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Title: Same Day, Different Nightmare
Rating: NC-17
Summary: You don't know how much longer you can do this.
He's sleeping now, relaxed in your arms. You look down at him and you
sigh a little, seeing the tension lines that even slumber can't
entirely erase. When you rub your thumb over one of them, he nuzzles
into your touch absently, which you take as a good sign. At least in
sleep he stops fighting himself over this.
You woke up this morning a little bit after he'd left; you know it
wasn't long because his side of the bed was still warm and the clock
said it was only six-thirty. You decided to give him half an hour and
see if he'd come back; maybe he'd just gone out for more coffee, or
bagels, or something. But the clock hit seven and he wasn't back yet
and you knew, just *knew*, that he was out running again.
So you got out of bed and you pulled on your jeans and the first
T-shirt you saw (which happened to be one of his but that didn't
matter) and you shoved your feet into your sneakers and left. You knew
what route he'd take but you weren't sure where he'd end up. So you
stopped for coffee and waited by the park, knowing it was a gamble but
also knowing that ten miles was generally about as far as he got on
mornings like this. You've played this game enough times before to know
the rules.
And sure enough, you saw him. He was running hard, his shirt dark with
sweat and sticking to his body, aware of nothing but the physical
exertion of one foot after another. You wondered if you'd have to
follow him past the park this time, if he wasn't going to stop on his
own. You know better than to stop him when he's like this. You've
learned.
Your hand was on the door handle and you almost had it open when you
saw him stumble, but he pulled himself up and made it to the bench with
no signs of limping, so you held back. You watched him catch his breath
and stumble over to the bench and stretch out his legs, and you
breathed a sigh of relief that at least he wasn't *that* far gone.
You've had to rub cramps out of his legs before and it only makes this
worse for both of you.
He fell to his hands and knees and you knew he was throwing up, because
it's what he does. It's like he's trying to purge you from his body,
from his life. Hey, years of therapy growing up taught you a *few*
things, even if most of it was about how to bullshit the shrinks. You'd
hate to think your parents' money was entirely wasted--okay, maybe you
wouldn't, but that's neither here nor there. And while you want to go
to him and hold his head and give him a drink of water from the bottle
in the car, you can't. He'd only hate himself more if you did.
God, it was bad this time. He ended up on his side, shaking from the
dry heaves, and you bit back the tears and wondered how many times
you're going to have to go through this. How much more it's going to
take. You clenched your hand around your coffee cup and watched it
crumple in your fist and wished to God you knew what to do with him,
because you're terrified this isn't working, that one day he'll finally
walk away from you. And you can't, just *can't*, let him do that.
He pulled himself up and you saw him look around as the haze lifted
from his brain and he saw where he was. You had to smile at the grimace
he made when he realized how far he was from home. You wouldn't let him
walk the whole way home, of course, but he didn't know that. He thought
you were still asleep and for the moment, you were fine with that.
You let him walk about a mile, mile and a half, just to give him a
chance to cool down, before you pulled up next to him and told him to
get in. And he did and you drove home--because home is where he is,
now, and if that means you've all but moved from your apartment in
Georgetown to a house in Alexandria, then so be it.
Neither of you spoke on the way back. He was still too raw and you
didn't know what you'd say. So you drove home in silence and parked the
car and let him go upstairs and into the shower without you. Once the
water was running, you gave into the churning emotions inside you and
leaned against the wall, closing your eyes as tightly as you could to
keep the tears from falling.
You don't know how much longer you can do this, how many more times you
can bring him home and hold him and make love to him and try to show
him--again--what he means to you. You're afraid that one of these days
you just won't be able to do it anymore, but you know you can't stop
because it'll kill both of you if you leave. So you listened to the
water and bit back the tears and prayed that maybe this time it would
be enough. Maybe this time he'd finally be able to stop fighting.
When the water stopped, you went upstairs. You undressed and went into
the bathroom and took him by the hand, leading him into the bedroom. He
went docilely, letting you push him down on the bed, and he let you rub
out his back and his legs. You took your time, kneading out the knots,
the tension, trying to show him how much you wanted him with every
sweep of your hands over his skin. And when you were done, you kissed
the back of his neck and slid your hands up his legs and felt him
respond to you, the way he always does, and you thanked God that at
least you had this.
You don't think anyone's ever taken the time to learn his body the way
you have. You're absolutely certain no one's made him feel the way you
do. There's always that hint of surprise in his reactions, like he's
never expecting it to feel this way. And that alone is enough to make
you want to weep. How could no one ever have taught him to feel
pleasure like this? How could he have gone through his entire life
without learning his body the way he's studied yours?
He groaned when you slid into him and you felt him tremble when you
stretched out on top of him, pressing your whole body against
his--torso, legs, arms, your head tucked into his shoulder, fingers
laced through his. You wanted him to feel you, every inch of you,
inside him and on him and around him, as if your body could convince
him what your words can't.
You began to move, slowly and easily, not wanting to lose the
connection of your body against his. Not enough for either of you; just
enough for you both to feel it. It wasn't about orgasm--hell, you
didn't even think it was about sex, not right then. You just wanted him
to *feel* you and know you were there and weren't going to leave.
But your body had other ideas, as it so often does, and you couldn't
ignore them forever. So you began to move a little harder, a little
deeper inside him. And you slid your hands up to his wrists and gripped
them tight. *Mine*, you were saying, with your hold on his wrists and
your cock inside him, and it startled the hell out of you when he
moaned and pushed back against you, wordlessly pleading for more.
He'd never done that before, but then again, you'd never tried to claim
him like this before. You gave him what he wanted, your thrusts
becoming just that much harder, just that much *more*, until you felt
him getting close to coming. Your grip on his wrists tightened and you
kissed his throat, tongue flicking out over the pulse beating strong
and steady there. "Do it," you whispered against his skin, your body
moving strong and steady. "Come."
He gasped something you didn't quite understand and came with a groan,
his whole body shaking with the force of it. You couldn't hold back
anymore and you didn't want to try. You wanted him to know that he was
yours, that you had him and weren't going to let go. So you gave up on
everything but the need to *take*, over and over again, all but
pounding into him until your orgasm rushed through your body and you
groaned as you spilled yourself inside him.
Carefully, you pulled out of him, lying down next to him and gathering
him into your arms. Your chest pressed against his back, your wrapped
your arms around him, and you closed your eyes. But it didn't last--you
felt him tense, just that little bit, so you tightened your arms to try
and get him to relax. You wanted him warm and pliant and comfortable in
your arms, not thinking about how this was going to end in disaster.
And once again, he surprised you. He sighed a little and pressed
closer, tension seeping out of him like a punctured tire. You could
tell he was exhausted; his breathing was already starting to even out
and his whole body was lax and heavy against yours. You kissed his
throat, curling up around him as much as you could. "Sleep," you
whispered. "I'll keep you safe." Even as you said it, you knew you had
no idea how you'd do it. But you also knew you had to try.
He sighed a little, already drifting off. But you heard him whisper one
word before sleep completely dragged him under. Your name.
He's sleeping now, relaxed in your arms, and you hold him and look at
him and wonder how much longer the two of you can keep doing this.
Something has to give. Something's *going* to give, and you have no
idea what it'll be or when or if it'll tear you two apart for good. You
pray it won't, but you just don't know. All you can do right now is
hold him and keep watch over him as he sleeps in your arms.
Maybe this time it'll be enough. |
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