I Guess We'll Call These Memories
Based on this thing I thought of: "You smell like black coffee and look like 2AM (and I can't say I completely hate it)
Disclaimer! I don't own Scorpion, the characters, CBS, or anything else that you get out of this related to it.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" She said, sitting on his apartment's couch-we'll say it's because he picked her up that day, but maybe she walked. Her leggings were low on her hips and her hair was free of the gravel-and-dirt-filled ponytail it was in earlier. As he rounded the corner, hat and 5 o'clock shadow gracing him, he threw a slick smile in her direction before handing her a beer.
She took it, gladly, kicking off her boots and pulling him onto the couch with her. She spoke as he slung his arm over her bruised shoulders. "I could've died, y'know. I mean I suppose we all could've, but. If that kid hadn't done anything I'd be dead." her words were lazy, noncommittal, and she didn't seem scared of them, scared of having full knowledge of her possible death. His hand tightened on her arm, retracting when a small sound of pain escaped her lips. He lightly closed his brown eyes, lashes fluttering before going back to staring at "The Breakfast Club" playing.
"You shouldn't talk like that, at least not with that tone, when your arm's still shaking every now and then. And it's not because of the cold, my apartment's alway 71 degrees." Rubbing his hand up and down her arm easily, as she sunk away from his truthful words. They weren't cutting or harsh, but she had honestly been terrified. With no reply that would put either one of them at ease, her beer was placed on the deep brown hardwood floor and his lap was met with her fleece-clad legs. Her head rested dully on his shoulder as Anthony Michael Hall walked off with his fist in the air.
"You smell like black coffee." She noted, looking up with smeared eyeliner and chapped lips. "You look like 2AM." He retaliated, taking in her disheveled appearance. "Hey, I never said I didn't like it. Better than smoke from a gambling bar." Her comment wasn't sharp, friendly even, and her calloused fingers tangled in his favorite "Scorpions" shirt, and behind his head, playing at the hair at the nape of his neck. "You always look great, Hap, bruised or not." He was holding her close, thumb running over the side of her swollen knee and the other hand trying to untangle some knots, gently.
As another movie appeared on the forgotten TV, a shudder ran through her small body and he cradled her head into his neck until her tears gradually slowed, quickly ending altogether. His t-shirt had makeup stains on it, but he was glad to be a makeup wipe for her anyway. She stood up, wiping her eyes and letting a small chuckle escape her mouth.
"C'mon," she said lowly, the beer on her breath matching the one he just finished downing, "Let's go to bed, in an actual bed." His large hand encompassed hers and they swayed their way down the darkened hallway and into his room before she shrugged her familiar leather jacket onto the floor, replacing her leggings with a pair of his boxers before settling into the left side of the bed.
He cleared his throat, speaking in a low, grumbly whisper. "You're going to need more rest, you have some deep contusions and some serious lacerations, they won't heal if you're jumping back at it the first chance you get, okay?" Her small nod and incomprehensible murmur gave him enough relief to lay next to her, taking each other in. He laid down next to her and they both fell into an easy sleep, wrapped up in each other, physically and mentally.
From then on she was woken up with black coffee.
From then on his favorite time was 2AM.