AN: A new modern take on my OTP, plus some additional holiday spirits.
I don't own the characters, although I really enjoy playing with them.
He had a dream. It must have been a dream. It got to be a dream.
One of those rare, wonderful dreams in which, for once, he had his desires fulfilled.
John keeps his eyes closed to better recall the images. He dreamt of a beautiful woman, of that beautiful woman of his office, kissing him. And then he dreamt about both of them sharing his bed and ragged breathing. It has been a wonderful dream indeed, with that irreal intensity that only belongs to his imagination.
Because if it isn't a dream, it will certainly become a nightmare of humongous proportions.
Still not daring to open his eyes, he takes a deep breath. He wants to kid himself that there is nothing strange about the air surrounding him. It is all normal. A regular albeit a little hung over morning, finding him tired of a very rare night of indulgence and celebration.
Nothing strange.
Of course, the second deep breath is like a slap in the face. There is no use to try to lie to himself. It will only make the truth all the more difficult to face. And now said truth has taken the form of a flowery scent filling his senses. A scent that was usually absent from his bedroom.
Because, it was his bedroom, wasn't it?
John risks opening his right eye a little. There is the nightstand, the lamp, the book he was reading two nights before. The curtains. Silvery sunlight entering through a gap. All so very reassuringly familiar.
Why then, is he so scared of opening his left eye as well?
Because he is being a coward. That is it and he knows it. But he can pretend he isn't for a while longer, can't he?
Movement next to his body told him otherwise. Coward or not, he has to face it. He has to face the fact that he is not alone. He opens both his eyes and, slowly, turns his head to the left, only to turn it back to the right in less than a second. A glimpse of golden hair cascading over a pillow. The form of a woman, lying on her stomach, hugging said pillow. Naked shoulders while the rest of the body is wrapped in his sheets. A body that, he knows, is very naked. Just like his.
He wants to groan, to yell, to hit his head hard against something. He does nothing of the sort, but looks at her again. Despite having moved a little, she seems to be fast asleep, her breathing deep and even. He wishes he could see her face, but then that will mean she could see his as well and he is definitely not ready for that. Truth to be told, he is not ready for anything at the moment.
Except maybe run for it.
No. He's no expert on one-night stands etiquette, but he is certain running from it is not the best policy.
First things first. Clothes. And getting off bed, away from the warmth of her body and the fantastic smell of her skin. Which is almost like running from it, only he won't go very far.
With a movement that makes his right knee protest as it hasn't in a long while - what exactly has he done the night before? - he stands up and heads outside the room and into the bathroom, without as much as a glance back.
She sighs, relieved. It took him forever to finally wake up and get off bed. What has he been waiting for all along? For her to wake up? Pillow talk? More sex?
It has been one of the most difficult things ever to stay still and try to keep her breathing even and slow, knowing very well that the man she has slept with was lying right next to her, awake, considering the sound of his constant fidgeting.
Suppressing a groan, Anna risks opening her eyes a slid. Their discarded clothes are all over the floor, her black bra on top of it all. The sight of it makes her feel hot in the face.
She closes her eyes again, listening intently. Water is running nearby. He must be in the bathroom. Could she possibly get out of bed, get dressed and leave his flat while he's in there? No, she can't. She won't be such a coward. It is bad enough to have a one night stand with a man that works for the same company than you do. Run for it will certainly make it infinitely worse when they eventually came face to face, as they are bound to.
She takes a deep breath. His scent is everywhere, maybe even on her own skin. She recognises his aftershave, a little touch of alcohol, only that might be hers, and something else that is distinctively his. Or so she learned the night before, when they were sharing certainly more than a bed. Has she at some point kissed his chest? She now groans aloud, muffling the sound on the pillow. Yes. She has a very clear memory of having done exactly that.
The sound of water stops and she stays absolutely still, her breath hitched in her throat.
Will he come to the bedroom again?
Will she be able to keep on pretending she is asleep?
Anna hears his steps getting closer and begs for him not to go back to bed. He does nothing of the sort, and a moment later, after the sound of fabric against fabric, she hears him walking away again.
It has to be now or never. She will get dressed at top speed, face him, and get out as fast as possible. And if she manages to get hit in the head by a gigantic truck so she can forget what happened, all the better.
She manages to do the first, having to untangle her knickers from the leg of his pants at top speed and realising just in time she was putting her jumper backwards. She fixes it and wishes for there to be a mirror, so she can at least be sure she doesn't look as messy as she feels. She can't find one of her socks anywhere and decides she doesn't really need it in the future, as she puts her boots on. Of course, that's a lie. Blisters on her toe in five minutes' time will make her regret the loss of said sock, but there is no time to dwell on that right now.
She looks around. Bag, check. Coat, check. Dignity, lost forever.
It won't get any better than this.
With a deep breath, she heads towards the corridor. If she recalls correctly, the exit should be at the end of it.
The penetrating scent of fresh brewed coffee makes her stop in her tracks. She could kill for a cup of that. Only, of course, there is one thing standing between her and that coffee. One somebody.
"Good morning," he says, rather hoarsely.
She feels her cheeks aflame. "Morning."
He is wearing a t-shirt and boxers, and she does her best to try not to look at him too much.
"I just made… would you like some coffee?" He seems to be as uncomfortable as she feels. No pillow talk later, then. Well, that's certainly a relief.
"Er… no, thanks. I'll be off, actually."
"Right," he says, awkwardly balancing her arms at his sides. She can't help to look and she almost gasps, as she sees the tip of what is unmistakably her missing sock, hanging from the elastic of his boxers. Lost forever too, then, definitely. He seems to be oblivious to the fact and she is not going to point it out. Not that it's her favourite pair of socks or anything.
"So…" she realises the two of them have been silent for a long moment. "I guess I'll see you around, then." She cringes. What a terrible thing to say. She doesn't want to see him around. Ever.
"Yeah… Do you… er… want a lift?"
"No, no," she almost cries. "I'll be fine. Bye."
And without waiting for him to walk her to the door, she gets there and a moment later, she is out.