Unaware That I'm Tearing You Asunder - (Kellerman, Sara)
Title: Unaware That I'm Tearing You Asunder
Author: Aspen Snow
Pairing: Kellerman, Sara
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He can fix this, maybe.
Author's Note: Kellerman owns my soul.
He fakes a breakdown in a church. He lets out a strangled, jerky sound that starts out as a laugh because this is ironic- this is funny. He chokes it back, consciously keeps his eyes from blinking, and when they start to water he covers his face with his hands and lets his shoulders shake.
This is what grief looks like, he knows.
She is sitting two pews over, her hands wrapped around her knees, her hair tucked behind her ears. He imagines her rocking back and forth- remembering and forgetting.
He sits up a little straighter, runs the palms of his hands over his face roughly, pushes his fingers through his hair. The movement is frantic and desperate and some kind of denial.
She'll recognize the gesture.
When he opens his eyes she is watching him. She runs a finger across her bottom lip, slow, back and forth. He wonders what she feels there.
This is how it starts.
*
He yells at her loudly, too loudly like he is on the edge of something dangerous. She thinks something self destructive, she thinks hysteria. She thinks she recognizes the way his foot taps against the floor unsteady and fast- too fast.
She sits down next to him, puts a hand on his knee. Her fingers are firm, almost warm through his jeans, and they still his movement.
"I can help you," she says and she means it. He knows this because he is in her apartment, on her couch. And he brought pie and she made popcorn and they're watching a movie that was a hit at the box office.
He'd never seen it, she was surprised. He ends up liking it and when this is over he thinks maybe he will buy it- and a DVD player, and a TV.
She turns to look at him- the ends of her hair brush across his bare forearm and it's like there is something crawling on his skin.
*
She covers her mouth when she laughs, it strikes him as unnatural and without thinking he reaches out and wraps his fingers around her wrist.
"Stop," he says. His thumb is pressed against her pulse and his training was never meant to explain what that meant here, now.
He lets her go, or she pulls away.
*
"I need more time," he says and there is a crack in his voice and a hitch in his breath that sounds a little bit like a plea. He blames it on bad reception.
There's no response; just a dial tone and he wants to throw his phone against a wall or into the river or off the roof of a building so he can watch it shatter.
*
He hasn't walked somewhere in years and with his hands in his pockets and people rushing by, time stretches and slows and he remembers that he always liked the way city air smelled- like smoke and fire.
From across the street he watches her pull keys out of her purse. If he called out her name now she would hear him. She'd turn around, put a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun- it's bright today. She'd smile, wave him across the street and invite him up.
He could fix this, maybe.
He's sweating in his suit and tie, it's making him itch. His fingers pull at the edges of his jacket, straightening and adjusting and none of this fits. Not the white clouds or the blue skies or the bright hot sun that makes her hair burn like something he can't look away from.
The door closes behind her and the moment is gone.
He breathes like he just remembered he was supposed to- fast and deep and greedy- and he tells himself it had to be this way.
*
When he sees her again he's wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He's got his hands on her knees, his fingers pressed into her and he can feel her trembling. He wants her to talk, he wants her to help him and it's like they've been here before.
But of course they haven't because she's tied to a chair, wrists red and raw and bleeding. And her hair sticks to her cheeks in dark clumps that are anything but the warm, soft kind of temptation he remembers.
"Go to hell," she says and it isn't a whisper, like he expects, it's loud and she looks right at him and he wonders where she gets the strength. He remembers her rocking back and forth, arms around her legs, eyes on her knees.
There's a deep red staining her too pale cheeks and her jaw is clenched and her breath shakes out of her and she is looking at him like he betrayed her.
She expected him to be good and that's new and different and just more. And he wants to smile when she fights her way out of the water, wants to smile because maybe he lets her.
But he doesn't, he isn't here for this.
*
He's on his back on the floor of a bathroom in a puddle of water- it's cold and it soaks his shirt. The skin on his chest is burning and numb and shrinking and ripping apart and doing a million other things that make him scream. He presses a hand to his chest, he can feel his fingers stick to flesh that is not quite burnt and he presses harder because he wants this to stop.
He has a gun, with a silencer. He could have shot her without anyone hearing, without anyone knowing. He could have shot her in the head, wrapped her up in a clear plastic tarp, stuffed her in the trunk when the sun went down and been done with it. He could have done that.
Instead he sits on a bed and changes channels and turns up the volume while she drowns in another room. This is what he does instead.
It's passive, maybe on purpose.
He watches her jump out of the window. He hears the impact- broken glass, bent metal, car alarm- and he thinks it's the pain that makes him pray that she isn't dead.
*
When he's got his gun pointed at them Michael looks at his brother like he is the last thing he wants to see. And he breathes like it hurts and clenches his fists and closes his eyes like this is all his fault.
He thinks he understands now how this man collects, demands loyalties.
"I can help you," he says and he lowers his gun and what he's really saying is you can help me. He thinks if he had said that to her that day on her couch, with the pie and the popcorn, she might have tried.
They believe him and they follow him maybe, probably because running is all they know how to do now.
"Have to find Sara," Michael says and he speaks in fragments, like the words are heavy, or a mantra.
He gets it.
It's funny, he thinks, the things men have in common.
Author: Aspen Snow
Pairing: Kellerman, Sara
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He can fix this, maybe.
Author's Note: Kellerman owns my soul.
He fakes a breakdown in a church. He lets out a strangled, jerky sound that starts out as a laugh because this is ironic- this is funny. He chokes it back, consciously keeps his eyes from blinking, and when they start to water he covers his face with his hands and lets his shoulders shake.
This is what grief looks like, he knows.
She is sitting two pews over, her hands wrapped around her knees, her hair tucked behind her ears. He imagines her rocking back and forth- remembering and forgetting.
He sits up a little straighter, runs the palms of his hands over his face roughly, pushes his fingers through his hair. The movement is frantic and desperate and some kind of denial.
She'll recognize the gesture.
When he opens his eyes she is watching him. She runs a finger across her bottom lip, slow, back and forth. He wonders what she feels there.
This is how it starts.
*
He yells at her loudly, too loudly like he is on the edge of something dangerous. She thinks something self destructive, she thinks hysteria. She thinks she recognizes the way his foot taps against the floor unsteady and fast- too fast.
She sits down next to him, puts a hand on his knee. Her fingers are firm, almost warm through his jeans, and they still his movement.
"I can help you," she says and she means it. He knows this because he is in her apartment, on her couch. And he brought pie and she made popcorn and they're watching a movie that was a hit at the box office.
He'd never seen it, she was surprised. He ends up liking it and when this is over he thinks maybe he will buy it- and a DVD player, and a TV.
She turns to look at him- the ends of her hair brush across his bare forearm and it's like there is something crawling on his skin.
*
She covers her mouth when she laughs, it strikes him as unnatural and without thinking he reaches out and wraps his fingers around her wrist.
"Stop," he says. His thumb is pressed against her pulse and his training was never meant to explain what that meant here, now.
He lets her go, or she pulls away.
*
"I need more time," he says and there is a crack in his voice and a hitch in his breath that sounds a little bit like a plea. He blames it on bad reception.
There's no response; just a dial tone and he wants to throw his phone against a wall or into the river or off the roof of a building so he can watch it shatter.
*
He hasn't walked somewhere in years and with his hands in his pockets and people rushing by, time stretches and slows and he remembers that he always liked the way city air smelled- like smoke and fire.
From across the street he watches her pull keys out of her purse. If he called out her name now she would hear him. She'd turn around, put a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun- it's bright today. She'd smile, wave him across the street and invite him up.
He could fix this, maybe.
He's sweating in his suit and tie, it's making him itch. His fingers pull at the edges of his jacket, straightening and adjusting and none of this fits. Not the white clouds or the blue skies or the bright hot sun that makes her hair burn like something he can't look away from.
The door closes behind her and the moment is gone.
He breathes like he just remembered he was supposed to- fast and deep and greedy- and he tells himself it had to be this way.
*
When he sees her again he's wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He's got his hands on her knees, his fingers pressed into her and he can feel her trembling. He wants her to talk, he wants her to help him and it's like they've been here before.
But of course they haven't because she's tied to a chair, wrists red and raw and bleeding. And her hair sticks to her cheeks in dark clumps that are anything but the warm, soft kind of temptation he remembers.
"Go to hell," she says and it isn't a whisper, like he expects, it's loud and she looks right at him and he wonders where she gets the strength. He remembers her rocking back and forth, arms around her legs, eyes on her knees.
There's a deep red staining her too pale cheeks and her jaw is clenched and her breath shakes out of her and she is looking at him like he betrayed her.
She expected him to be good and that's new and different and just more. And he wants to smile when she fights her way out of the water, wants to smile because maybe he lets her.
But he doesn't, he isn't here for this.
*
He's on his back on the floor of a bathroom in a puddle of water- it's cold and it soaks his shirt. The skin on his chest is burning and numb and shrinking and ripping apart and doing a million other things that make him scream. He presses a hand to his chest, he can feel his fingers stick to flesh that is not quite burnt and he presses harder because he wants this to stop.
He has a gun, with a silencer. He could have shot her without anyone hearing, without anyone knowing. He could have shot her in the head, wrapped her up in a clear plastic tarp, stuffed her in the trunk when the sun went down and been done with it. He could have done that.
Instead he sits on a bed and changes channels and turns up the volume while she drowns in another room. This is what he does instead.
It's passive, maybe on purpose.
He watches her jump out of the window. He hears the impact- broken glass, bent metal, car alarm- and he thinks it's the pain that makes him pray that she isn't dead.
*
When he's got his gun pointed at them Michael looks at his brother like he is the last thing he wants to see. And he breathes like it hurts and clenches his fists and closes his eyes like this is all his fault.
He thinks he understands now how this man collects, demands loyalties.
"I can help you," he says and he lowers his gun and what he's really saying is you can help me. He thinks if he had said that to her that day on her couch, with the pie and the popcorn, she might have tried.
They believe him and they follow him maybe, probably because running is all they know how to do now.
"Have to find Sara," Michael says and he speaks in fragments, like the words are heavy, or a mantra.
He gets it.
It's funny, he thinks, the things men have in common.