Give Me Love

Inspired by Ed Sheeran's Give Me Love

Vikings - Modern AU

Copyrighted by Eris Jade

***

*Give me love like her/'Cause lately I've been waking up alone*

"What're you looking at?"

Hvitserk nearly twists completely around in his seat, peering around the edge of their booth to follow his brother's riveted gaze.

Hvitserk doesn't see what Ivar sees. He can't make out the ghost made flesh sitting only a handful of tables over. He doesn't know.

Her hair is much shorter now, styled in a messy pixie-cut, certain strands of which shine a deep, dark purple. Or, maybe, blue? He can't really tell from this distance, in this haze of dim, unflattering light. Yet, Ivar would know the line of her neck anywhere. His lips had mapped the expanse of it too many times to count.

Her clothes are different, as well. He remembers her in t-shirts and blue jeans. Now, she's wearing high-heels and a scoop-neck sweater that shows off the smooth brown skin of a partially bared shoulder. But, Ivar knows the curve of her back, the way it bowed and arched beneath his rough fingertips.

A ghost, he tells himself, if only to convince his pounding heart.

*Paint splattered teardrops on my shirt/Told you I'd let them go*

"What the fuck're you looking at?" Hvitserk says, irritated now, and Ivar doesn't bother to respond.

Instead, his fingers tighten around the fork clasped in them. He watches when she leans forward, reaching over the table, and the neck of her sweater gapes just the tiniest bit. She swipes something from her companion's plate, laughing as she pops the morsel into her mouth, and Ivar swallows because he can almost taste her now. The warm, wet, distinctly feminine taste of her lights across his tongue as if 7 years haven't passed since the last time he tasted her.

*And that I'll fight my corner/Maybe tonight I'll call ya*

Hvitserk gives up. Throws his napkin on the table and slides clumsily out of the booth. Heads off in the direction of the lobby, mumbling something about making a phone call, leaving his brother to watch.

To stare.

To wonder.

He scowls at her, silently willing her to turn and meet his gaze while simultaneously hoping she doesn't. He wants her to pay her bill and go just as badly as he wants to see the light sparking in her dark eyes.

It's stupid and juvenile and it fills him with red-hot, irrational anger, yet he wonders if her voice still sounds the same. Swears he can hear it right now, pitched high and gasping out his name.

She never looks his way. Never feels the weight of his gaze on her skin. She laughs and smiles with her companion. Crosses and uncrosses her legs beneath the table.

She never sees him.

*After my blood turns into alcohol/No, I just wanna hold ya*

He's relieved when she pushes out of her chair. However, it is short-lived. She moves toward him instead of away, her head bowed slightly, eyes downcast, distracted. And the closer she gets, the faster and louder Ivar's heart pounds, need and desire suddenly burning through his veins - the desire to look into those eyes again, to hear the way his name rolls off of her tongue.

He comes to himself very suddenly, the lights and sounds of this little restaurant almost too bright and loud. His mind registers her striding past him and he's moving even before he's decided to do so, his hand flashing out, thick fingers curling around her wrist.

She doesn't cry out, he'll give her credit for that. He feels her whole body go tense, instinctively twisting her arm in his grasp. And then, finally, she sees him, those fierce eyes snapping down to his face.

She stops.

She stares.

Surprise lights her pretty face before her features smooth out and she's simply looking at him.

Silent.

Waiting.

But there are no words, just the warmth and smoothness of her skin against his rough palm and the thick, heavy weight of his tongue sitting uselessly in his mouth. Heart still beating, pounding, and he wonders if she can see it there, beneath the fabric of his sweater - see it's frantic, uncertain, angry beating.

*Give a little time to me or burn this out/We'll play hide and seek to turn this around*

Silence still, twisting and churning between them, and he sees the shift behind her eyes, the softness he knew only he ever got to see, even when he was at his worst. Care and concern that seven years had neither dampened or diminished, and his heart twists painfully.

Her lips part, the tip of her pink tongue coming out to moisten her full lower lip, and he narrows his eyes, focuses on that bit of supple flesh. Remembers strawberry kisses and bourbon-laced sighs. Rain on lazy afternoons and the slide of her flesh against his own.

His fingers tighten on her wrist. Her pulse jumps there and he can vividly recall the sound of it in his ears.

Not fair.

Not right.

She is a ghost. A memory. Long gone, though, regretfully, not easily forgotten.

*All I want is the taste that your lips allow/My, my, my, my oh give me love*

Someone calls her name and she turns toward the sound, brows drawn in irritation, though he's not sure where that irritation is directed. Wishes it was directed at him; it would be easier that way. But, there's that softness in her eyes again, a question waiting there, hanging there, and she gently twists her wrist out of his grasp. Turns on her heel and moves back the way she came, leaving him angry and speechless with the taste of strawberries and bourbon growing sharper in his mouth.

He clutches the edge of the table. Watches the roll and sway of her lush hips. Watches her pluck her coat from the back of her chair and walk away without so much as a glance backward, and he's both furious and relieved that she didn't look back. Isn't sure if he'd be able to handle it. Isn't really sure what the fuck he wants in this moment.

*My, my, my, my oh give me love*

And, then, she's gone again. And Ivar spends the rest of the night trying to ignore her ghost.