A/N: I do not ship this pairing. They were simply the only ones that would work for this fic. Trust me, I tried Eclare. I tried Fimogen. But this is what came out. I'd appreciate if my usual readers wouldn't leave snide/mean/"ECLARE4EVER" reviews. No one's forcing you to read it, okay? No flaming is necessary. It's not one of my best works because the pairing is so alien to me, but I really tried my hardest.

I also literally stayed up all night trying and failing to write it, so if it seems off, it's because...it is. I'm tired as hell tbqh. However, I hope those who take the time to read this enjoy.

This is AU. In this universe, Eli and Clare have never even crossed paths.

~ Lines ~

"You're really something," Eli said, leaning his chin on Imogen's shoulder from behind her as she sketched. He watched her long, nimble fingers and the way they tightened around her charcoal pencil as it glided across the page. He watched the tendons in her hand flex as she used more pressure; he watched her pause and he felt her body tense when she was completely absorbed in her work. He wasn't completely sure whom she was drawing just yet, but it – her, the entire image – it was absolutely breathtaking.

Imogen set down her pencil softly, relaxing into Eli's touch as he wound his arms around her and interlocked their hands. Her fingers were smudged with black, and he brought one to his lips, kissing softly.

"I'm really something?" She softly inquired.

"When you're sketching. It's beautiful," he clarified, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck and tickling her skin. "You get so sucked into it. It's like there's a part of you that travels onto the paper. The different strokes and pressures…" he untangled one of his hands to softly lightly the page, careful not to smudge her work. "It's just…you," Eli finished.

Imogen smiled, turning her head slightly to face him. "Well, Mr. Goldsworthy," she said, "I do believe it's hard for me to continue under these conditions."

Eli kissed her neck in response. "Oh, no, please do continue," he chided, making no move to let go of her other hand or step away. "You need to finish this project. It's an important grade, after all."

She laughed incredulously. "And here I thought that coming over here to work would make this easier." Imogen didn't like silence. Her house was big and vacant and void of her parents almost 24/7. Silence left room for distraction, for unwanted thoughts and feelings and questions. Silence left room for the loudest noise of all, one she hated hearing. It left room for eerie darkness and it intensified the emptiness around her. It made her want to do that again. Imogen alone with her thoughts and a sketch pad almost never ended well.

"Mmm," Eli murmured in response, kissing her neck again. "I'm sorry. I just miss you."

Imogen's eyebrows furrowed as those words hit her. "I guess I've been a bit distant. "

"So you have been," he admitted, and Imogen got up from the chair, facing him.

"I'm sorry," she said honestly, worry in her eyes. She had done it again. She was pushing him away emotionally, too absorbed in her own little world to even notice.

"Hey, it's okay," Eli said softly, noting her intense distress. "Don't apologize. I know it's...it's just who you are sometimes. I love you all the same."

"I love you, too," she said, stepping forward to kiss him, to show him that she was here now, she was here, and she wasn't going anywhere. It was slow and intense, heavy with contained emotion. Her drawing could wait. She had missed Eli, too, and she hadn't realized how much until now. They made their way to his bed, and he laid her down softly, hovering over her as they kissed.

They hadn't been intimate in quite a few weeks. Either time didn't allow for it or they were concerned with other circumstances. But here, now, it was perfect. They wouldn't let go, not for anything. Eli pulled the chopsticks out of Imogen's hair, letting it cascade across the bedsheets, long and silky.

He slowly pulled down the dress she was wearing, and her breath hitched in anticipation. Eli had seen them a thousand times before, but as he peeled it down and the first scar on her stomach was revealed, she couldn't help but look away. The ugly white ridges lined her torso, marking her golden skin as an ugly reminder of what she was capable of at her worst. They were raised; discolored. Some of them were pink and in the last stages of healing. They made her ugly, she thought. When Eli looked at her, how did he see her? How did he see anything other than the hideous reminders of when she had drug a blade across her skin, over, and over, and over again? That wasn't sexy. That wasn't beautiful. She was marred; broken. She was sick. How did he love her? How could he ever possibly love her?

Eli pulled the dress down her hips, catching her tights and panties along the way. Imogen closed her eyes when she felt his fingers brush a particularly large scar on her thigh, shivering at his tenderness. Gently, he crawled back up her body, grabbed her chin, and made her look at him so that he could convey his absolute sincerity. "Beautiful," he said, his hand trailing down to dance across her ribcage.

She shook her head, her eyes locked on his. "I destroyed my body," she whispered.

"All of these scars are reminders of your dark times," Eli chided. "Each and every one. They're beautiful; they're part of you. Every single inch of you is perfect." He kissed her lips, unhooking her bra and pulling it gently away before kissing down her neck and letting his tongue glide along the swell of her breast, tasting her skin. He made his way to her stomach, his lips gently trailing over scars, kissing, touching, feeling. This was his Imogen; this was all of her. She was warm and vulnerable and fragile, yet undeniably resilient. He loved her with everything inside himself.

"Eli," she murmured breathlessly, in awe of his gentleness. She pulled him back up to kiss him hard, overwhelmed with emotion and longing. His arms wound around her, his palms flattening against the smooth skin of her back, roaming. "I need you," she breathed, because she did. She needed him now, now, now. She needed to be as close to him as possible. Eli's clothes were shed and they touched each other softly, moaning and whimpering and filling the room with noise and god, neither one of them had felt more whole.

He entered her slowly; lovingly, shuddering and breathing unevenly.

"Oh, god," Imogen choked out, gripping onto his arms as he moved. He let his forehead fall to the crook of her neck, one hand sprawled over her side. She whimpered when he pulled back and thrust into her, setting a gentle rhythm. They gasped and whispered unintelligible words; they felt and gave and received. This was their everything.

The artist and the writer, both from different worlds and stories and upbringings, had found love in each other. They had found acceptance and reassurance and inspiration. They pushed each other. They comforted each other. The lines on the pages of Imogen's sketchpad, the lines that marred her body, the lines that Eli created and typed and wrote - they intertwined and melded together, making something too big and too complicated for either of them to ever comprehend. Instead, they accepted it and reveled in each other, groaning and crying out as they found release.

Eli brought Imogen's body to his when he lay on his side, breathing heavily in the aftermath. There were no words, no breathless, broken sentences. They were too overwhelmed for that. Instead, Imogen nuzzled into his side, holding him close, kissing his chest softly.

"Thank you," she said after a while.

"For what?"

"Being here for me. Loving me. Caring about me."

Eli stroked her back. "You just deserve to be happy."

"I am," she reassured. "Right here, right now...I'm happy." She looked up at him, smiling.

"I think you have a project to finish," Eli reminded her, but Imogen held on tighter.

"It can wait," she said, and kissed him again.

I tried. Sighs.