.

.

.

'Till Death
1.

.

.

.

She sort of proposes on a whim.

Three months into their relationship, she proposes, and he stutters, shrugs, beams and accepts. In the moment, she's relieved. They embrace. His body is warm, his arms tight, but still gentle around her waist, and it's exactly as it should be. But, after six minutes and thirteen seconds, she realises he lacks something. And she feels awful to think that way; this man, this person, lacks something. Who is she to say if somebody lacks a quality? That he is not perfect enough?

When they ask about him, she says he's great. He doesn't care about the prison sentence, he doesn't care if she has a psychopathic drug-dealing ex. He doesn't care because, for some bizarre reason, he loves her. And his love is nice. It's soft, and it's easy. It's the type of love any fool wants. The sort of love where she'll come home after work, and he'll have set the table and cooked dinner because he wanted to surprise her. The sort of love where she'll roll over in bed, and feel him beside her because he has nowhere else to be. Because he has no reason to flee in the middle of the night.

Her mother doesn't approve immediately until it is convenient for her to approve. Her father cannot be less interested. He doesn't see his baby girl anymore; just a girl. Just some woman he once raised. As if the sentence has mutilated everything she is. He doesn't want her ugliness.

So, she and the man of her dreams organise the wedding. His smile is cute. A dimple creases in his right cheek, and she kisses him there. He's feeling mischievous, and quickly turns his head in time so their lips touch. She sighs through her nose. Places a hand at his jawline, to hold his face, to keep him still, to kiss him a little while longer just to make sure he's real. To wait for her breath to escape her, the force of their kiss to wind her for hours, leave her frantic and flustered, limp yet strong on her feet. She wants to want more. To need his body on hers. To feel his naked skin on her fingertips.

To hear him whisper –– Pipes into her ear, his tongue at her neck, in her mouth, effortlessly stripping the loose t-shirt from her trembling form as she whimpers yes, yes, yes.

One of them feels all of this. They retreat. He smiles warmly, exhales, stunned. He'll never get over her, who he has found. Ironically, she loves him just a little more. She loves him for loving her unconditionally, oblivious to the sinful, unforgivable stories locked in her mind. She can play house. She can be the good wife. He can be the good husband. But she will always drown in her lies.

Those brown eyes always shock her, take her by surprise, sometimes make her gasp.

He thinks her manner is endearing.

But she merely forgets. She sees brown, expects green.

Her heart skips. She's suddenly afraid she'll vomit the butterflies fluttering in her tummy. She has to sit down. He watches her, a little concerned, but more adoringly. 'Baby,' he whispers, leaning over, taking her cold hand. 'It'll be okay.' The wedding. It'll be okay. He bumps his nose against hers. She tries to smile. She doesn't know if she does, her entire face is numb. 'It's all gonna be okay.'

She's been told that before.

Then his smile breaks. He realises. He realises the problem.

Sighs.

Smiles again.

Piper has never been a good liar. Not really.

Here they sit, wedding magazines strewn across the table, plans written in notepads, invitations waiting to be sealed in envelopes. Here they sit, together. But not together.

Slowly, his hand falls from hers. He opens his mouth to speak. Stops. Shakes his head. Not in disbelief.

'I'm not her.' His voice is still. It doesn't shudder.

He knows, and he's always known, and he's hoped, one day, it'll pass. This love will pass; that she will see sense. Truth is, Piper has been blind ever since she laid eyes on her. There is nothing else to see except Alex.

Piper can't breathe. Finally, she can't breathe. Tears irritate her eyes. 'Oh.' But she doesn't weep. '... No.' Piper wipes her face with the back of sleeve. Laughs a little. 'No, you're not.'

A beat.

'I'm sorry.'

She is. And so is he.

'I know.'

Then Piper runs a hand through his hair, in a very un-Piper-like manner. Catches his eye. He smiles, a sad, reluctant smile, but understanding all the same.

'Go find her.'

Her lungs hurt when she remembers how to breathe.

And she's gone, her cardigan catching the pile of invitations. He watches each card slip to the ground. When he looks up, she has already disappeared.

To find her.

.

.

.

author's note: This story will be short and sweet. It is set post-Litchfield. Reviews are appreciated.