fic: green means yes (repost because i'm an idiot)
title: green means yes.
author: inflowers
summary: if reid had left oakdale after quitting memorial.
authors notes: i posted this earlier but it had a spelling mistake and i tried to fix it but the whole thing just fell apart!
You didn't know he'd be here. Of course you didn't, it's New York and it's three years later. There was no way you could have known, but somehow you're not surprised. He's always had his finger on the pulse, and the opening of the hottest club isn't that much of a stretch.
There's someone attached to his hip, but it's dark and you can't make out who it is. He's tall, he's brunette, but it could be anyone. You don't really care, anyway. Because you're over it - you're over him. He can be with anyone he wants to be, it just doesn't matter anymore.
Except that's not true.
You try to ignore his presence, but you can feel him near you even across a crowded dance floor. You don't know whether he's seen you - but you can't bring yourself to look. You try to ignore it, focus on the man in front of you. The man that you've been trying desperately to have a relationship with, to varying degrees of success. The man that is always telling you how special you are, how much he's falling in love with you, how lucky he is that he found you. You want nothing more than to be able to tell him all those things too, because he's a genuinely nice guy. Intelligent, good looking, thoughtful. It's just that his name is Andrew, not Luke.
Andrew motions to you that he's going to get a drink, and you find yourself alone on the dance floor. You've never been one for dancing, or clubs in general - but Andrew had insisted, and it's the least you could do considering you can't love him. So you dance gently by yourself, trying to ignore what you can feel burning into the back of your head. His eyes - you know that he must have seen you by now, you've never felt more watched.
But you ignore it, because you have to ignore it. You've perfected the art of self preservation.
And you ignore it, until you can't ignore it anymore. Because a hand is on your hip, and it's digging - thrusting fingernails into the skin peeking out from underneath your shirt. Possessive and overwhelming, and you don't know how to move away from this even if you wanted to. You know who it is, even without turning around. He's pressing up against you and it's all you can do not to pass out.
He whispers harshly into your ear, moving his body closer to yours than you ever thought possible. "Tell me he drives you this crazy." And you can't, and you don't want to.
"He doesn't, does he." He's grunting and panting all over you, no space enough even for the music to thump between you. "He doesn't, I know he doesn't." The nails are still digging in, and it hurts - but you don't know whether its from the scratches or from the walls finally breaking down.
You stop fighting, for the first time in years you just stop fighting what you know is true. No one has ever come as close to breaking you as the man thrusting up against you, and you've never wanted anyone else to try.
"He doesn't - he doesn't." You whimper, and it's so not like you. You're a distinguished neurosurgeon, but whenever he's around you're the same geeky teenager you've always thought of yourself as. But Luke doesn't mind, so neither should you.
He takes your hand and pulls you towards the door of the club, and you think fleetingly that you should tell Andrew. But you're too far gone and what would you say? Any explanation you give him would be lacklustre at most, so maybe it's best you say nothing at all. At least, that's the justification you're giving yourself. Because you're finally giving yourself something, what you've always wanted. Luke.
He drags you into a cab and his eyes are telling you not to talk. You spent months talking and not touching, and there's no time for talking right now. So you stay quiet, sitting on your hands for fear of reaching out and touching what is finally tangible and in front of you.
You don't remember the trip to the hotel, or getting in the elevator. But you remember his hands pushing you against the wall of the lift and a slender hand reaching down the front of your ridiculously too tight jeans. You grunt in appreciation, but it's nothing compared to the noise you want to let out. A guttural moan, full of years of never quite getting what you want. But you don't want to scare him off, so you moan quietly against his shoulder and think kiss him, kiss him, just kiss him.
But the doors ding open and you stumble out, his hand pulling you along the hallway. You try and compose yourself, noting the floral arrangements and the distasteful artwork in the hall - but the feel of his hand in yours is enough to make you sweat, and trying to contain it is useless.
He slips the card into the lock, and you watch the light blink green. Green for go - green for good, correct, right.
Before you walk in behind him, your hand reaches out and grabs his, pulling him towards you. He crashes into your body, and you thread one hand through his hair and the other slips through his belt loop.
“Luke.” You whisper, finally letting the word slip from the tip of your tongue. “Luke.”
And he's repeating your name back to you, telling you all the things that you've wanted to hear for years. That it should have been you, that you never should have left, that he loves you and he'll go on loving you even if tonight is the last you see of one another. But you know it's not going to be - you know that one touch is never going to be enough.
So you pull him closer and finally, finally kiss him.
author: inflowers
summary: if reid had left oakdale after quitting memorial.
authors notes: i posted this earlier but it had a spelling mistake and i tried to fix it but the whole thing just fell apart!
You didn't know he'd be here. Of course you didn't, it's New York and it's three years later. There was no way you could have known, but somehow you're not surprised. He's always had his finger on the pulse, and the opening of the hottest club isn't that much of a stretch.
There's someone attached to his hip, but it's dark and you can't make out who it is. He's tall, he's brunette, but it could be anyone. You don't really care, anyway. Because you're over it - you're over him. He can be with anyone he wants to be, it just doesn't matter anymore.
Except that's not true.
You try to ignore his presence, but you can feel him near you even across a crowded dance floor. You don't know whether he's seen you - but you can't bring yourself to look. You try to ignore it, focus on the man in front of you. The man that you've been trying desperately to have a relationship with, to varying degrees of success. The man that is always telling you how special you are, how much he's falling in love with you, how lucky he is that he found you. You want nothing more than to be able to tell him all those things too, because he's a genuinely nice guy. Intelligent, good looking, thoughtful. It's just that his name is Andrew, not Luke.
Andrew motions to you that he's going to get a drink, and you find yourself alone on the dance floor. You've never been one for dancing, or clubs in general - but Andrew had insisted, and it's the least you could do considering you can't love him. So you dance gently by yourself, trying to ignore what you can feel burning into the back of your head. His eyes - you know that he must have seen you by now, you've never felt more watched.
But you ignore it, because you have to ignore it. You've perfected the art of self preservation.
And you ignore it, until you can't ignore it anymore. Because a hand is on your hip, and it's digging - thrusting fingernails into the skin peeking out from underneath your shirt. Possessive and overwhelming, and you don't know how to move away from this even if you wanted to. You know who it is, even without turning around. He's pressing up against you and it's all you can do not to pass out.
He whispers harshly into your ear, moving his body closer to yours than you ever thought possible. "Tell me he drives you this crazy." And you can't, and you don't want to.
"He doesn't, does he." He's grunting and panting all over you, no space enough even for the music to thump between you. "He doesn't, I know he doesn't." The nails are still digging in, and it hurts - but you don't know whether its from the scratches or from the walls finally breaking down.
You stop fighting, for the first time in years you just stop fighting what you know is true. No one has ever come as close to breaking you as the man thrusting up against you, and you've never wanted anyone else to try.
"He doesn't - he doesn't." You whimper, and it's so not like you. You're a distinguished neurosurgeon, but whenever he's around you're the same geeky teenager you've always thought of yourself as. But Luke doesn't mind, so neither should you.
He takes your hand and pulls you towards the door of the club, and you think fleetingly that you should tell Andrew. But you're too far gone and what would you say? Any explanation you give him would be lacklustre at most, so maybe it's best you say nothing at all. At least, that's the justification you're giving yourself. Because you're finally giving yourself something, what you've always wanted. Luke.
He drags you into a cab and his eyes are telling you not to talk. You spent months talking and not touching, and there's no time for talking right now. So you stay quiet, sitting on your hands for fear of reaching out and touching what is finally tangible and in front of you.
You don't remember the trip to the hotel, or getting in the elevator. But you remember his hands pushing you against the wall of the lift and a slender hand reaching down the front of your ridiculously too tight jeans. You grunt in appreciation, but it's nothing compared to the noise you want to let out. A guttural moan, full of years of never quite getting what you want. But you don't want to scare him off, so you moan quietly against his shoulder and think kiss him, kiss him, just kiss him.
But the doors ding open and you stumble out, his hand pulling you along the hallway. You try and compose yourself, noting the floral arrangements and the distasteful artwork in the hall - but the feel of his hand in yours is enough to make you sweat, and trying to contain it is useless.
He slips the card into the lock, and you watch the light blink green. Green for go - green for good, correct, right.
Before you walk in behind him, your hand reaches out and grabs his, pulling him towards you. He crashes into your body, and you thread one hand through his hair and the other slips through his belt loop.
“Luke.” You whisper, finally letting the word slip from the tip of your tongue. “Luke.”
And he's repeating your name back to you, telling you all the things that you've wanted to hear for years. That it should have been you, that you never should have left, that he loves you and he'll go on loving you even if tonight is the last you see of one another. But you know it's not going to be - you know that one touch is never going to be enough.
So you pull him closer and finally, finally kiss him.