What's it to you?

I do not own Smallville and make no money from posting this story. I likewise do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer and make no money from posting this story.

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This is what it is:



It is walking through the room where the other Potentials (although she probably shouldn’t call them that anymore, but Realizeds sounds stupid, not to mention awkward) and catching sight of her putting her sparring partner on the ground in two quick, economical moves. Feeling a surge of pride and possessiveness as she sees you watching in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and holds your gaze, almond eyes in dusky skin, then looks away quickly and laughs down at her sparring partner as she helps her to her feet.



It is the two of you on patrol, taking down a nest of vampires, her holding her own and dirty fighting just the way that you taught her, and then a stolen kiss that tastes of dust and blood and sweat, the stake in her hand digging into your shoulder and you not caring because she smells like strawberries and sunlight and makes you feel like the center of the universe for just an instant.



It is anxiety and pacing when she is out on her own for the first time, knowing you’ve done all you can and maybe too much, giving her something to be worried about coming back to, someone to be tied to and distract her, and the feeling of caving in when she comes through the door, triumphant and exulting in her success.



It is the stupid anger and jealousy over those who came before: clumsy men with big hands and bigger ambitions, too full of their own sense of destiny to see the beautiful jewel in their grasp.



It is having her laid out beneath you, hair a silken fan on your pillow, eyes liquid in the dark, staring right into you, crying out your name like it’s all the religion she has, an exclamation, an exhortation, as you move in her and around her and above her.



It isn’t love. It isn’t love. It isn’t love.