Work Text:
Copper and brass are cold, unyielding things, and do not give way under soft hands, warm though they may be. Good intentions are not enough to comfort any soul kept in even the most gilded of cages.
Annabelle’s laughter is high and sweet and frantic in a way that speaks more to desperation than her unwashed lab coat or the darkness under her eyes. She touches, touches, touches with fingertips that ghost across oil-slick joints, flutter across crude features that cannot react to the sensation. For him, there is no sensation. Just an odd, distant knowledge that her hands are upon him, a detached awareness.
Angel , she calls him. Love.
A light flickers overhead.
Doll, she says.
Angel, love, Doll.
None of these are his name.
Annabelle's laughter is high and sweet and frantic.
Jasper’s lament is low and tinny and ignored.