Title: Shards of Glass
Author: Lucy (somethingsdont)
Pairing: Eric/Calleigh
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Anywhere fitting; primarily season 4
Summary: Fragments of a roller coaster relationship. A collection of 100-word drabbles based on prompts.
Notes: Initially meant to write a bunch of angsty UST-filled drabble, but have now decided that anything goes. Drabbles are unrelated and don't resolve a damn thing. :)
001. Crash
She storms into the break room, chest heaving.
He follows, jaw clenched (tongue held), fist formed (for the wall, not her cheek), anger trickled across his facial features like spilt paint.
Neither remembers the catalyst; both challenge the other to apologize first. But pride hits her, and denial of fault runs through his veins. Gazes set to laser through skin and flesh, split bone, puncture holes into already-bleeding hearts.
She crashes into him, attempts intimidation despite physical disadvantages. Her hand stops mid-slap. Through silk and cotton, there is friction and arousal.
There are bitter remnants of a line long-ago crossed.
002. Dim
The crime light works best under dim lighting. Better contrast.
Darkness draws silence; silence draws thought. And that, that draws furtive glances across the room at the other working form. As she reaches down in search of a stray piece of glass, he swallows an especially inappropriate deliberation.
Suddenly, her breath is hot against his neck. She's talking about something, but fuck, he can't recall what. The more she talks, the less he remembers what the hell they're supposed to be doing.
When the light returns, she hasn't moved an inch, hasn't spoken a syllable.
It had felt too real.
003. Futile
She imagines tracing her fingertips across his bare chest, imagines replacing them with her lips, then her tongue.
Ladies don't have unhealthy thoughts, she reminds herself.
But every image is stronger than the last. More urgent, frantic, hips rolling. The idea of exploring his unchartered skin thrills her more than guns ever did.
She tries not to look (futile), and he tries to hide (futile), but she sees everything in her imagination anyway. Sees him exposed; fights the desire. Lives in a world where meticulousness trumps yearning.
The only thing that escapes futility is the consistency of an irregular heartbeat.
004. Erratic
Her breathing is erratic in the throes of passion.
When he opens his eyes, he looks surprised to see the woman under him. She has brown eyes, or blue, or hazel, amber, gray.
Never green.
The disappointment hits him hard every time, as he pushes away and dresses in haste. Sexually satiated but emotionally hollow, he leaves.
Doesn't give a damn about her name, either, because he knows that it's the wrong one.
He wonders what she'd say if he told her that she's the one he thinks about throughout nocturnal intimacy.
He wonders if she's an erratic breather, too.
005. Loved
She loves firearms. Guns never lie, never cheat, never betray. Striations are precise and loyal.
Unlike people.
For people, the verb 'love' can only be spoken of in the past tense. She loved a person, before each and every one of them dealt her a crushing blow to the sternum, knocking the wind out of her lungs.
Trust fades.
She loved him once, she supposes, but not anymore. Now, she only fantasizes about having her way with him, rough and vulgar.
But somewhere, she still wants him to show her that it's possible to change loved to the present tense.