For The Windows In Paradise
By: LaLaLovely47
Rating: Let's say PG-15 to be safe
Disclaimer: I don't own GA, although I wish I had McDreamy, McSteamy and/or McVet.
A/N: My take on the infamous last scenes, and afterwards. This is my very first GA fic (hell, my very first fic other than Alias), so please be kind.
Recommended Soundtrack: To Be Alone With You by Sufjan Stevens
--
In slow motion, the blast is beautiful.
--
There is no more waiting.
There are no more longing looks, stolen glances, forbidden touches, or lost words lingering on your lips.
In the blink of an eye, you finally collide, after throttling towards each other at breakneck speeds for what seems like an eternity.
You rediscover each other quickly, fingers roaming and unbuttoning, hearts beating and breaking, minds confused and happy. You sigh heavily as her small hands run down your back, a trail of sated exhilaration running behind them.
You pause your hands and halt your mouth, hovering over her lips with a question in your eyes, and waiting is like pure agony. It has been - maybe - three seconds, but it feels like you have continually been in this position.
Haven't you?
You look into her eyes, and she seems sad and scared and damaged, but you realize it is only your reflection staring back at you as you crash together again.
Her long, wavy hair brushes across your skin, leaving excruciating tentacles of fire across your burning flesh. You remember her telling you a secret. That her hair was naturally curly - the bane of her existence. When you laughed softly, it actually hurt her - she told you that she had gotten teased for having such curly hair when she was little. And so you watched her as she meticulously blow dried her hair around a large, round brush that mimicked the shape of her current waves. Because you wanted to know everything about her - she was everything you weren't and everything you had never known before.
She is perfection. She is crazy and unchaste and hurt (and you think she is still broken), but she is perfect, and truly, in your heart, she can do no wrong.
You kissed her that day. You wish you could go back and promise her that you would kiss her every day for the rest of your lives. But you can't, because you didn't.
You can smell her clean perfume and the heady, inebriating scent of the lotion she applies liberally - coconut and lily, she once told you - as it floats into your nostrils and intoxicates you with everything she is. Everything you have been, and everything you hope to be. It nearly makes you cry in happiness.
You can taste the omnipresent cherry Chapstick on her lips and the faint flavor of kettle corn, which you know she was snacking on all through the night, thrilled that "the Prom Committee" had decided to put out her favorite snack.
You know that about her. You know a lot about her. You wonder if she knows as much about you.
You truly know her - don't you?
--
You look into his eyes as you tumble over the edge, and they are the purest, darkest, deepest shade of blue that you have ever seen reflecting back at you. Of all the times you have gotten lost in his oceanic, soulful eyes, you have never seen them so honest and relieved. You think you can count the slivers of gold that have been sprinkled throughout the deep sapphire, but you lose count at three, your mind preoccupied with things more important than finding flecks of gilded iris in his near black eyes.
Somewhere downstairs, you can hear the opening riffs of a song by The Clash. Of course - his favorite band. One of the very few details about him that you have logged in your mind. You were so surprised when you found out - you had him pegged as a man of Coldplay or even Bruce Springsteen. But his favorite band was the Clash - since then, you've thrown out the few cd's of The Clash you own.
Your eyes drift closed as you melt into him, your hands shaking with release as they dig into his strong shoulders. His talented hands are spread wide against your back and support your weight, not letting you fall against the table.
You wish he had kept you from falling a long time ago. 'What have I done?' you think as the familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach finds its ordinary resting place and the tiny voice in the back of your mind makes yet another appearance.
'Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.' He was right. You're a whore.
But he made you that way.
--
"Meredith?"
How can one word possibly mean so much? His voice is full of expectance...like he has a right to expect something from you. He has no right to look at you the way he does or speak to you the way he does. The way that makes the room around you swim and the permanent butterflies in your stomach flutter. He really doesn't.
Does he?
Even so, you know your decision before you know it. You know you can't drag this on any longer without ruining yourself or those around you.
"I..." you begin, but before you even part your lips, the room begins to spin and your chest feels like it is collapsing in on itself...you can't breathe...and the world to you goes black.
