Disclaimer: I don't own ER. This is just a little drabble that came to me when I was trying to sleep the other night, hope you enjoy, as always I love reviews.
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He's not sure what wakes him from his dream, all he knows is that he wishes it hadn't. His bed feels empty without her in it, not that she's ever been in it apart from in his dreams.
Another crash from somewhere nearby pulls him from his warm sheets, bleary eyed, wearing only boxers and socks, he can't help it, he's always had cold feet.
The apartment's dark, only an eerie glow sneaking its way out of the kitchen. He pads across to it, the cushioning in his socks muffling his steps. He's fairly sure of what he's going to find, a burglar could never be as noisy as his roomie.
His wildest dreams, he's had many since he's met her and she's featured in them all, couldn't possibly match the sight in front of him as he enters the room. Cans and jars, packets and boxes litter the worktop and at the far end, beside the stove, stretching up to reach a lone box of cereal, is his roomie.
He knows he should say something, let her know that he's there at least, but the view too good to spoil it. She's wearing an oversize black t-shirt and a pair of panties, he can see the lace peaking out when she leans forward, and not much else. If it had been anyone else he would be asking what the hell she's doing but she's the woman of his dreams, just minutes before he was exploring her body, caressing her curves, and here she is, half naked, in front of him.
She turns towards him and any attempt at an apology, or explanation to his presence, stumbles on his lips. The t-shirt she's wearing is his. His. He bought it at a gig, years ago, for the life of him he can't remember the band's name, though he's not trying too hard, and the letters that are resting on her chest make no sense to him.
He tries to shake himself, tries to pull himself together, and all those other sayings, but all he manages is a 'Hey' as he unconsciously scratches his stomach.
She starts, a small yelp leaving her parted lips, as she sees him, her concentration finally broken.
He's unaware that he's moving forward, that now he's standing right in front of her, her breath turning to droplets on his bare skin. There's a tightening in his groin, and he really hopes she doesn't look down, or move closer, no, that's a lie, that's what he wants her to do. She's gazing up at him, thankfully, her eyes full of questions and, if he lets himself believe it, something else. If he leans forward, again he's unaware of his body's movement, he'd be able to feel her lips against his, taste her, feel her, kiss her.
'Isn't that my shirt? ' he's unsure of where the words come from, only registers that he's said them when he sees the confusion flick across her eyes.
She steps backwards, and he feels the air chill with her distance, 'Yeah, I rather like sleeping in it.'
He can tell that there's more to her words than what she's saying, but she's still too close for his brain to function, still too much bare skin tantalising his eyes for the questions to form.
She takes another step back, and another, until she's out of the room, across the hall and slipping into her bedroom, her only words, a whispered 'Good night.'
The next night there's no crashes to wake him, no frenzied, cleaning roomie to disturb his sleep. It wouldn't matter anyway, he's not asleep, he's lying in his bed, the black t-shirt in his hands, staring at the ceiling. She moved out earlier, she packed her bags, and now she's gone. He can hear her words, her voice, on repeat in his head 'I rather like sleeping in it '.