Seconds to Bleed Dry
Title: Seconds to Bleed Dry
By: revenant_scribe
Genre: Het | Stanford fic | One-Shot
Pairing: Sam/Jessica
Rating: G
Word Count 675
Summary: One day, the world Sam has been working hard to build comes down around him.
By the time Sam realizes that it is not a dream, he is seated at the kitchen table, his hands in his lap, fingers twisted and interlinked and his mouth suddenly dry. He feels as if he is the only stable, unmoving thing in the entire universe.
He read once somewhere that the world ends not with a bang but a whimper. The realization comes that this is true of a lot more than the world. Love, for example. Because she stands there, her back pressed to the door of their student apartment - unable to even fully enter their own home - and her eyes dart and he can see the unshed tears in them, but it doesn’t stop her from speaking the way she is. If Sam could emit a single sound, he is certain it would indeed be a whimper.
“I’m sorry,” Jessica says.
He nods vaguely. Everything seems vague in that moment. “Why?” He manages to push the sound passed the lump in his throat, almost chokes with the effort.
Jessica slumps slightly against the door. “I honestly do not know. I just feel that it’s the right thing to do.”
Sam stays very still, wonders how this screaming, ripping, tearing, aching pain could possibly feel right to anyone. Wonders if this is something she has been thinking about often, tries to recollect their embraces, their quiet moments, for traces of this coming betrayal. He is at a loss. “If you feel it’s right.” A part of him wonders how he can be so accepting. In his pocket, the ring burns like molten led and he thinks it is fitting that it is in the breast pocket of his shirt - next to his heart. He had been planning to stay with her forever, and she had been thinking of walking away.
Jessica steps forward slightly, twists a key from her chain and places it quietly on the table before turning and heading for the door. “Running away?” Sam murmurs before he can stop himself. He is twisted-up inside, disbelieving and hurting, understanding and in complete shock. He thinks that if their positions were reversed he would want her to understand him, that it just felt right. At the same time, they have shared so many moments, so many important moments, that this seems like an unfitting end. Unsatisfying.
“I just,” she stops and turns to face him again. “I don’t know if you would be able to tell me to leave when the time is right.”
That seems like it speaks on many levels. Is she leaving him because she thinks he is preparing to leave her? Did she just mean she wasn’t sure if he could tell her to go when he needed to be on his own? That was unfair, she should know better. They were always entirely honest with each other, and never once had they had difficulties asking for space.
Now that she has stopped moving Sam thinks that there is nothing he has to say. Maybe it would be better if she would go because he is becoming aware of the distance between them, can smell her, imagines he can feel her beneath his fingertips. He digs the nails of his right hand into his palm and wraps his left hand around it - squeezes tight so the pressure increases. He wonders again -- is it is real or is it a fever dream?
“Would it be too much to ask for one last hug?” he wonders aloud.
“Oh Sam.” She crosses to him as he rises from his chair, and he holds her as tight as he can - but not too tight that she might think that he is reluctant to let go, even if he is. He tries not to breathe her in, tries not to memorize the sensation of her against him. It always felt as if their bodies were made for embraces, they fitted together so well.
After a moment, her head shifts against his shoulder. “I should go.”
“Okay,” he says, and lets her.
[end:]
By: revenant_scribe
Genre: Het | Stanford fic | One-Shot
Pairing: Sam/Jessica
Rating: G
Word Count 675
Summary: One day, the world Sam has been working hard to build comes down around him.
By the time Sam realizes that it is not a dream, he is seated at the kitchen table, his hands in his lap, fingers twisted and interlinked and his mouth suddenly dry. He feels as if he is the only stable, unmoving thing in the entire universe.
He read once somewhere that the world ends not with a bang but a whimper. The realization comes that this is true of a lot more than the world. Love, for example. Because she stands there, her back pressed to the door of their student apartment - unable to even fully enter their own home - and her eyes dart and he can see the unshed tears in them, but it doesn’t stop her from speaking the way she is. If Sam could emit a single sound, he is certain it would indeed be a whimper.
“I’m sorry,” Jessica says.
He nods vaguely. Everything seems vague in that moment. “Why?” He manages to push the sound passed the lump in his throat, almost chokes with the effort.
Jessica slumps slightly against the door. “I honestly do not know. I just feel that it’s the right thing to do.”
Sam stays very still, wonders how this screaming, ripping, tearing, aching pain could possibly feel right to anyone. Wonders if this is something she has been thinking about often, tries to recollect their embraces, their quiet moments, for traces of this coming betrayal. He is at a loss. “If you feel it’s right.” A part of him wonders how he can be so accepting. In his pocket, the ring burns like molten led and he thinks it is fitting that it is in the breast pocket of his shirt - next to his heart. He had been planning to stay with her forever, and she had been thinking of walking away.
Jessica steps forward slightly, twists a key from her chain and places it quietly on the table before turning and heading for the door. “Running away?” Sam murmurs before he can stop himself. He is twisted-up inside, disbelieving and hurting, understanding and in complete shock. He thinks that if their positions were reversed he would want her to understand him, that it just felt right. At the same time, they have shared so many moments, so many important moments, that this seems like an unfitting end. Unsatisfying.
“I just,” she stops and turns to face him again. “I don’t know if you would be able to tell me to leave when the time is right.”
That seems like it speaks on many levels. Is she leaving him because she thinks he is preparing to leave her? Did she just mean she wasn’t sure if he could tell her to go when he needed to be on his own? That was unfair, she should know better. They were always entirely honest with each other, and never once had they had difficulties asking for space.
Now that she has stopped moving Sam thinks that there is nothing he has to say. Maybe it would be better if she would go because he is becoming aware of the distance between them, can smell her, imagines he can feel her beneath his fingertips. He digs the nails of his right hand into his palm and wraps his left hand around it - squeezes tight so the pressure increases. He wonders again -- is it is real or is it a fever dream?
“Would it be too much to ask for one last hug?” he wonders aloud.
“Oh Sam.” She crosses to him as he rises from his chair, and he holds her as tight as he can - but not too tight that she might think that he is reluctant to let go, even if he is. He tries not to breathe her in, tries not to memorize the sensation of her against him. It always felt as if their bodies were made for embraces, they fitted together so well.
After a moment, her head shifts against his shoulder. “I should go.”
“Okay,” he says, and lets her.
[end:]