A/N: This doesn't belong to me. This is so GSR angst. If those aren't your cups of tea, then leave. Please. This is alive, clean, and posted because of Leslie. So kudos to her. And enjoy. Review, if you want to.
They were both drawn in, captured by their own desire. And now they're in a whirlpool, caught in a vortex of lust and love and lies, both inescapably attached to the other. He needs her as much as she needs him, and she knows there's only so much more force her heart can take before it completely shatters. But it has become an addiction, and she knows all about that. She's lost in a drug and a man and herself and she can't stop. All she wants to do is fall.
He knows he shouldn't be doing it. He's been telling himself to look away from temptation, to avoid making the mistake he made so many years ago. He's destroying her. Every time he touches her, he's destroying a part of her. And he sees it. He sees what she tries to hide, but he can't stop himself. He's disgusted with himself. He should never place his own gratification above her, but he does.
They get together every two weeks. It's systematic. Like a weekly fix, he thinks to himself. It's always the same thing. He looks in the phone book, and calls her, gives her the name and address of some random motel. She arrives, usually early morning. There are no words. Their lips meet in violent kisses. Bruising. Possessing. Taking. Clothes are scattered across the floor and he takes her. Steals her soul.
She always sleeps after sex. He never does. They're both sated, lying on the bed. As soon as she begins to sleep, he gets dressed. He hates himself for doing this. He wants to stop. He loves her. But he can't tell her. Life would be better if you stayed, his heart advises. But his brain says no. And he leaves. Every time he does it, a part of him is left in the room, staying with her. And he knows he's killing himself. Dying one cell at a time.
She wakes up and she wants to cry. She wants to sob over what they had. What had happened to the easiness? To the comfort of speaking with him? She dresses, and checks out. She goes home and showers. The water scalds. She's trying to wash him off of her. And she wants to break down. She wants to die. But she can't. She loves him. And she isn't going to stop. He's using her. She's using herself. And one day, she'll just wear away, erode from too much abuse. And lying to herself that it's love isn't going to help her with anything.
But they can't stop. To rely on their own wills, their perseverance. It's stupid. They're only lying to themselves. And there's nowhere to run from the truth. There's nowhere to run from themselves. So when they, the team, ask him if he wants to go out for a drink or breakfast, he declines. "I've got a date," he informs. Eyebrows lift in surprise, but they don't question. And when he sees her in the back, ignoring what's happening, he can't help but think he's corrupting her. But that's only because he doesn't know how much she's been corrupted.