Breathing Room [Lockon/Tieria] [Gundam 00]
Title :: Breathing Room
Pairing :: Lockon/Tieria
Rating/Warnings :: PG; spoilers for episode 22; absolutely. pointless. fluff.
Wordcount :: 400
Summary :: He talks, and talks, and talks, rambling cheerfully ever onward as if he wasn’t lying white on whiter hospital sheets, as if Tieria’s own hands weren’t just as pale.
If Lockon’s eye was damaged, Tieria thinks, his mouth certainly was not.
He talks, and talks, and talks, rambling cheerfully ever onward as if he wasn’t lying white on whiter hospital sheets, as if Tieria’s own hands weren’t just as pale (clenched tight and still shaking).
Tieria tells himself it is because the other man just will not shut up, not ever and certainly not now; that some things simply do not change. (And he tries to ignore the realisation that talking is a way to distract him from guilt, that the constant murmur of Lockon’s voice reassures him that he is still there.)
He pays no heed to the way his breath is coming easier, matching the cadence of the sound; the way he is slowly relaxing and colour is creeping back into his own skin.
He keeps his hands held neatly on his lap, to himself; does not look up to see if Lockon notices the subtle change.
He listens.
But finally, finally (and he doesn’t know how long it’s been; he’s lost track of time against white and warmth and words), the sentences begin to be punctuated by the smallest of yawns.
And Tieria decides that this is enough.
“Lockon Stratos,” he interjects, in a tone that will brook no argument, “you talk entirely too much for an invalid.” (If you want me not to worry, then just heal and rest.) And Lockon only laughs so loudly that Tieria almost jumps.
“Maybe. But you still haven’t told me to shut up.”
Tieria is silent, as if he hopes that Lockon will learn by example.
He should have known better.
The next sound is a quiet rustling of sheets; he realises Lockon is sitting up. Tieria would protest, demand he lie back down; but before his mouth can even open there’s a hand around his wrist, pulling him gently but forcibly out of his chair and onto the bed. Arms slip loosely around his waist, not confining but protective, and he is tugged back against Lockon’s chest.
Tieria stiffens (even if he doesn’t quite pull away), and bites out, “What are you doing?”
“Not talking,” Lockon whispers playfully into his ear, hair falling forward to brush Tieria’s cheek. “Am I still good company anyway?”
Tieria doesn’t answer, but he sighs and forces his body to remain still, and Lockon tightens his arms and takes it as a yes.
Pairing :: Lockon/Tieria
Rating/Warnings :: PG; spoilers for episode 22; absolutely. pointless. fluff.
Wordcount :: 400
Summary :: He talks, and talks, and talks, rambling cheerfully ever onward as if he wasn’t lying white on whiter hospital sheets, as if Tieria’s own hands weren’t just as pale.
If Lockon’s eye was damaged, Tieria thinks, his mouth certainly was not.
He talks, and talks, and talks, rambling cheerfully ever onward as if he wasn’t lying white on whiter hospital sheets, as if Tieria’s own hands weren’t just as pale (clenched tight and still shaking).
Tieria tells himself it is because the other man just will not shut up, not ever and certainly not now; that some things simply do not change. (And he tries to ignore the realisation that talking is a way to distract him from guilt, that the constant murmur of Lockon’s voice reassures him that he is still there.)
He pays no heed to the way his breath is coming easier, matching the cadence of the sound; the way he is slowly relaxing and colour is creeping back into his own skin.
He keeps his hands held neatly on his lap, to himself; does not look up to see if Lockon notices the subtle change.
He listens.
But finally, finally (and he doesn’t know how long it’s been; he’s lost track of time against white and warmth and words), the sentences begin to be punctuated by the smallest of yawns.
And Tieria decides that this is enough.
“Lockon Stratos,” he interjects, in a tone that will brook no argument, “you talk entirely too much for an invalid.” (If you want me not to worry, then just heal and rest.) And Lockon only laughs so loudly that Tieria almost jumps.
“Maybe. But you still haven’t told me to shut up.”
Tieria is silent, as if he hopes that Lockon will learn by example.
He should have known better.
The next sound is a quiet rustling of sheets; he realises Lockon is sitting up. Tieria would protest, demand he lie back down; but before his mouth can even open there’s a hand around his wrist, pulling him gently but forcibly out of his chair and onto the bed. Arms slip loosely around his waist, not confining but protective, and he is tugged back against Lockon’s chest.
Tieria stiffens (even if he doesn’t quite pull away), and bites out, “What are you doing?”
“Not talking,” Lockon whispers playfully into his ear, hair falling forward to brush Tieria’s cheek. “Am I still good company anyway?”
Tieria doesn’t answer, but he sighs and forces his body to remain still, and Lockon tightens his arms and takes it as a yes.