There is static in her magic, it fades and crackles in his ears for a moment. Her magic has ended, this little burst of song is gone, leaving him with the sight of her long lashes brushing the tops of her pink stained cheeks. Flecks of snow have tangled themselves in those lashes and he resists the urge to brush them away before they melt along her dark eyes. Her lips press along his once more and he savors the brief moment, eyes closing. He invites the darkness in, lingers on the feel of her mouth and the sigh she leaves on his bottom lip before he opens his eyes once more. Dorothy leans on him, her fingers have found his and he finds himself smiling.
“Magic,” He breathes out the word, “You wield it.”
His words cloud up around her lips with the cold air settling around them. She smiles, sweet and wide, it makes something twinge in his chest. Warmth blossoms from the center of his chest and he feels his hollow heart skip a beat as nods her dark head, “It’s nothing special.”
“You are wrong,” Lucas reaches up and his calloused fingers brush her warm cheek. Her skin is a lot softer than he’s imagined. He drags his fingers higher, lets them fold into her wild waves of soft hair. Dorothy presses closer into his palm, laying against him in a way that tells him she’s slowly unraveling. The walls around her are slowly collapsing, he feels her sag against him. She is exhausted from being a hero, from saving the little girl who sleeps soundly on the wild beast that she calls ‘Toto’.
“It’s just music Lucas.”
“It’s magic,” He insists, listening to her breathing become deep and even. She presses her head under his chin and he relaxes at the feel of her warm breath ghosting over his throat. The man from earlier had called to him, shouted a name like he knew him.
Roan. Roan. Roan.
He is not Roan though. Not here, not now. He is Lucas. He is what she calls home in her world. Her world full of deep sultry magic. Lucas cards his fingers through her hair, drags them down to the very soft ends and then repeats the motion, over and over, coaxing her down. The night draws around them and the snow still falls in thick flakes, but he doesn’t allow her to shiver. Instead he wraps his arms around her, drag them along her back and makes himself a shelter for her.
“Lucas,” She says his name in a whisper and his skin pricks with excitement, throat constricting -- he lets her relax into him, stretching her legs out along the cool Earth.
“Dorothy.” He nearly chokes on her name when she presses those warm lips of hers along the column of his throat. Lucas stretches out with her, pulling her onto his chest to keep her safe, dragging the canvas blanket from her pack over them. It’s not much, but his body is a furnace with hers pressing perfectly into his like the last piece to the intricate puzzle that has become his world.
He is not Roan.
He is Lucas.
Most importantly, he is Dorothy’s Lucas. Lucas is her home.
When she relaxes, he presses his nose to the crown of her dark head and inhales the sweet sharp scent of snow and metal, gunpowder and leather. Lucas presses his lips along her crown and lets her even breathing draw him into a dreamless, warm slumber.