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From what I've tasted of desire.

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Although she's not an angel—not some stoic statue, devoid of feelings, attachments, subtlety, love—Amelia takes on their characteristics when she works, when she turns her mind to research. Never mind the sounds of Ben and Claire out in the backyard, chasing Kevin, the (female) dog Amelia bought Claire when they lost her father. And never mind the slew of horrors that march by on the newscasts Amelia keeps turned on for background noise (everything from manmade atrocities and earthquakes and revolutions and mountains of dying people to the more mundane things, some ticker-tape parade of celebrities embarrassing themselves for Anderson Cooper or Joy Behar).

Never mind the times when Lisa gets scatterbrained and leaves lunch or dinner on for too long and sets off the smoke alarm with singed grilled cheese or slightly too-charred chargrill—Amelia keeps her head bent over the antique books of lore she's never explained how she found, turns their yellowing pages with a starless grimace set on her face like thunderclouds. She keeps building up the knots in her shoulders, keeps up with her bad posture just so she can stay close to the books, as though this proximity means that she's incapable of missing anything.

"The answer's in here somewhere, Leese," she groans while Lisa puts her hands to good use, digging her thumbs into the spots of tension all over Amelia's back and shoulders, the places where stress has wormed down deep into Amelia's muscles, getting them taut and racked with hassle, where the strain's slithered in and created a web of tunnels, coiled itself around her bones. Lisa grinds her hands into the worst spot—a place where, beneath Amelia's alabaster skin, her back's started becoming stone as well.

She sighs underneath Lisa's attentive fingers, but no matter how hard Lisa works the knots over, no matter how sweet she makes her jangling, twinkly requests for Amelia to take a break to give herself a rest, to please leave off the books because she'll think better when she lets her mind recover… No matter what Lisa says, Amelia bends, whispers hollow promises about how she won't bring her notebooks to the dinner table, leans forward and sweeps her golden hair aside to give Lisa better access to her neck—but she doesn't break. Doesn't back down.

"Those feathery bastards need to get the message, Lisa," she says, grunting as Lisa digs at another knot. "Think about what they did to you and Ben—trying to wipe years out of your memories? I know you don't just forgive them for that…" (Lisa can't even pretend to protest this—she opens her mouth to try, but in the end, only sighs and shifts a thumb around the current victim of her attention, digs her nail into the knot, feeling it push back and strain against her.)

"Think about what they've done to everyone else, besides," Amelia goes on. Even in the middle of this, her voice doesn't so much as tremble. "Claire's never been the same, you know. Well, I guess you wouldn't really know—you didn't know her before… But she only had an angel inside her for a few minutes and it changed her. They killed Jimmy—convinced him to leave so some Castiel could have him as a vessel… And they've done this to other people. Other families. We have to stop them. Nobody else is doing it. We need to get them off this planet if it…"

"If it what?" Lisa asks, dreading the answer, hands growing heave with what she suspects Amelia's going to tell her.

Amelia sighs. "We have to get them off of our planet if it kills us."


It's dangerous, Lisa knows, loving someone like Amelia. Loving someone whose blood boils with steeled resolve, who can radiate righteous indignation and the same blistering airs as the things she means to hunt, who thinks nothing of papering the study's walls with notes and newspaper articles (hunting for omens, signs of angelic activity) and handwritten copies of summoning rituals, banishing spells, rites for dominating angels, putting them on leashes, theoretically obliterating them.

It's dangerous to love someone who can lose herself so thoroughly in her work, searching for patterns and connections and anything she might've missed until she nods off at the desk, forehead making close friends with her arms.

It's dangerous to love someone else who's been possessed, who's had black smoke force itself down her throat, felt her limbs jerking around without her consent and had to watch from behind her own eyes, helpless, as a demon smacked her child. Threatened her child. Put a knife up to her child's throat and tilted it just enough to scrape the edge along Ben's skin, or Claire's skin…

It's dangerous to love someone else who knows the post-exorcism emptiness, the void in her chest, the unfillable hole in her stomach that sometimes threatens to wrap everything in its darkness…

It's dangerous to love someone else who's had that feeling of her whole soul freezing over, ice crystalizing over her fondest memories and the secrets she swore never to tell; who's known how it feels to harden like hoarfrost—and Lisa doesn't ever forget this fact. How can she?

She tastes it in the fire behind their kisses; feels it in the sparks, like static electricity, that fly when Amelia grazes her fingers down Lisa's arms, her breasts, her hips. She knows the dread that braids itself throughout her stomach and clenches around her lungs every time their lips and teeth gnash and tear at each other, every time they cleave together with ursine ferocity. Lisa knows it as she knows herself; she knows what it means.

But the statuesque front Amelia puts up falls to pieces when they've come together and shut the bedroom door behind them. The alabaster facade melts when she has her lips between Amelia's legs; her cheeks flush pink at first, then dark red as she gasps and whispers for more, twines her fingers in Lisa's hair and tugs. Amelia's eyes are sapphires—cold and hard, with a fine-carved edge—but when Lisa slides her fingers inside Amelia, nudges at her clit and scrapes along her slicked up muscles, she glances up and sees blue skies, a warm sparkle. And Lisa smirks, feels something spark in her chest—because she's the only one who gets to see this.