte squirms, caught against the swell of her breasts now, when it used to roll upwards and gather beneath her arms. Brigitte, in sleep, is gregarious: full of small whines, and sighs, and startled snuffles into her pillow as she works towards wakefulness.

But Brigitte is not asleep.

Brigitte is afraid.

Brigitte is afraid of *Ginger,* and that is wrong, wrong, wrong, because Ginger loves Brigitte, and she'd never, *never.* Ginger's knuckles feel too thick, oddly jointed, and her fingernails are sharp. She curls her fingers towards her palm, shudders at the jolt of pain. Brigitte is laying too still, too silently, and she is all that Ginger can hear, all that Ginger can think about. She wouldn't hurt Brigitte, wouldn't, *wouldn't,* and all she wants--oh, she *wants*--is to rise from her own bed, to cross the slight distance between them and--

press her mouth against Brigitte's soft belly. Hold Brigitte's legs still between her own, and open her lips, and close her teeth around skin and meat and blood, and swallow Brigitte whole. Listen to Brigitte squeal, feel Brigitte buck beneath her, and

she wants to curl around Brigitte, wants to press her face into the nape of Brigitte's neck and breathe in the familiar scent of sweat and sleep and *Brigitte.* Feel Brigitte nestle back against her, sigh, and twine their fingers together. Count each beat of Brigitte's heart, and follow her into sleep, safe. She wants

to press her thigh between Brigitte's, hard, hard enough to make Brigitte squirm and gasp. Wants the sight of her own hands tangled in the material of her sister's nightgown, pushing, pulling, upwards, upwards. Brigitte's wide eyes, open mouth, shaking hands moving up Ginger's ribs.

She wants *anything* but to lay still in her own bed, alone. She wants *everything,* and so she doesn't let herself move. Won't reach for Brigitte, won't touch her own body in want of all that she can't have. Won't do anything at all, because she loves Brigitte, loves her, and loves her too much, too little, in all the wrong ways.

She's going crazy, *crazy,* and she wants to blame it all on the sickness burning in her blood. Wants, *wants,* and Ginger's wants have never been anything other than what they are. Have never been anything less dangerous than Brigitte, trusting, her breath soft and easy, her face turned towards Ginger.