Work Text:
The first time is in an alleyway. She can feel the cold of the bricks against her back through her shirt. It's freezing out, but they are warm- two bright red splotches on the infrared view of the night, hot breath steaming between their faces as they draw close.
It is impromptu. Neither have planned this. Their tempers have risen, and tensions are high. He has a hand on her arm, all five fingers wrapped around her bicep, holding tightly, but not painfully. He hovers over her- she wishes she were wearing heels, so that she might seem more imposing.
He says something smart and biting- he always does. She doesn't remember what it is later.
She responds with something derogatory, bordering on cruel, and his grip on her arm tightens.
He tugs her forward and kisses her. She kisses back.
The next day, she walks into work as dignified as she can with a limp and scrapes on her back. She sees him there and glowers. He looks away. They don't speak.
-
The second time is in an office. It isn't hers- she doesn't have one. Neither is it his, for the same reason. Whoever the office does belong to is absent at the moment. It's nearly one in the morning, and everyone has gone home, save a few lonely janitors, their presence made known by the dull sound of their vacuum cleaners running in another part of the otherwise quiet building.
She stayed to finish her days work. She had been behind, and needed the overtime. She doesn't know why he stayed.
They pass in a hallway, both watching the other. Her expression shows surprise that he's still here at this hour. His shows something else, but it is hard to pinpoint.
Barely a hello is exchanged before he kisses her. She remembers thinking she should be angry, but she isn't. Instead of shoving him off, she drops everything she's holding and throws her arms around his neck. The papers from the files she carried fall around them in a heap. He wraps his arms around her middle, and they're moving- stumbling into the nearest open door and kicking it closed behind them.
While she is laying on the desk, hair wild and arms thrown out to the sides, she watches him. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing heavy and hot, and his cheeks are flushed. She can see the muscles on his arms twitch and flex through his stupidly tight shirt. The buckle of his undone belt hits against the side of the desk with a rhythmic clack every time he moves.
She notices for the first time that he has truly beautiful eyes.
The next day, she sees him. She doesn't glower this time. They still don't speak.
-
The third is in her room.
He appears at her door. She stands a long while just looking at him, blinking.
"Why are you here?"
He hesitates before he answers. She thinks he's being shy. She doesn't hate it. "I wanted to see you." He quickly follows his answer with, "if you want me to go, I'll leave."
She stares another moment, then steps aside to let him in.
This time, she kisses him first.
It's after, and they're naked and tangled together, blankets pulled up to their chests.
"We can't keep doing this," she whispers, watching her own fingers as they trace across his chest.
"Can't we?"
"No, of course we can't."
He looks down at her, and she props herself up on her elbows and kisses him again.
The fourth is still in her bedroom, the next morning.
-
She stops keeping count. The number is going up.
-
He brings her coffee one morning. He doesn't say anything- just walks past her desk, sets down the coffee, and continues walking. She can see that his cheeks are pink.
She takes a sip. He knows how she takes it from all the nights spent at hers, and then the rushed mornings after.
She catches herself smiling at the cup and sets it down.
-
The season is changing. The cold is letting up, and it can't be called warm yet, but it is at least warmer.
Her workload is getting heavier. She is stressed. They haven't seen each other outside of their job in weeks. He notices he hasn't shaved, and looks like he needs sleep.
She wonders if she should call him, but doesn't. They should be able to function without sleeping together. They are adults, and it is just sex. He will live.
-
It is warm now, and she calls him anyway. He spends the night. The next day at work, she glowers at him again. He looks confused.
-
They are laying in bed again when he tells her he loves her. It is a whisper, timid, barely audible.
She stiffens, but doesn't speak. She says nothing all that night.
They sleep on opposite sides of the bed.
-
He is upset. She can see it on his face at work. There's a dazzling array of conflicting emotions; anger, pain, fear.
Her face shows indifference, but she feels fear. She's not sure of what.
She still doesn't speak to him.
-
He appears at her door again, and they are fighting. She wants to know why he's there, and why he's acting stupid and hysterical. He wants to know why he hasn't spoken to him.
In the midst of the fight, he takes ahold of her shoulders. "I love you," he blurts out, all rushed, as if he won't get a chance to say those words in that order ever again. "I love you- you know that."
She jerks away, twisting her shoulders until she's out of his grasp. "You don't," she snaps back. "You do not. And I don't love you. It's just sex. It's only ever just been sex, and you don't love me. You can't love anyone!"
She is surprised at herself how quickly the words came out. Then she watches as a brief look of heartbreak crosses his face, before it turns from flesh to concrete and clay, and she regrets every syllable.
He turns and leaves. She doesn't stop him.
-
She cries later that week, and wants to call him. She never does.
-
She sees him at work, but only in passing. He's pale, and thin. He looks sick. She worries, but can't bring herself to ask what's wrong.
-
He is in the hospital. Her boss won't tell her why, even when she snaps and shouts. He always hated accepting help. If he is in the hospital, then-
She quickly walks to the bathroom and locks herself in a stall. She doesn't cry or panic, but simply sits, attempting to ground herself.
She cries later that night, when there's no chance anyone will see or hear her.
She doesn't want him to die thinking she doesn't love him.
-
She hears through the grapevine that he's been released from the hospital. She calls to ask how he is. She reaches his voicemail and leaves no message.
She doesn't see him again for months.
-
It's nearing summer when she discovers why he went to the hospital. She is angry. Unbelievably, intensely angry.
She almost calls him, to ask what he was thinking, to ask if he had wanted to die, to leave her; but she realizes she has no right to ask that question.
The guilt hits her physically. She sits on her sofa taking a slow inhale deep into her lungs, using stress control methods she learned from work to control her breathing.
Of course she can't ask if he wanted to leave. She had left first.
-
She calls around to a friends house. She needs someone to talk to, confide in. They have worked together for years. She could trust him.
The evening goes much differently than she planned.
She doesn't spend the night there. She walks home instead, and feels sick to her stomach from yet another form of guilt.
-
It is the next day. She is sore, sad, bitter. She has been looking for him all night.
She's standing outside, night air colored black around her, with brief interruptions of blue.
She sees him walking up, and for a moment, she's pleased.
He isn't alone.
There's someone at his side.
She stares and blinks, watching them, watching how he looked at the person walking alongside him. Is this how it all ends, she wonders. Is this who is next for him?
Is he replacing me?
He is replacing me.
He doesn't love me.
Not anymore.
Her head is spinning and a frown is set on her face. Before she knows it, she's throwing insults, and introductions are being made. She can hardly process it.
He wants past her. She screws her face into a grimace, the past months worth of pain and anger showing itself.
He says something smart and biting- he always does.
She snaps at him. "Well you know what I think, don't you?"
"Always, Sally."