Written for chicagofire-tv's (at livejournal) Holiday Gift Exchange
[PROMPT] Kelly + anyone random [ie. Hallie, Gabby, Peter Mills] | With a smile drawn on, sit back and breathe...
The first time he met Gabriela Dawson, they hadn't gotten off to the greatest start.
It was at the station house after a four alarm fire, and eager to take a hot shower to numb the mind-blowing pain in his shoulder, Kelly hadn't realized the bathroom was already occupied when he carelessly threw open the door. Just missing her face, Gabby's chest received the full brunt of the blow. As she began cursing him out in Spanish, words he couldn't even begin to understand, Kelly couldn't help but wonder what other mysteries that mouth could reveal. She was hot and feisty, and the way she was rubbing her boobs was making his mind go to that dirty place.
(He'd be a lying son of a bitch if he said he still doesn't think about it. Hell, that kind of thinking was embedded in his DNA - a fucking knee jerk reaction.)
Then Leslie popped out of one of the stalls and with one look told him to back off; a look she followed up that night in their apartment with a stern "Don't even think about it Kelly. I want to keep this one for longer than a couple weeks." Since he felt kinda guilty about being the reason her previous partner quit, a casualty of his fuck-and-duck routine, Kelly promised to keep his distance.
Now as he walks into the station's kitchen, empty save for a petite form standing over the stove, he reminds himself that he's not really breaking his promise to Leslie.
Because sitting with Gabby, drinking her magical life-reaffirming made-from-scratch hot cocoa, is like a burst of oxygen after fighting a gruesome fire.
(Seriously, that shit is made from fucking fairy dust or something. A sugar, spice and everything nice type deal.)
He has no idea how it started, this graveyard shift ritual, but it has quickly become one of the rare moments of peace he has that doesn't require some kind of narcotic.
(And shit, he'll take as many of those moments while he still can.)
With only two things in common; their love of and loyalty to a certain blonde paramedic, he doesn't feel the need to fill the silence with bullshit small talk. Instead they speak in chairs pulled out and cups pushed across the counter, in tired smiles and the rustle of paper as a crossword puzzle is passed back and forth - the scratching of their pencils the loudest form of communication between them.
As much as he hates to admit it, he knows Leslie is right; it's only a matter of time before his inevitable crash and burn. But just sitting, just being, with someone who has no demands, has no expectations for him to be a better man, allows him to stay in his bubble of denial for a little bit longer.
And that's just as addicting as the pills he doesn't have stored in his locker.