secret santa fic
It's the 28th here, so here you go;
I wrote for corliamat (though she probably guessed that ;P), she asked for-- Ry/Col. I would love and angsty piece with a happy Ry/Col ending. Preferably Colin-angst, caused by Ryan or someone else.
And I wrote;
Everything is quieter now.
They’ve all stopped.
Open mouths don’t scream; their lungs ripped of air, their blood vacuumed from veins. Even the protesting roar of the engine has stopped.
Nothing is left but the sickening pull of the fall.
_
”Are you afraid of dying, Ryan?”
The shrink is wearing an expression somewhere between patronizing and stoned that instinctively makes me want to hit him in the head with one of his own trophies. How do shrinks get these fucking things anyway? Ratio of crazies to non-crazies? How many people didn’t kill themselves this year?
”Ryan, did you hear me?” He pushes.
I rap my knuckles on the armchair. Real leather.
Overpaid pricks.
”I’m afraid of falling out of the sky in a huge tin of metal.” I say slowly, enunciating every word deliberately.
”So you think it’s the falling, not the dying that scares you?” he asks, not missing a beat.
I don’t answer him. I should have never told him about the dreams. I should have never let Greg talk me into this. Such a waste of time.
”You know, you have a better chance of dying in a car accident,” he states.
Everyone knows that, and I tell him so. Facts don’t fix phobias. Facts just make phobics more irritable.
”So,” he continues, “why do you think you feel safe in a car and not a plane?”
I stare at him coldly. “How many cars do you have that travel thousands of feet above the ground?’
He just stares right back at me; he’s expecting a better answer than that. I can feel my leg starting to jiggle up and down of it’s own accord, as if it’s about to jiggle me right out of the room, escape this overanalyzing bullshit.
The shrink opens his mouth to speak, but I’m faster and I cut him off.
”Look, are you going to hypnotize me or what?”
-
I go first.
I break from my seat, the belt snaps, I tumble, rushing sounds scream in my ears. I reach for something, anything to hold, but my hands only ever reach at air.
My palms are empty.
-
Colin looks unimpressed. Very unimpressed.
Granted, it is three am. And I just woke him up. His hair -what is left of it- is sticking up in small tufts. His eyes tiny, tired slits, squinting up at me.
”Sorry, I just. Couldn’t sleep.” It’s a lie, and it’s not even a very good one, but Colin accepts it anyway; takes a step backwards to let me past.
”Don’t worry, I was up.” He says, voice still heavy with sleep. “I was knitting.”
It doesn’t really occur to me until I’m in his flat, how selfish I’ve been.
It’s not anything blaringly obvious, but it’s not right. Too many mugs and old newspapers scattered over the coffee table. The stale smell of alcohol. My feet sticking slightly on floorboards near the kitchen. Now that I’m looking I’m noticing too, how loosely his shirt is hanging around his waist, hitching slightly at the ribs.
There’s a picture there, of her, unmoved since last time I’d been here. It’s the only thing that looks clean.
Of course, I’d heard about what had happened. I’d just assumed he was--.
I mean, Colin’s always okay.
”Coffee?” he asks quietly, interrupting my train of thought. I nod, and sit down on the sofa, something crunching, and pressing into my thigh.
I ignore it, and watch him. He shuffles over to the kettle and switches it on. Something in the action turns my stomach, and I feel a little bit dizzy.
Christ, he looks old.
”I had-“ I start to speak. I want to tell him about the dreams, but I feel so fucking stupid now, I can’t. It’s a dream for god’s sake. It’s not even real. And he, this--
”I don’t know if I deserve you.” I say it without thinking; almost angrily.
Colin looks over at me, and I must look as ridiculous as I feel because he breaks into this warm, dumb grin.
”Of course you don’t.”
-
I grew up in a town where, when you looked up, there was the nothing but blue sky.
The first time I’d gone to the city I’d been astounded by the buildings that reached right up into it, by the wires that had stretched across long roads, breaking it all up onto disjointed squares and triangles.
By the time I’d moved there I’d stopped looking up at all.
Tonight is different. Tonight after a few drinks, and a few empty conversations with people who don’t really like me, I slip away. I find a patch of grass and watch the sky. Blurry stars, slow moving planes descending, clouds. When I unfocus my eyes it blurs and fades, looks like paint run through with water.
When I get back in the morning, everyone is gone. Jeannie and Niall are asleep in my bed, and I have grass in my hair. It feels all dried up.
I take a beanbag and sleep in the den.
-
Closing my eyes, it doesn’t help, I can still feel the falling. Still feel the air whipping my skin. The air a long drop into nothing.
But eventually you have to stop.
Eventually you hit the ground.
-
The next night, they are there again, and I go to a bar for a few drinks.
At some point, this guy pushes me, saying how I’m looking at his girl, and I tell him to fuck off, and something I can’t really remember about him being a fat dickhead. Then all of a sudden I’m the floor, looking up at the roof, and there is this funny squares pattern on it. I’m not sure how I got to be on my back, but I am not going to sleep yet. I know that much.
And then a hand; warm, touches my arm. Says my name.
Ryan. Ryan.
”Ryan.”
It’s Colin. He looks skinny. And I must have said so, because he mumbles something about being on a diet. I ask him if he’s heard about Jeannie and Niall, and he gets a funny look on his face and says “Get up.”
”It’s her loss, breaking it off with you” I say not-helpfully, as he helps me up. He grabs the back of my elbow and directs me toward the exit.
It’s really quiet in this bar of all sudden.
”Is that so?” Colin says, but it sounds like he’s not really asking the question.
All the way back in the taxi, and all the way up to his unit we don’t say much of anything. He goes to put the kettle on and I wash my face in the bathroom sink because it’s feeling hot and sticky now.
”Feel better?” he asks, when I walk back into the living area, water still dripping down my face. I sit down next to him, and he reaches out and wipes my face with his hand. It’s really fast, but I can still feel the heat on my skin linger a bit.
”What’s going on with you, Stiles?” he asks seriously, eyes focused on me.
I shrug. “I keep dreaming I’m in a plane, and I’m … falling.”
It sounds stupider out loud than I thought it would. Colin doesn’t laugh though, and the words keep coming out of my mouth, fast and jumbled.
”I don’t know, It’s pathetic - but it’s so realistic. I can feel it. I can feel that I’m so completely fucking afraid.”
”What part are you afraid of?” Colin asks.
I can feel my face twisting itself into a scowl. Not this again. I don’t have psychological layers that need unraveling. I’m just --.
”I don’t need another shrink.”
Colin smiles this time, the grin working it’s way up from the corner of his mouth. “You’re right. Just take the bus.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling despite myself. “You’re a fucking useless prick.”
He chuckles, and reaches out to me, and for a second I think it’s because I have water, or something on my face, but then I realize he’s reaching for me. He’s grasping the back of my neck so hard it hurts and pulling, and holy shit.
His mouth is on mine and it’s warm; warm and wet, and he tastes like stale coffee and toothpaste, but it’s not bad it’s good. It’s fucking hot, and I kiss him back, as hard as I can, hungry for it. I can feel his lips and his stubble, and his tongue; it sends bolts of heat shooting through my stomach and up the back of my neck.
I need more, I pull him down against me; on me; missing the couch and falling hard on my back. Not feeling a damn thing, he’s too fucking skinny anyway. And then he bites my lip and it’s a game, and we’re all over each other. Hands on skin, up shirts, cupping faces, unbuckling belts. Everything else blurs.
-
It is quiet.
I break from my seat, the belt snaps, and I tumble into nothing. I fall.
When I wake up, his hand is still in mine, fingers pressed tightly against my palm.
I wrote for corliamat (though she probably guessed that ;P), she asked for-- Ry/Col. I would love and angsty piece with a happy Ry/Col ending. Preferably Colin-angst, caused by Ryan or someone else.
And I wrote;
Everything is quieter now.
They’ve all stopped.
Open mouths don’t scream; their lungs ripped of air, their blood vacuumed from veins. Even the protesting roar of the engine has stopped.
Nothing is left but the sickening pull of the fall.
_
”Are you afraid of dying, Ryan?”
The shrink is wearing an expression somewhere between patronizing and stoned that instinctively makes me want to hit him in the head with one of his own trophies. How do shrinks get these fucking things anyway? Ratio of crazies to non-crazies? How many people didn’t kill themselves this year?
”Ryan, did you hear me?” He pushes.
I rap my knuckles on the armchair. Real leather.
Overpaid pricks.
”I’m afraid of falling out of the sky in a huge tin of metal.” I say slowly, enunciating every word deliberately.
”So you think it’s the falling, not the dying that scares you?” he asks, not missing a beat.
I don’t answer him. I should have never told him about the dreams. I should have never let Greg talk me into this. Such a waste of time.
”You know, you have a better chance of dying in a car accident,” he states.
Everyone knows that, and I tell him so. Facts don’t fix phobias. Facts just make phobics more irritable.
”So,” he continues, “why do you think you feel safe in a car and not a plane?”
I stare at him coldly. “How many cars do you have that travel thousands of feet above the ground?’
He just stares right back at me; he’s expecting a better answer than that. I can feel my leg starting to jiggle up and down of it’s own accord, as if it’s about to jiggle me right out of the room, escape this overanalyzing bullshit.
The shrink opens his mouth to speak, but I’m faster and I cut him off.
”Look, are you going to hypnotize me or what?”
-
I go first.
I break from my seat, the belt snaps, I tumble, rushing sounds scream in my ears. I reach for something, anything to hold, but my hands only ever reach at air.
My palms are empty.
-
Colin looks unimpressed. Very unimpressed.
Granted, it is three am. And I just woke him up. His hair -what is left of it- is sticking up in small tufts. His eyes tiny, tired slits, squinting up at me.
”Sorry, I just. Couldn’t sleep.” It’s a lie, and it’s not even a very good one, but Colin accepts it anyway; takes a step backwards to let me past.
”Don’t worry, I was up.” He says, voice still heavy with sleep. “I was knitting.”
It doesn’t really occur to me until I’m in his flat, how selfish I’ve been.
It’s not anything blaringly obvious, but it’s not right. Too many mugs and old newspapers scattered over the coffee table. The stale smell of alcohol. My feet sticking slightly on floorboards near the kitchen. Now that I’m looking I’m noticing too, how loosely his shirt is hanging around his waist, hitching slightly at the ribs.
There’s a picture there, of her, unmoved since last time I’d been here. It’s the only thing that looks clean.
Of course, I’d heard about what had happened. I’d just assumed he was--.
I mean, Colin’s always okay.
”Coffee?” he asks quietly, interrupting my train of thought. I nod, and sit down on the sofa, something crunching, and pressing into my thigh.
I ignore it, and watch him. He shuffles over to the kettle and switches it on. Something in the action turns my stomach, and I feel a little bit dizzy.
Christ, he looks old.
”I had-“ I start to speak. I want to tell him about the dreams, but I feel so fucking stupid now, I can’t. It’s a dream for god’s sake. It’s not even real. And he, this--
”I don’t know if I deserve you.” I say it without thinking; almost angrily.
Colin looks over at me, and I must look as ridiculous as I feel because he breaks into this warm, dumb grin.
”Of course you don’t.”
-
I grew up in a town where, when you looked up, there was the nothing but blue sky.
The first time I’d gone to the city I’d been astounded by the buildings that reached right up into it, by the wires that had stretched across long roads, breaking it all up onto disjointed squares and triangles.
By the time I’d moved there I’d stopped looking up at all.
Tonight is different. Tonight after a few drinks, and a few empty conversations with people who don’t really like me, I slip away. I find a patch of grass and watch the sky. Blurry stars, slow moving planes descending, clouds. When I unfocus my eyes it blurs and fades, looks like paint run through with water.
When I get back in the morning, everyone is gone. Jeannie and Niall are asleep in my bed, and I have grass in my hair. It feels all dried up.
I take a beanbag and sleep in the den.
-
Closing my eyes, it doesn’t help, I can still feel the falling. Still feel the air whipping my skin. The air a long drop into nothing.
But eventually you have to stop.
Eventually you hit the ground.
-
The next night, they are there again, and I go to a bar for a few drinks.
At some point, this guy pushes me, saying how I’m looking at his girl, and I tell him to fuck off, and something I can’t really remember about him being a fat dickhead. Then all of a sudden I’m the floor, looking up at the roof, and there is this funny squares pattern on it. I’m not sure how I got to be on my back, but I am not going to sleep yet. I know that much.
And then a hand; warm, touches my arm. Says my name.
Ryan. Ryan.
”Ryan.”
It’s Colin. He looks skinny. And I must have said so, because he mumbles something about being on a diet. I ask him if he’s heard about Jeannie and Niall, and he gets a funny look on his face and says “Get up.”
”It’s her loss, breaking it off with you” I say not-helpfully, as he helps me up. He grabs the back of my elbow and directs me toward the exit.
It’s really quiet in this bar of all sudden.
”Is that so?” Colin says, but it sounds like he’s not really asking the question.
All the way back in the taxi, and all the way up to his unit we don’t say much of anything. He goes to put the kettle on and I wash my face in the bathroom sink because it’s feeling hot and sticky now.
”Feel better?” he asks, when I walk back into the living area, water still dripping down my face. I sit down next to him, and he reaches out and wipes my face with his hand. It’s really fast, but I can still feel the heat on my skin linger a bit.
”What’s going on with you, Stiles?” he asks seriously, eyes focused on me.
I shrug. “I keep dreaming I’m in a plane, and I’m … falling.”
It sounds stupider out loud than I thought it would. Colin doesn’t laugh though, and the words keep coming out of my mouth, fast and jumbled.
”I don’t know, It’s pathetic - but it’s so realistic. I can feel it. I can feel that I’m so completely fucking afraid.”
”What part are you afraid of?” Colin asks.
I can feel my face twisting itself into a scowl. Not this again. I don’t have psychological layers that need unraveling. I’m just --.
”I don’t need another shrink.”
Colin smiles this time, the grin working it’s way up from the corner of his mouth. “You’re right. Just take the bus.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling despite myself. “You’re a fucking useless prick.”
He chuckles, and reaches out to me, and for a second I think it’s because I have water, or something on my face, but then I realize he’s reaching for me. He’s grasping the back of my neck so hard it hurts and pulling, and holy shit.
His mouth is on mine and it’s warm; warm and wet, and he tastes like stale coffee and toothpaste, but it’s not bad it’s good. It’s fucking hot, and I kiss him back, as hard as I can, hungry for it. I can feel his lips and his stubble, and his tongue; it sends bolts of heat shooting through my stomach and up the back of my neck.
I need more, I pull him down against me; on me; missing the couch and falling hard on my back. Not feeling a damn thing, he’s too fucking skinny anyway. And then he bites my lip and it’s a game, and we’re all over each other. Hands on skin, up shirts, cupping faces, unbuckling belts. Everything else blurs.
-
It is quiet.
I break from my seat, the belt snaps, and I tumble into nothing. I fall.
When I wake up, his hand is still in mine, fingers pressed tightly against my palm.