His and Hers
Chapter One: His
Her side is getting a little cluttered lately; a small stack of books and magazines accumulating on it, a cup of very cold coffee from the morning, a glass half full of water, her little notebook in which she'd jotted down a rather lengthy grocery list, a few pens and her alarm clock.
You look at it for a moment, wondering if she's going to get around to straightening it back up because she's normally so organized, and it helps the zen in the room because you aren't exactly the neatest person around, but you try to be, for her, to keep that pleased look on her face that you like to see. "Your" side is looking much the same, with water, books, your prescriptions, and some mail. You've brought the essentials to her place from yours because your home hasn't been the same since the threats on your life for wanting the truth. Your place is a bit too empty, too full of memories that you'd rather forget, and stock piled with too many nights that you will lie awake in bed haunted by the chill of hazy nightmares and the reverberations of unnecessary loneliness.
You look down at her, and she is sleeping peacefully, her hair tussled, and her body tucked deep under the duvet. She has the day off, and so do you, and you know that people will talk, but you don't care, and neither does she. You rather enjoy the guessing game Ryan, Maxine, and Natalia play. You grin when you see them compare their "evidence" of your relationship with Calleigh and then hurriedly and awkwardly shut up when either you, or Calleigh, or both of you enter a room.
Calleigh doesn't enjoy it as much, you know this because every time it is brought up, her lips form something between a frown and a pout. She is a professional, and she takes care to keep her personal life separate from work. You understand that, respect it now more than ever. There are moments though, when she steps out of professional mode and offers you a sweet, coy smile, a slight pucker of her lips, or lets you catch a glint in her eyes when she gives you that 'come hither' look, like she'd given you a few weeks ago.
And goddammit, did you want to grab her hand and lead her to the showers and take her right then and there. Even when you needed to talk about her afternoon at the racetrack, you'd wanted her.
You love her.
You told her that you're in love with her when she'd been in the hospital. You and she talked for a few hours about where you are headed, and she told you that she'd fallen in love with you and you will always remember that day.
Calleigh stirs, and you look at her as she turns onto her back, bringing her hands above her head and sliding her hands under her pillow. She sighs and continues to sleep, the sunlight caressing over her arms and hair.
You get out of bed as quietly as possible, so as not to wake her and you pull on the sweat pants you'd shed last night before you go over to the dresser and find an old t-shirt to pull on.
It's happening slowly, you realize.
Calleigh's letting it happen, the gradual occupation of all the empty spaces by you; you knew that she'd been ready when she invited you into her bed, when she let you make love to her and when she had pinned you to the bed in the morning to keep you from getting up and going back to your place.
It began with you packing a bag of things that you needed to stay for a couple of nights at a time, then you left and came back with a few more shirts, a few extra pairs of pants and shoes. Then you soon left your toothbrush in her bathroom, you began using her washer and dryer down the hall, you began to use the other side of her closet and she'd let you. He thought that she might begin to object to the whole idea, but you see her contentment in her eyes when she opens up her closet and sees her clothes hanging near yours.
You are comfortable here, in her space, and in yours next to her.
You go over to her bedside table and you pick up the books and replace them on her bookshelf, then you pick up her magazines-US Weekly, Time, Cosmopolitan, Red Book-and place them into the basket on the shelf under her bedside table. You replace her alarm clock where her magazines had been, then he picks up her grocery list. Who exactly is she feeding? you wonder looking at the long list. You fold the paper and then you pick up the stray pens and put them into the drawer, then you pick up her glass and her favorite mug and head to her kitchen.
Her favorite mug is shaped like a puppy, and while it seems rather juvenile to you, it has grown on you because it is her favorite. You've come to like the larger cobalt blue mug that she gives you.
You put the mug and the cup into the sink and then you put the grocery list on her fridge. You press the button to start the coffeemaker, then you wash out her mug and set it onto the island then you open up the cabinet next to her fridge-because you know her kitchen like the back of your hand-and find your mug and set it next to hers.
You go back to her bedroom, and it is right again.
Her side is neat, organized, and ready for her.
You get back into bed and she stirs, scooting closer to you from her side over to yours and she drapes her arm over your waist and smiles softly as she opens her eyes slowly and looks up at you.
"Hi," you say to her as you smooth over her tussled, tangled hair.
She smiles fully, sleepily. "Hi."
TBC