RPF: Slow Burn
Title: Slow Burn
Characters: Wentworth Miller III, Sarah Wayne Callies
Word Count: Really short. Shorter than a cup of coffee.
Rating: PG
Author's Note: I wrote this at work. Pfft. Should have done something more productive. Whatever. Woke up with the words, "And so on the last day, he kisses her." So I wrote this; I wanted to do something that would make me happy. If you don't like this sort of fic, please scroll on by. And if you do, hope this makes you happy, too. I am incredibly rusty, not the world's greatest writer, and just wanted to write something without overthinking it to death. So please be gentle. *g*
For someone who loves a married woman, he thinks of her with a surprising amount of calm. He knows with a rock-hard certainty she will never be his. So when he looks at her, at the curves and light all meant for another man, he does not argue and rail against the universe, does not question the justice of it all. He drinks her in, takes what he can. (Close quarters are preferable; the infirmary set is best).
Here is the thing, though, about long wordless stares: she must find them, therefore him, crazy. Outwardly he gets the close-friend treatment, the easygoing banter, the brief bright smile, the light meaningless contact of hand on arm. Yet here is the thing with Sarah as well: if you keep your hands in your pants, she will feign ignorance. Think the heat in your eyes was just a trick of the light.
Perhaps it does not help that he has always seemed quietly composed. That he sits during breaks coolly talking to her even as he has the most salacious thoughts involving her long legs in his bed. That he can do that and yet, since she chooses to go home to another man, get another pair of legs to share his bed hours later.
He makes changes to the script one day and finds that she has joined in the effort, with a seriousness to match his. Only a loon would liken that to foreplay, would find completion in a staged kiss under hot lights in front of a dozen people.
And so on the last day, because he is a crazy, shameless bastard with nothing to lose, he kisses her. She is looking at a bowl of strawberries and saying, “You know, when I was pregnant, I could never eat those-“ and then he is leaning over, just like that-folding over her like her husband isn’t a trailer away and he has all the time in the world-taking what he can for one last time. There is no mad rush of blood in his ears, no surge of heat or fear. She tastes of coffee and gum. He pulls away and the shock is full on her face, and even then all he feels is quiet satisfaction, as though he’s settled a long tedious argument. That’s it, he thinks, I have officially become the biggest idiot on the face of the earth.
He watches for a while as she struggles for composure, her beautiful mouth opening and closing around half-formed words, and then it hits him. He does have something to lose; it’s slipping away right before his eyes. And so he does the only thing left for a crazy, shameless bastard to do.
He lifts his hands to her face, prays for a miracle and kisses her again. Even then his fear does not rise to the surface, surprising even himself. Her hand is on his chest, maybe to push him away, but for a second he can pretend, within that desperate limbo between gesture and consequence, that it is merely resting on his heart.
Continuation: Not a mistake, but a goodbye
Characters: Wentworth Miller III, Sarah Wayne Callies
Word Count: Really short. Shorter than a cup of coffee.
Rating: PG
Author's Note: I wrote this at work. Pfft. Should have done something more productive. Whatever. Woke up with the words, "And so on the last day, he kisses her." So I wrote this; I wanted to do something that would make me happy. If you don't like this sort of fic, please scroll on by. And if you do, hope this makes you happy, too. I am incredibly rusty, not the world's greatest writer, and just wanted to write something without overthinking it to death. So please be gentle. *g*
For someone who loves a married woman, he thinks of her with a surprising amount of calm. He knows with a rock-hard certainty she will never be his. So when he looks at her, at the curves and light all meant for another man, he does not argue and rail against the universe, does not question the justice of it all. He drinks her in, takes what he can. (Close quarters are preferable; the infirmary set is best).
Here is the thing, though, about long wordless stares: she must find them, therefore him, crazy. Outwardly he gets the close-friend treatment, the easygoing banter, the brief bright smile, the light meaningless contact of hand on arm. Yet here is the thing with Sarah as well: if you keep your hands in your pants, she will feign ignorance. Think the heat in your eyes was just a trick of the light.
Perhaps it does not help that he has always seemed quietly composed. That he sits during breaks coolly talking to her even as he has the most salacious thoughts involving her long legs in his bed. That he can do that and yet, since she chooses to go home to another man, get another pair of legs to share his bed hours later.
He makes changes to the script one day and finds that she has joined in the effort, with a seriousness to match his. Only a loon would liken that to foreplay, would find completion in a staged kiss under hot lights in front of a dozen people.
And so on the last day, because he is a crazy, shameless bastard with nothing to lose, he kisses her. She is looking at a bowl of strawberries and saying, “You know, when I was pregnant, I could never eat those-“ and then he is leaning over, just like that-folding over her like her husband isn’t a trailer away and he has all the time in the world-taking what he can for one last time. There is no mad rush of blood in his ears, no surge of heat or fear. She tastes of coffee and gum. He pulls away and the shock is full on her face, and even then all he feels is quiet satisfaction, as though he’s settled a long tedious argument. That’s it, he thinks, I have officially become the biggest idiot on the face of the earth.
He watches for a while as she struggles for composure, her beautiful mouth opening and closing around half-formed words, and then it hits him. He does have something to lose; it’s slipping away right before his eyes. And so he does the only thing left for a crazy, shameless bastard to do.
He lifts his hands to her face, prays for a miracle and kisses her again. Even then his fear does not rise to the surface, surprising even himself. Her hand is on his chest, maybe to push him away, but for a second he can pretend, within that desperate limbo between gesture and consequence, that it is merely resting on his heart.
Continuation: Not a mistake, but a goodbye