A/N: It's a bit redundant in the beginning, I know. I apologize. This is Horatio/Calleigh. I know it's really hard to tell, but that's what it is. And if you can't stomach it, don't go any further. Other than that, go ahead and enjoy.
It feels like her soul is on fire. Every inch of her is being burnt, and reborn. She is a phoenix, a golden phoenix, being lifted from the pain of her real life. He lays a path of fire wherever he touches, and it doesn't help that she's being carried in its path. He whispers words in her ear that she can't decipher. She's too caught up in her own world, her disbelief that they're actually doing this. You can't dance every dance with one boy, Calleigh. It's important that you remember that. They'll think you're a Jezebel. But when his lips touch her bare flesh, every word that left her parents' mouths flee from her mind.
His fingers dance over her, and she willingly replies to his demands. He kisses her, lips bruising and taking. It pretty much summarizes every relationship she's ever had. She's always had things taken without receiving anything in return. But this time, she doesn't mind. His lips return to her neck, biting roughly, and she can feel his need. It's raw, and tangible, and she loves getting lost in the passion. He pulls on the hair tie holding her hair together. The fragments of her life, the past she tried so hard to forget, begins to fall. A golden curtain shimmers in the dim light of the room as it falls. The fragments clink as they hit the floor. The sound reverberations are the loudest thing she's ever heard. He thinks she smells of rose and hyacinth. All she feels is the pain.
He traces the contours of her curves, and her hands reach out for him. Her pale, delicate flesh has known more pain than anyone knows. She appears so delicate against him. Her skin is almost like that of buttercream, insanely pale against his, dark from the shadows of his roots. His skin is calloused, rough, and she wants to trace each bruise and each callous. But the strong are not the only ones who are wounded. Rough skin isn't indicative of anything. She's just as bruised as he is.
When she kisses him back, replies with as much urgency as he provides her with, his hands reach towards her back. He pulls away briefly as he discovers them. Tiny crescent-shaped welts and bruises that have healed long ago. He mutters more words she can't decipher to her, but the tone is reassuring. It's soft, and loving, and she just wants to soak it all up. He kisses each one.
She remembers every strike, every drop of blood spilt in the hallway. The way the air smelled of delicate june lilies and cherry blossoms. She never wants to go home. She remembers kneeling in the altar, tears threatening to fall, wanting to fall. But her nerve was too strong. So she didn't cry. She knelt there for hours, rosary pressed so harshly into her palm, she had imprints impressed into her hand for days. As a girl, she had memorized the Bible. It was the first book she ever read. For hours, she knelt there and repeated the same thing over and over again. But she learned. Repetition does not make anyone rush to your aid any faster.
Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked; preserve me from violent men, who have purposed to make my steps stumble.
No one answered her call.
His slender fingers reach her hipbone, and she winces when he glides over the bruises decorated there. She remembers every detail. He grabbed her too roughly, kissed her too roughly, threw her too soon. The walls were eggshell white. He would force himself to her. You don't love me, but you will, bitch. She soaked up the words, soaked them up like a sponge. She cried the first time they had sex. Tears of sorrow. Tears of pain. But no one answered. Eventually, she gave up hope altogether. That was the second time God had failed her.
Do not grant, O Lord, the desires of the wicked; do not further his wicked scheme, lest they be exalted.
He kisses the bruise, almost reverently. To him, it must seem like a badge of glory. His lips find their way up to her ear again, and he whispers something that sounds alarmingly like an apology. But it wasn't he. It wasn't his fault.
He presses into her, and this time, she is willing, yielding. He builds gently, piling each movement on top of the other, until it topples, and it collapses on her. She lays still, simply breathing, and he pulls away from her, but embraces her. She smiles, inhales his distinct scent. He's so different, yet, professionally, they were so similar. She falls asleep for the first time in a long time to the sound of silence, and to the scent of man, and not liquor.
She wakes in the morning from the bright sun streaming in the window. If Miami is anything, it is artificially bright with the smiles of people who don't really mean it, the kind words of liars. The whole cycle of her life was perpetuated by lies. He wakes soon after, and he kisses her. She clamps her hand over her mouth immediately after, and he laughs at her reaction. He doesn't care. "I love you." This is the first time she has believed anyone who said it. She smiles at him, and repeats it to him. The words feel odd in her mouth, it is the first time she has stated it with honesty, and not need. The human mind deceives itself. You do whatever you have to in order to survive. But survival is no longer a factor. Her happiness is. It is the strangest of situations.
Deliver me, O Lord, from evil men; preserve me from violent men.
Perhaps he has finally received her call. And perhaps, if she were still twelve, she would believe in it. But divinity has lost its significance with her. She has bruised, she has broken, she has lost hope. But as her eyes eagerly greet his eyes, she realizes that perhaps hope has not surrendered on her.