My first post on this community :)
Title: Fire
Author: sage_katari
Rating: PG-13(?)
Pairing: Ethan/Callen
Warnings: old trauma, angst with a happy filling
Summary: A little story about shower loving. And fire.
It's 2 a.m. and something is burning.
The smell of smoke wakes Callen up from his twisted dreams about gnarled limbs and broken tree branches. With a dream like that, he isn't particularly opposed to being pulled from it and into the realm of consciousness.
Except, something is on fire.
Black smoke invades his bedroom with the persistence of a deadly virus, and it rises to the ceiling with little means of escaping.
He wonders how much he's inhaled as he dives from his bed and onto his soft carpeting. Was his carpet always blue? He could've sworn it was supposed to be boring beige. His window curtains were also supposed to have a cross-hatched pattern on them, not the spiraling design they wear now.
He suddenly realizes he must have inhaled more than he'd thought, if he was beginning to have hallucinations. His vision is even blurring around the edges.
Why is there a fire in his apartment? He'd been in a deep, if disturbing sleep, and he'd certainly checked the stove before going to bed. He's always extra careful like that.
Thinking of which, where is Ethan? It's 2 a.m., and Ethan should've been here, in bed with him, sleeping on the left side as he always did. Ethan was on a week of paid leave after that nasty case with the scythe murderer. He and Ethan planned a romantic if laid back week together, with no interruptions from work or friends.
But it is very clear that he's alone in the bedroom.
Coughing as the smoke thickens, he starts to crawl. Crawl towards any escape he can think of. The obvious answer is the door, but a chance glance from the cradle of his arms he's used to protect his face shows him that the door is a picture right out of a Hollywood horror film. It's literally falling on top of itself as the fire devours any flammable objects in its path.
The window, then, he thinks as he turns his crawl to the single window in his bedroom. Pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose, he hopes it's enough to prevent smoke poisoning until he can find a way out.
In his strangely calm panic, his mind can't help but fly back to the mystery of Ethan's whereabouts. The tall, handsome, super-slick detective with a good sense of humor despite his otherwise morbid career. That's what had always drawn him to Ethan, that impeccable personality.
But he's worried, now, and wondering if Ethan is okay, if Ethan is hurt somewhere in the house, and oh god he didn't know what he'd ever do if something happened to Ethan, which was why he really hated Ethan's job-
Oh. Suddenly, the memory overpowers the lightheaded feeling from breathing in smoke, and he remembers.
Ethan walked out last night. Ethan, who was sick of all the bullshit, of Callen's constant worrying and emotional fits. After the scythe killer incident, Callen had finally cracked. He'd laid it all out on the table for Ethan, that Ethan take on less dangerous cases or lose Callen altogether, because Callen couldn't handle it anymore, couldn't handle the fear.
He had enough problems on his own, without always having to wonder if his lover was actually late or had been shot to death by his target.
And Ethan had merely stared him down, asked him if he was serious, to which he'd quite snootily replied, yes of course he was serious; why would he joke about something like that? Then Ethan had packed a duffel bag of clothes and stomped out of the apartment in ten minutes flat.
The memory brings fresh tears to his eyes, and he tells himself it's just the smoke, as he slides up to the windows and uses his last dregs of strength to yank it open, only to remember…
Shit. The bars. Of course, the fucking bars! How could he forget? The landlord of his apartment building had had the iron security bars installed last week on all of the first floor apartments, supposedly to prevent theft. Well, this preventative measure would end up being the death of him, literally, he thinks with a dry grain of humor he doesn't have.
So the door is blocked, the window is barred, and his cell phone had been left in Ethan's car yesterday. He'd been planning on picking it up in the morning, driving to Ethan's lake house and getting on his knees to grovel, to apologize for his harsh words, to beg for Ethan to take him back.
Looks like that isn't going to happen now, he realizes with despair. Funny, how these life and death situations can force a guy to realize how much he had before he said stupid things and lost it all.
The fire spreads faster after it passes his bedroom door, and he huddles on the ground in an attempt to protect himself, even as he knows it's hopeless. Firefighters could never get to him in time. Ethan is thirty miles away at the lake house they were supposed to spend the week at. Together.
He's gasping now, and the pain comes from so many places, tangible and not, that he welcomes death to take him, because a life without Ethan isn't worth much anyway, and-
"Callen! Callen, wake up!" a familiar voice is suddenly shouting in his ear. Screaming, more like, because it's far too loud and he really wants to just sink back into that dark, lonely place, where he doesn't have to feel the hurt and rejection anymore.
But the voice is persistent, and a short while later Callen's eyes snap open as someone grabs his shoulders and begins shaking him hard.
Then he's brought back to the present with an all too repetitive awareness. The voice is whispering, "Callen, it's a nightmare. It's been three years since then. No one is out to get you. I love you," and everything seems to swim into hard focus.
Ethan cradles Callen's face in his hands as though he could break with the simplest word or gesture. It's highly annoying, but he supposes that if he'd really been revisiting his mind's most popular nightmare, he probably doesn't look too fine and dandy.
Nor does he feel particularly well, as was always the case after this particular nightmare. Yes, it had been three years since the day Ethan had left, the day the scythe murderer's accomplice had pursued a last crime of arson against the lead detective in revenge for her fellow killer. Only, the accomplice couldn't have known that Ethan spent the night away.
Ethan had saved him, in the end. He'd flown to the rescue like some courageous superhero with firemen in tow, dragging Callen from the burning building like a scene right out of a comic book.
Too bad the knowledge of his current safety doesn't rid him of that putrid smell of smoke. He tastes it, smells it, after every recurrence of the nightmare, ruining his palate for days. It's psychological, his therapist says, and Callen knows Ethan is a saint for putting up with him.
Dragging Callen close into a tight embrace, Ethan whispers soothing nothings in his ear and kisses his neck in a loving motion. It does little to actually calm him, because the smell still seems so real, but it comforts him in a familiar way, reminding him that he's here, in Ethan's arms, not in their old apartment with the beige carpet and cross-hatched curtains. They're in their new condo, with the blue carpet he'd seen in his dream, and a fancy spiral pattern on the curtains shrouding the glass doors to their open balcony.
Still, the smell.
Ethan understands him in a way no one else does, in a way no one else ever will. "You need a shower. I bought some more of that vanilla pomegranate body wash you like so much."
Callen sits up with Ethan's help, the rush and trembling brought on by adrenaline too much for his body to cope with. He walks to the master shower as quickly as he dares, which is really a snail's pace at best, but Ethan is endlessly patient with him.
Ethan pulls his pajama bottoms off for him, and then removes his own as well, before turning the faucets to somewhere in between hot and warm and nudging them both into the shower. Callen can no longer imagine a shower without Ethan there. The only time they don't shower together these days is when it's absolutely impossible, usually when Ethan is at work, and Callen is forced to grab a five-minute wash.
It's been three years, and Ethan no longer cringes and winces and barrels into boundless apologies upon sight of Callen's arms, scarred with the remnants of burns. It's not too terrible, really, and honestly, they both know it could've been worse.
Plus, it isn't Ethan's fault, not at all, and Callen is fairly sure he's finally made Ethan realize that.
Because the first few months when Callen was in the hospital and Ethan was professing his remorse in every possible way and manner, Callen had wondered day after day if Ethan was doing everything out of guilt. Ethan had always been the overly-honorable sort, after all. It went right along with his crime-fighting gene.
The years of devotion, however, proved Ethan's legitimacy more than any gift or declaration ever could. Callen had been a nasty handful for a long time afterwards, even he'd admit it, and Ethan had stuck with him every step of the way.
He pulls his thoughts from reverie as strong hands smooth down his back, rubbing the body wash into his skin, erasing the smell of smoke that doesn't exist. He always tells Ethan to buy the vanilla pomegranate not because he's in particularly in love with the scent, but more because he loves the way it feels beneath Ethan's fingers when they slide along his skin.
Tilting his head up in askance, he's greeted with a familiar press of lips and an interested grope along his backside. Pressing himself closer, he wraps his scarred arms around Ethan's neck and deepens the kiss in approval, spurring Ethan into a more aggressive approach, now that he knows Callen is going to be okay.
But how could Callen not be okay, when he has Ethan there to take care of him? Ethan, who'd already decided to lighten his caseload as soon as he'd left the apartment that long ago night, who accepted Callen for all his faults, from his worrying to his nightmares to the light case of obsessive compulsive disorder that only a traumatic experience could create.
"It was just a dream," he says breathily between kisses, as Ethan's hands grip his thighs, pulling him farther up so they're almost at eye level.
"Just a dream," Ethan reiterates back, in that same panting voice as they rub against each other in wonderfully delightful ways, repeating a daily process that's more a daily expression of their everlasting affection, their lifelong commitment, their feelings which overwhelm them at times and at others leave them only wanting more.
Love wouldn't be such a weighty word any other way.
Author: sage_katari
Rating: PG-13(?)
Pairing: Ethan/Callen
Warnings: old trauma, angst with a happy filling
Summary: A little story about shower loving. And fire.
It's 2 a.m. and something is burning.
The smell of smoke wakes Callen up from his twisted dreams about gnarled limbs and broken tree branches. With a dream like that, he isn't particularly opposed to being pulled from it and into the realm of consciousness.
Except, something is on fire.
Black smoke invades his bedroom with the persistence of a deadly virus, and it rises to the ceiling with little means of escaping.
He wonders how much he's inhaled as he dives from his bed and onto his soft carpeting. Was his carpet always blue? He could've sworn it was supposed to be boring beige. His window curtains were also supposed to have a cross-hatched pattern on them, not the spiraling design they wear now.
He suddenly realizes he must have inhaled more than he'd thought, if he was beginning to have hallucinations. His vision is even blurring around the edges.
Why is there a fire in his apartment? He'd been in a deep, if disturbing sleep, and he'd certainly checked the stove before going to bed. He's always extra careful like that.
Thinking of which, where is Ethan? It's 2 a.m., and Ethan should've been here, in bed with him, sleeping on the left side as he always did. Ethan was on a week of paid leave after that nasty case with the scythe murderer. He and Ethan planned a romantic if laid back week together, with no interruptions from work or friends.
But it is very clear that he's alone in the bedroom.
Coughing as the smoke thickens, he starts to crawl. Crawl towards any escape he can think of. The obvious answer is the door, but a chance glance from the cradle of his arms he's used to protect his face shows him that the door is a picture right out of a Hollywood horror film. It's literally falling on top of itself as the fire devours any flammable objects in its path.
The window, then, he thinks as he turns his crawl to the single window in his bedroom. Pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose, he hopes it's enough to prevent smoke poisoning until he can find a way out.
In his strangely calm panic, his mind can't help but fly back to the mystery of Ethan's whereabouts. The tall, handsome, super-slick detective with a good sense of humor despite his otherwise morbid career. That's what had always drawn him to Ethan, that impeccable personality.
But he's worried, now, and wondering if Ethan is okay, if Ethan is hurt somewhere in the house, and oh god he didn't know what he'd ever do if something happened to Ethan, which was why he really hated Ethan's job-
Oh. Suddenly, the memory overpowers the lightheaded feeling from breathing in smoke, and he remembers.
Ethan walked out last night. Ethan, who was sick of all the bullshit, of Callen's constant worrying and emotional fits. After the scythe killer incident, Callen had finally cracked. He'd laid it all out on the table for Ethan, that Ethan take on less dangerous cases or lose Callen altogether, because Callen couldn't handle it anymore, couldn't handle the fear.
He had enough problems on his own, without always having to wonder if his lover was actually late or had been shot to death by his target.
And Ethan had merely stared him down, asked him if he was serious, to which he'd quite snootily replied, yes of course he was serious; why would he joke about something like that? Then Ethan had packed a duffel bag of clothes and stomped out of the apartment in ten minutes flat.
The memory brings fresh tears to his eyes, and he tells himself it's just the smoke, as he slides up to the windows and uses his last dregs of strength to yank it open, only to remember…
Shit. The bars. Of course, the fucking bars! How could he forget? The landlord of his apartment building had had the iron security bars installed last week on all of the first floor apartments, supposedly to prevent theft. Well, this preventative measure would end up being the death of him, literally, he thinks with a dry grain of humor he doesn't have.
So the door is blocked, the window is barred, and his cell phone had been left in Ethan's car yesterday. He'd been planning on picking it up in the morning, driving to Ethan's lake house and getting on his knees to grovel, to apologize for his harsh words, to beg for Ethan to take him back.
Looks like that isn't going to happen now, he realizes with despair. Funny, how these life and death situations can force a guy to realize how much he had before he said stupid things and lost it all.
The fire spreads faster after it passes his bedroom door, and he huddles on the ground in an attempt to protect himself, even as he knows it's hopeless. Firefighters could never get to him in time. Ethan is thirty miles away at the lake house they were supposed to spend the week at. Together.
He's gasping now, and the pain comes from so many places, tangible and not, that he welcomes death to take him, because a life without Ethan isn't worth much anyway, and-
"Callen! Callen, wake up!" a familiar voice is suddenly shouting in his ear. Screaming, more like, because it's far too loud and he really wants to just sink back into that dark, lonely place, where he doesn't have to feel the hurt and rejection anymore.
But the voice is persistent, and a short while later Callen's eyes snap open as someone grabs his shoulders and begins shaking him hard.
Then he's brought back to the present with an all too repetitive awareness. The voice is whispering, "Callen, it's a nightmare. It's been three years since then. No one is out to get you. I love you," and everything seems to swim into hard focus.
Ethan cradles Callen's face in his hands as though he could break with the simplest word or gesture. It's highly annoying, but he supposes that if he'd really been revisiting his mind's most popular nightmare, he probably doesn't look too fine and dandy.
Nor does he feel particularly well, as was always the case after this particular nightmare. Yes, it had been three years since the day Ethan had left, the day the scythe murderer's accomplice had pursued a last crime of arson against the lead detective in revenge for her fellow killer. Only, the accomplice couldn't have known that Ethan spent the night away.
Ethan had saved him, in the end. He'd flown to the rescue like some courageous superhero with firemen in tow, dragging Callen from the burning building like a scene right out of a comic book.
Too bad the knowledge of his current safety doesn't rid him of that putrid smell of smoke. He tastes it, smells it, after every recurrence of the nightmare, ruining his palate for days. It's psychological, his therapist says, and Callen knows Ethan is a saint for putting up with him.
Dragging Callen close into a tight embrace, Ethan whispers soothing nothings in his ear and kisses his neck in a loving motion. It does little to actually calm him, because the smell still seems so real, but it comforts him in a familiar way, reminding him that he's here, in Ethan's arms, not in their old apartment with the beige carpet and cross-hatched curtains. They're in their new condo, with the blue carpet he'd seen in his dream, and a fancy spiral pattern on the curtains shrouding the glass doors to their open balcony.
Still, the smell.
Ethan understands him in a way no one else does, in a way no one else ever will. "You need a shower. I bought some more of that vanilla pomegranate body wash you like so much."
Callen sits up with Ethan's help, the rush and trembling brought on by adrenaline too much for his body to cope with. He walks to the master shower as quickly as he dares, which is really a snail's pace at best, but Ethan is endlessly patient with him.
Ethan pulls his pajama bottoms off for him, and then removes his own as well, before turning the faucets to somewhere in between hot and warm and nudging them both into the shower. Callen can no longer imagine a shower without Ethan there. The only time they don't shower together these days is when it's absolutely impossible, usually when Ethan is at work, and Callen is forced to grab a five-minute wash.
It's been three years, and Ethan no longer cringes and winces and barrels into boundless apologies upon sight of Callen's arms, scarred with the remnants of burns. It's not too terrible, really, and honestly, they both know it could've been worse.
Plus, it isn't Ethan's fault, not at all, and Callen is fairly sure he's finally made Ethan realize that.
Because the first few months when Callen was in the hospital and Ethan was professing his remorse in every possible way and manner, Callen had wondered day after day if Ethan was doing everything out of guilt. Ethan had always been the overly-honorable sort, after all. It went right along with his crime-fighting gene.
The years of devotion, however, proved Ethan's legitimacy more than any gift or declaration ever could. Callen had been a nasty handful for a long time afterwards, even he'd admit it, and Ethan had stuck with him every step of the way.
He pulls his thoughts from reverie as strong hands smooth down his back, rubbing the body wash into his skin, erasing the smell of smoke that doesn't exist. He always tells Ethan to buy the vanilla pomegranate not because he's in particularly in love with the scent, but more because he loves the way it feels beneath Ethan's fingers when they slide along his skin.
Tilting his head up in askance, he's greeted with a familiar press of lips and an interested grope along his backside. Pressing himself closer, he wraps his scarred arms around Ethan's neck and deepens the kiss in approval, spurring Ethan into a more aggressive approach, now that he knows Callen is going to be okay.
But how could Callen not be okay, when he has Ethan there to take care of him? Ethan, who'd already decided to lighten his caseload as soon as he'd left the apartment that long ago night, who accepted Callen for all his faults, from his worrying to his nightmares to the light case of obsessive compulsive disorder that only a traumatic experience could create.
"It was just a dream," he says breathily between kisses, as Ethan's hands grip his thighs, pulling him farther up so they're almost at eye level.
"Just a dream," Ethan reiterates back, in that same panting voice as they rub against each other in wonderfully delightful ways, repeating a daily process that's more a daily expression of their everlasting affection, their lifelong commitment, their feelings which overwhelm them at times and at others leave them only wanting more.
Love wouldn't be such a weighty word any other way.