fic: walking in your landscape (homeland, brody/carrie)
Title: walking in your landscape
Fandom: Homeland
Pairing: Brody/Carrie
Rating: R
Summary: a manic pastiche? IDK
Notes: Written for this prompt: Brody/Carrie, Homeland, just cause you feel it doesn't mean it's there over at falseeeyelashes a festive fucking ficathon. Spoilerish through episode 11.
walking in your landscape
...red-orange-red-short-perfect-for-pulling-her-fingers-through, his hair, she could write poems, epic stanzas to his hair, the perfect pale constellations of his freckles, the fall of his eyelashes as he closed his eyes and moved, stuttered, shook inside her...
...she can close her eyes and see them perfectly, trace the lines with her fingers, a single finger, a fingernail, an invisible pen to chart the pale treacherous seas of his skin...
...bruises fade to yellow, they start out purple-black, don't they, the blood escapes from its pathways, is trapped under the skin, changes the map, fades across the rainbow to green-yellow-nothing....
...the scars are a map, too, data fading away into invisible, but not irrelevant, no, no, the scars are still something and the bruises and the freckles and his eyes, it's all information, important, pertinent...
...inscrutable...
Fucking Brody. Drunk, fucking Brody. Fuck, she should have kept it drunk. Why did sober matter so much? Now she remembers everything, the tiny scraping details, not just bodies moving in a backseat, fucking in a backseat. No, she had to go and fuck him sober, in a bed, make love with her eyes open and lies stuck in her throat. Fucking Brody.
And now they've got her. He's got her. Trapped. She didn't tell. He told. Stay right there. And she did, as if she didn't believe what she already knew about herself: she will always be alone.
Bad gut.
Blue? Are his eyes blue? Green? God, why can't she remember? Is it important? The colors mean something. It's a timeline. The bruises, the scars, the pains, losses, everything, it's all important. It's bigger. Not just Walker.
Fucking Brody, looked her in the eye. Lied. Such righteous indignation. She should have seen it, known it. If only fucking someone meant you knew them. Wooden table scraping under her fingers, lies wrapped up in earnest truths and emotional confessions right in front of her but hidden anyway.
She fucked him, that's where she went wrong.
She's missed something. Again. She can't miss anything again. Can't let it happen. It's right there, in front of her, she's sure of it. So fucking sure that maybe she's wrong.
...she's floating, they floated, in the bed in the cabin in the woods by the lake, in the bed, red like the wine they didn't drink, and the trees are green and the ground is dirt, is brown, is yellow, it's in the ground, it's in his skin, everything she's looking for is hidden in his skin...
Fandom: Homeland
Pairing: Brody/Carrie
Rating: R
Summary: a manic pastiche? IDK
Notes: Written for this prompt: Brody/Carrie, Homeland, just cause you feel it doesn't mean it's there over at falseeeyelashes a festive fucking ficathon. Spoilerish through episode 11.
walking in your landscape
...red-orange-red-short-perfect-for-pulling-her-fingers-through, his hair, she could write poems, epic stanzas to his hair, the perfect pale constellations of his freckles, the fall of his eyelashes as he closed his eyes and moved, stuttered, shook inside her...
...she can close her eyes and see them perfectly, trace the lines with her fingers, a single finger, a fingernail, an invisible pen to chart the pale treacherous seas of his skin...
...bruises fade to yellow, they start out purple-black, don't they, the blood escapes from its pathways, is trapped under the skin, changes the map, fades across the rainbow to green-yellow-nothing....
...the scars are a map, too, data fading away into invisible, but not irrelevant, no, no, the scars are still something and the bruises and the freckles and his eyes, it's all information, important, pertinent...
...inscrutable...
Fucking Brody. Drunk, fucking Brody. Fuck, she should have kept it drunk. Why did sober matter so much? Now she remembers everything, the tiny scraping details, not just bodies moving in a backseat, fucking in a backseat. No, she had to go and fuck him sober, in a bed, make love with her eyes open and lies stuck in her throat. Fucking Brody.
And now they've got her. He's got her. Trapped. She didn't tell. He told. Stay right there. And she did, as if she didn't believe what she already knew about herself: she will always be alone.
Bad gut.
Blue? Are his eyes blue? Green? God, why can't she remember? Is it important? The colors mean something. It's a timeline. The bruises, the scars, the pains, losses, everything, it's all important. It's bigger. Not just Walker.
Fucking Brody, looked her in the eye. Lied. Such righteous indignation. She should have seen it, known it. If only fucking someone meant you knew them. Wooden table scraping under her fingers, lies wrapped up in earnest truths and emotional confessions right in front of her but hidden anyway.
She fucked him, that's where she went wrong.
She's missed something. Again. She can't miss anything again. Can't let it happen. It's right there, in front of her, she's sure of it. So fucking sure that maybe she's wrong.
...she's floating, they floated, in the bed in the cabin in the woods by the lake, in the bed, red like the wine they didn't drink, and the trees are green and the ground is dirt, is brown, is yellow, it's in the ground, it's in his skin, everything she's looking for is hidden in his skin...