After the Storm

Your body is pressed against hers. Your chest to her back, your arms around her waist, your legs tangled with her own. Your chin is buried in the crook of her neck and you inhale the smell that is so distinctly her; perfume, shampoo and fabric conditioner. Her soft blonde hair tickles your cheek, her fingers are tracing swirls and patterns onto your bare forearm, her breathing is gentle and slow. For the first time in six years, you're spending the night together. Except not in the way you could ever have imagined.

For a start, you're both fully dressed; you're in a navy t-shirt and some blue pyjama bottoms, she's wearing a white shirt of yours and a spare pair of bottoms. The extent of exposure of bare skin is nothing more than a glimpse of her shoulder because the shirt is too big for her. Secondly, neither of you have the strength, energy or inclination to worry about the tension that's simmering between you. The sexual tension. You're both so consumed with the pain of what you saw, that after the day you've had all you want to do is be with each other. And then there's the ringing in both of your ears. Ringing that won't stop, won't disappear, won't fade; the echoing sounds of people screaming, crying, the sharp gunshots, the pounding of desperate feet on the floor as they try to run.

You'd told her that you'd be back soon. You'd promised yourself that you wouldn't leave her, that you'd be there to protect her... Except you weren't. You had found Scott Weston in the toilets and it had given you something to focus on, a distraction from the worry that was clawing at your stomach. And so you'd left her to defend for herself, and look at what had happened. You came so close to losing her.

You press a small kiss against her jaw and she squeezes your hand before rolling over in your arms so that you're face to face. It's now her turn to bury her face in the crook of your neck, her hands splayed across your chest. She's balled up your t-shirt into her fists, as if she never wants to let you go again. Like she's scared of you disappearing, despite promising that you'll come back...

You lie like that for hours, both of you perfectly wide awake despite it being nearly two in the morning. You don't utter a word. There's nothing that needs saying. You expect there will be, come morning, but until then you're perfectly content to lie in silence, just relishing in the relief that you're both okay. Your bodies are so inextricably connected, in a way that they never have been before and you never dared to hope that they would. It's like you can't quite believe everything that's happened and you need to keep checking that the other's still there. You're wrapped up so tightly with each other and you're amazed at how well you just fit together, as if it was always meant to be that way. Which you know is a thought that you can't dwell on right now, because right now you're just two best friends who are helping each other recover from the memory of that day's atrocities.

Or are you? Your fingers are playing with the hem of your shirt that she's wearing, but then you slip them underneath it and softly trace uneven circles onto the small of her back. You feel the shiver that tickles her spine against your entire body. Her lips were pressed to your shoulder, but suddenly they're travelling up your neck and across your jaw, and then they're on your own lips and the two of you are kissing furiously, passionately. You can hardly string a coherent thought together; all you can feel is the rush of adrenaline and longing and desire. You roll the pair of you over so that you're towering above her, and her hands are under your t-shirt and scrabbling at your stomach and chest. Goosebumps erupt on both of your bodies and groans escape your lips. You marvel at how responsive you are just to a kiss, except it doesn't feel like just a kiss, it feels like your entire body is on fire.

But then you feel a wetness on your cheeks; tears. Her tears, for you're pretty sure that you're not crying yourself. And it's almost as if those tears are a huge, crashing wave of water, for the fire instantly fizzles out. You don't know what you're doing. A small voice inside of you, you expect it's your sanity, is telling you to stop, and that voice is getting louder and louder until you pull away from her. You look down at her, and there are tears rolling down her pale cheeks. Her lips are swollen slightly and she's shaking.

"Please, Harry," she murmurs, her fingers stroking the back of your head. "To forget."

You understand now. She wants to block out all the images in her head, all the ringing in her ears. So do you. But you know that having sex isn't the way to go about it, even if your head and your heart are waging an internal battle. It was just too easy an option, what with you being right there and her being right there and the sexual tension that you'd been trying to ignore.

"This isn't how we're going to happen," you whisper, for you're sure that one day you will happen, and it will be a lot more romantic than this.

She bites her lip and begins to cry in earnest. "But I love you," she tells you desperately.

There's a swooping in your stomach and a tightening in your chest. You smile slightly. "I know. But we're not ready yet, Nikki."

Her large, brown, tear-filled eyes are gazing directly into your green ones. You can see the knowing in them, the rapidly dissipating passion. You roll off of her, landing close beside her. You hold her against you again, but it's not like before. This time it's not tension and fear that fills the room, but exhaustion and love.

"I'm sorry," she sobs into your chest.

You kiss the top of her head. "Don't be. I'm just as much to blame."

"Can we just forget it ever happened?" she asks quietly.

You know that you're not going to be able to forget it, that you're going to replay that kiss over and over in your head until you can hardly distinguish the reality from your imagination, but you can't tell her that. "Yes, we can."

She smiles, and it's the first smile you've seen on her face since nearly twenty-four hours previously. Her eyes begin to droop and your press your lips to her hairline again. "Get some sleep," you whisper, pulling the duvet tightly around the pair of you.

"You'll still be here in the morning?" she asks nervously.

"Of course I will, this is my apartment," you joke, then realise that this may not be the time for joking.

"Not what I meant," she mumbles, fatigue slurring her words.

"Yes, I'll still be here in the morning," you tell her, sincerely this time.

It takes only minutes until you're certain that she's asleep; her breathing becomes deep and rhythmic, her body relaxed and warm. Only then do you allow sleep to take you as well, carrying you into a world of memories; not of gunshots and screaming, but of kisses and hugs and the 'one day' that you know will come.

It is entirely possible that I have watched 'Shadows' too many times. Bit of angsty mess, this, but it's for all you lovely people who keep reading and reviewing.

Charlotte
xxx