Fic: Hello Goodbye (AI RPF, David Cook/Carrie Underwood)
Title: Hello Goodbye
Author: empressearwig
Pairing/Fandom: David Cook/Carrie Underwood, Carrie Underwood/Mike Fisher; American Idol RPF
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1050
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is all for fun. This hasn't happened. Probably. Etc.
Summary: Her wedding is in August. She shows up on his doorstep in July.
Author's Notes: Comment fic prompted by summerstorm. Her prompt was the song "Hello Goodbye." The angst is her fault.
Her wedding is in August. She shows up on his doorstep in July.
When he gets home from the grocery store, Carrie's sitting on his front steps. He gets out of the car slowly, not really sure that this isn't a mirage. He blinks. She's still there, only now she's scrambling to her feet. He shuts the car door and stares. She's standing there in front of him, eyes hidden by dark sunglasses, her long blonde hair tucked up underneath a baseball cap. She slips off the sunglasses and scuffs the toe of one of her sneakers against the stone steps. She looks far too sad.
He finally manages to find his voice. "What are you doing here?"
The corners of her mouth turn up into a half smile. "I don't get a hello? I know your mother raised you better than that."
"Right," he says. "Hello." He takes a step forward, still half afraid that this is all in his head. "Now, what are you doing here?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "I was in town." She smiles again, only this time it reaches her eyes. "Don't I get a hug?"
He's lifting her off her feet five seconds later, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She feels delicate, almost fragile, like he could snap her in half without even meaning to. He doesn't remember her feeling like this before. She laughs, low in her throat, and he can feel the vibrations against his chest as she winds her arms around his neck. He buries his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, soap and flowers and something that he just knows as her. He never wants to let go. He knows that he has to.
He sets her back on her feet, takes a step back. He keeps a hand on her shoulder, reluctant to break the last connection. He smiles down at her, at a loss for what to say.
She smiles up at him. "Not that I'm not enjoying this, but aren't you going to invite me inside?"
He blinks. "Yes." He steps around her, unlocks the door, pushes it open. "Mi Casa es su Casa, and all that."
She laughs and walks inside, turning back when he doesn't follow. "Aren't you coming in?"
He smiles sheepishly. "I just remembered that I have groceries in the car." He wags a finger at her. "You, Miss Underwood, are distracting."
"David," she laughs, coming back outside. "Let me help."
"You're a guest," he protests, as she walks back to the car with him. "My mother really did teach me that you don't make guests lug in groceries."
She leans against the side of the car while he unlocks the trunk. "Well, my mother taught me that you don't turn down help when it's offered. You just smile and say 'Thank you, Carrie.'"
"Thank you, Carrie," he parrots, passing her a few of the bags. "That better?"
She bumps him with her hip before starting back towards the house. "Much."
He grabs the rest of the bags and hurries to catch up with her. "Learn that check from the husband to be?"
It's impossible to not notice how she stiffens, stiffens just a little. "He learned it from me," she says flippantly, but the tone of her voice is wrong, it's all wrong. "Where's the kitchen?" she asks. "I haven't been to your new place yet, remember?"
He lets her change the subject. "This way," he says, turning right down a hallway. "And yes, I remember. I was very sad you missed the housewarming." He glances back over his shoulder, sees her crack a smile. He turns back around and grins to himself.
"Housewarming, right," she snorts. "I didn't know that's what we were calling keggers these days."
He steps into the kitchen and sets his bags on the floor. "I'm very hurt by that accusation," he says, leaning back against counter. "We're civilized people."
She arches an eyebrow at him as she sets her bags down next to his. "By which you mean there were two kegs?"
"Three," he admits sheepishly. She laughs and he he grabs her hand without thinking. "None of that!"
Her laughter trails off, and she looks down at their joined hands. He starts to let go, but she twines their fingers together and steps closer so that she's standing right in front of him. She raises her eyes to his, and his breath catches in his throat. She's never looked at him like that before. He never thought she would.
"Carrie," he says, breathing her name out like a question. She moves just the smallest bit closer, so that they're pressed up against one another. She brings her other hand up to his face, her fingers tracing the curve of his jaw, his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into her hand. If this is all a dream he never wants to wake up.
She kisses him.
It's almost chaste, just a delicate brush of her lips against his. They stay that way, suspended, leaning against one another. He starts to pull back, but then she's changing the angle of the kiss, tangling her fingers in his hair. He wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He nips at her lower lip, soothes it with his tongue. They're still holding hands.
He doesn't know how long the kiss goes on. it could be could be seconds, it could be minutes. It feels like hours. He knows he doesn't want it to ever end.
She's the one that draws back first, leans her forehead against his. He can feel her ragged breath across his lips. "David," she says, and he can hear the regret laced through the syllables of his name.
He shakes his head. "Don't," he says.
She nods, steps back. She won't look at him. He doesn't let go of her hand. "I should go," she says, tugging at their joined fingers.
He holds on, determined to make her look up at him first. She does. He lets go.
She walks away from him, turning back in the doorway. Their eyes meet. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
He watches her leave and hears the door slam behind her. The ice cream melts in its bag.
***
Her wedding is in August. He sits in the fourth row.
She makes a beautiful bride.
Author: empressearwig
Pairing/Fandom: David Cook/Carrie Underwood, Carrie Underwood/Mike Fisher; American Idol RPF
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1050
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is all for fun. This hasn't happened. Probably. Etc.
Summary: Her wedding is in August. She shows up on his doorstep in July.
Author's Notes: Comment fic prompted by summerstorm. Her prompt was the song "Hello Goodbye." The angst is her fault.
Her wedding is in August. She shows up on his doorstep in July.
When he gets home from the grocery store, Carrie's sitting on his front steps. He gets out of the car slowly, not really sure that this isn't a mirage. He blinks. She's still there, only now she's scrambling to her feet. He shuts the car door and stares. She's standing there in front of him, eyes hidden by dark sunglasses, her long blonde hair tucked up underneath a baseball cap. She slips off the sunglasses and scuffs the toe of one of her sneakers against the stone steps. She looks far too sad.
He finally manages to find his voice. "What are you doing here?"
The corners of her mouth turn up into a half smile. "I don't get a hello? I know your mother raised you better than that."
"Right," he says. "Hello." He takes a step forward, still half afraid that this is all in his head. "Now, what are you doing here?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "I was in town." She smiles again, only this time it reaches her eyes. "Don't I get a hug?"
He's lifting her off her feet five seconds later, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She feels delicate, almost fragile, like he could snap her in half without even meaning to. He doesn't remember her feeling like this before. She laughs, low in her throat, and he can feel the vibrations against his chest as she winds her arms around his neck. He buries his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her, soap and flowers and something that he just knows as her. He never wants to let go. He knows that he has to.
He sets her back on her feet, takes a step back. He keeps a hand on her shoulder, reluctant to break the last connection. He smiles down at her, at a loss for what to say.
She smiles up at him. "Not that I'm not enjoying this, but aren't you going to invite me inside?"
He blinks. "Yes." He steps around her, unlocks the door, pushes it open. "Mi Casa es su Casa, and all that."
She laughs and walks inside, turning back when he doesn't follow. "Aren't you coming in?"
He smiles sheepishly. "I just remembered that I have groceries in the car." He wags a finger at her. "You, Miss Underwood, are distracting."
"David," she laughs, coming back outside. "Let me help."
"You're a guest," he protests, as she walks back to the car with him. "My mother really did teach me that you don't make guests lug in groceries."
She leans against the side of the car while he unlocks the trunk. "Well, my mother taught me that you don't turn down help when it's offered. You just smile and say 'Thank you, Carrie.'"
"Thank you, Carrie," he parrots, passing her a few of the bags. "That better?"
She bumps him with her hip before starting back towards the house. "Much."
He grabs the rest of the bags and hurries to catch up with her. "Learn that check from the husband to be?"
It's impossible to not notice how she stiffens, stiffens just a little. "He learned it from me," she says flippantly, but the tone of her voice is wrong, it's all wrong. "Where's the kitchen?" she asks. "I haven't been to your new place yet, remember?"
He lets her change the subject. "This way," he says, turning right down a hallway. "And yes, I remember. I was very sad you missed the housewarming." He glances back over his shoulder, sees her crack a smile. He turns back around and grins to himself.
"Housewarming, right," she snorts. "I didn't know that's what we were calling keggers these days."
He steps into the kitchen and sets his bags on the floor. "I'm very hurt by that accusation," he says, leaning back against counter. "We're civilized people."
She arches an eyebrow at him as she sets her bags down next to his. "By which you mean there were two kegs?"
"Three," he admits sheepishly. She laughs and he he grabs her hand without thinking. "None of that!"
Her laughter trails off, and she looks down at their joined hands. He starts to let go, but she twines their fingers together and steps closer so that she's standing right in front of him. She raises her eyes to his, and his breath catches in his throat. She's never looked at him like that before. He never thought she would.
"Carrie," he says, breathing her name out like a question. She moves just the smallest bit closer, so that they're pressed up against one another. She brings her other hand up to his face, her fingers tracing the curve of his jaw, his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into her hand. If this is all a dream he never wants to wake up.
She kisses him.
It's almost chaste, just a delicate brush of her lips against his. They stay that way, suspended, leaning against one another. He starts to pull back, but then she's changing the angle of the kiss, tangling her fingers in his hair. He wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He nips at her lower lip, soothes it with his tongue. They're still holding hands.
He doesn't know how long the kiss goes on. it could be could be seconds, it could be minutes. It feels like hours. He knows he doesn't want it to ever end.
She's the one that draws back first, leans her forehead against his. He can feel her ragged breath across his lips. "David," she says, and he can hear the regret laced through the syllables of his name.
He shakes his head. "Don't," he says.
She nods, steps back. She won't look at him. He doesn't let go of her hand. "I should go," she says, tugging at their joined fingers.
He holds on, determined to make her look up at him first. She does. He lets go.
She walks away from him, turning back in the doorway. Their eyes meet. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
He watches her leave and hears the door slam behind her. The ice cream melts in its bag.
***
Her wedding is in August. He sits in the fourth row.
She makes a beautiful bride.