the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #3

It's instinct to curl his hands around her hips, and then she's talking about shagging him and his body screams yes, please without any intervention from his brain. He pulls her down against him, and then groans in pleasured agony at the feel of her against him. He's kissing her back as she talks, and when she cuts off mid-sentence, he doesn't notice at first. He's distracted, and panting quietly, and trying desperately to remember the myriad of reasons why this is a bad idea.

'Jus' what?'

He pulls her down, and she moans, all resistance leaving her body as they fit together as intimately as a possible while still clothed. Instinct takes over, and her hips curl against his, the motion subtle but there.

Another hungry kiss because he tastes and feels irresistibly good, and then she remembers she was saying something.

'Not just a temporary thing, though if that's all you can give...' Her eyes sheen as she concedes that might be the only chance they might have. Her hand comes up to touch his face, her thumb tracing his lower lip lightly.

'I want all of you, Gene. Not just for one night. For as long as you'll have me.'

Edited 2012-07-03 17:59 (UTC)

He swallows hard, and fights the instinct to grind against her. His hands wander around to her backside, just long enough for him to appreciate the lovely peachy roundness for himself, and then drop away.

It should be quite clear from the long release of breath and, most obviously, the conspicuous hard-on, that this is costing him dear.

'Then you won' mind if we wait a bit?'

Last week, he'd never dream of saying that. But last week, he wouldn't need to. Everything's different now, and he's not planning on ruining it by going too early.

'No.' She shakes her head, smiling softly as she bends to taste his mouth. This time, her kiss is tender, warm and wet, and not in the least bit chaste. But she also doesn't succumb to the desperate hunger she feels running under her skin, as much as she might want to.

'You tell me when the time is right, and I'll be here.' Another kiss, and she's trying to pull herself up and away again.

But just one more kiss, if he'll let her.

One more. And...one more. But then he does let her go, otherwise he won't be able to. He forces himself to keep his hands flat against the sheets until she's off him, and then rolls quickly to sitting. Partly because he wants space to calm down, partly because a fag will help with that and mostly to hide the evidence of what she does to him.

'It's nothin' you've done,' he says, at the wall, as soon as he's lit up. Because he doesn't want her to think he's angry - or rather, that him being angry is affecting this.

'I jus' want it to be right.'

'I know.' She doesn't know, really. She never knows with him, and right now, everything between them seems to be like walking on eggshells.

She keeps one hand on him as long as possible, and then moves away, out of reach. Because her hands don't seem to be on the same page as her brain. And it aches to have any air between them, any air at all. It reminds her of how close they came to truly losing one another.

'I'll just...' She moves across to the other bed, hiding her eyes from him as she down the covers for the other bed, slipping beneath them. She feels fragile, now. It's not a sensation she likes. But they've come this far, she can wait for him.

The sheets feel like ice on her heated skin, and that's probably a good thing. She takes a moment to arrange her hair on her pillow, and yes, she decides to sleep facing him.

'Wake me if you need me.'

'OK.'

Not much chance of that, but he won't be saying it. And he resolutely doesn't turn around. His resolve feels weak enough, no matter that he knows he's doing the right thing.

'Night.'

He smokes his cigarette, and lies back down, once more with an arm pillowed behind his head. He's listening to her breathing, waiting for her to drop off.

She listens to his breathing, painfully aware of how close he is, and how far, in the same breath.

But it's been a long, challenging day, and as much as she might try to stay awake, it's no use. Just a few minutes after her head hits the pillow, she's falling down through the layers into a deep sleep. The last thing she remembers, she's realizing she can smell his cologne on her hands, and she tries to hold onto the memory, the feeling of his mouth soft against her own.

He waits until she seems deep under, then gets up and pads to the sofa on silent feet. He turns the TV so the glare isn't shining anywhere near her bed, switches it on and flicks it to silent.

It doesn't matter whats on. He's going to spend the night thinking of her anyway.

Hours pass, and she awakes with a sharp intake of breath. There's a moment when she's not sure where she is, and then she sees his silhouette in the low light. Just that simple shadow makes her sigh with relief. He's still here, he hasn't gone.

She slips one toe out of the covers, still pleasantly surprised to discover this place is warm enough she doesn't really need slippers. A moment later she's disappearing into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind her. When she's done, she emerges and stands in the door, just watching him for a long moment.

She doesn't want to push the issue. But Alex knows about long nights spent in front of the television, eventually falling asleep on the couch. Before she can second guess herself, she's pulling a throw out of the wardrobe and crossing to him, draping it around his shoulders from behind the sofa.

She doesn't say anything, just leans down and brush a kiss over his cheek. And then turns to go back to bed.

It's a sweet gesture. And it's that hour of the night when he's struggling to stay awake, and too scared to try and sleep.

When she turns away, he reaches a hand up and catches her wrist. Without looking at her, he gives a gentle tug on it. He'd like her to stay, if she wants to.

She stops, and turns, catching his hand in hers, squeezing his fingers hard. Maybe he can see her swallow in the soft glow of the television.

It feels like something, just this small gesture of him reaching for her.

Her feet are quiet on the rug, and it only takes a few steps to round the sofa, moving to take her place in the crook of his arm.

'Does it talk to you, too?'

'...no?'

What?

'Why, s'that what it did with you?'

She fits comfortably against his side. He reckons he could get used to that.

She nods, curling her feet beneath her. She leans her head back against his shoulder, her hand lightly resting on his side.

'All sorts of bizarre things. Images. Little skits from children's programmes. Snippets of the original Top Gear.'

She turns her head to look at him.

'That's where you heard about the Quattro, isn't it? On Top Gear?'

'Don' know. Probably.'

He tries to think, but things aren't all that clear.

'Might have been here, actually. But I wouldn' remember that. I saw it here ten year ago.'

He sounds sad. He's really going to miss that car.

'You saw it here?'

Her brow furrows.

'What, on the lawn by the lake?'

Knowing the way he drives? It's really not that much of a stretch.

'Nah, in the garage. I went down to take the Cortina out an' saw it. I didn' know it'd end up mine, but I knew I fancied it as soon as I saw it.'

He picks the remote up, and starts to flick through channels. Maybe he's looking for cars.

'Didn' wake you up, did I?'

She didn't know this place had a garage. How interesting.

'No.' Her voice is quiet, drowsy.

Her eyes track the motion on the screen, and somewhere, there's the niggling thought that he might remember her here as well. And that's not the best memory, she thinks.

'I rarely sleep through the night in one go, even after I've shared a few bottles of wine with you. Still having the dreams?'

It's a gentle question, but one she can't avoid asking.

There's a long hesitation, and the hand not resting on her hip fiddles with his lighter, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

'Dunno,' he says, at last.

'Wasn' going to give them the chance.'

He knows he has to give in eventually, but it doesn't have to be now.

She hums, and nods again. Her eyes close, and she just drifts for a bit, listening to the sound of his breath and the lid of his lighter clicking open and shut, open and shut.

'Wouldn't it be lovely if we could say to them -- the dreams or the subconscious or what have you -- if we could say, "Thank you ever so much for the instant replay. I wasn't sure I got all the tiny details about the -- that moment -- the first hundred or so times, but I think I've got it now. Thanks ever so, please just stop."'

She doesn't raise her voice, but there's a certain bitter determination beneath the surface.

'I mean, it's not like it's helping, not in the least.'

She has all the clinical explanations for it, but they seem pale and thin in light of the truth.

He chuffs quietly and sets the lighter down, though his fingers stay on it.

'Yeah, that'd be nice.'

Another hesitation, because he doesn't want to talk about this and he doesn't want to look weak, but he does want to know.

'They don' go away, then? I mean...they went away for the others, if they had 'em at all. Have you seen it since...y'know.'

Actually dying.

She looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

'What, since I've been here?' A frown forms as she considers it. 'No? But then, it was tapering off since I got back from...' She waves a hand dismissively, not wanting to bring up the shooting again. 'I don't know if they ever go away entirely, but either you accept it, or it drives you right out of your mind.'

There were days at Fenchurch East when she felt mad as a bag of bees. She's still not one hundred percent certain she's not.

'I think it helps to know you're not mad, that something terrible really did happen. I think, going through almost losing Shaz, I think that helped me. Because while she was lying there in hospital, I talked to her. I told her everything. All of it.'

'Differen' though, isn' it?'

He shifts uncomfortably, but this isn't something that should be avoided.

'Bein' reminded when you were in my place, an' here where stuff's...normal.'

Here, it's just trauma. Not a fight to remember an awful truth.

'It don' matter.'

'It does matter, because it's not different. Not in the slightest. Your mind is your own, regardless of where you are.' She's not nearly drunk enough to discuss the nature of reality and perception, but this is familiar territory for her.

'I don't think I've had the most vivid of memories of that day recently because I've been more focused on you. But it's still there. I can feel it, like a toothache, only in the back of my thoughts. It's a part of me that will always be there.'

'I didn't mean it didn't matter you were seein' stuff.'

He picks the lighter up, and snaps it open. And shut.

And open. His voice is quiet when he adds,

'You don' have to focus on me. I'll be fine once I've gone home. It's you that has t'live with it, if you stay here.'

Choosing that is far braver than any option he's facing, he reckons.

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