a/n: wow, thanks for the responses, guys. :) it's been awhile, so i feel sorta rusty, and i admit it's a bit of a challenge writing for someone who's only spent a few minutes on screen. this is fun, though, and reviews always keep things going for me for sure. i admit these next few bits are a little intense and a little angsty, but bear with me, okay? i've got a plan, i swear...
o ~ 0 ~ o
When she wakes up, it's dark in the room, and she blinks, trying to adjust to the light, still feeling groggy. Propping herself up on her elbows, she realizes he is in the room, at his closet.
"Hey," he says quietly, snapping on a small table lamp. "Sorry. I was getting clothes out for tomorrow. Did I wake you?"
She shakes her head, blinking again, trying to pull herself up to a sitting position and wincing at the effort.
"You want another Vicodin?"
She shakes her head no, but wonders if she should just take it. Her rib is aching like a bitch – it almost seems worse than before he took her to the hospital.
He sits on the bed next to her, shaking one from the bottle on the bedside table into his palm anyway. "Here. "
Her ponytail is almost completely gone, and she shoves at the loose strands hanging in her eyes. Great. I probably look awesome right about now.
She rubs her eyes to clear them, still wearing her robe, and she can smell him on her clothes now, from sleeping in his sheets. It feels intimate, nice. It's the first time in a long time that she can remember having the smell of a man on her skin and not wanting desperately to shower.
She's warm, though, from all the blankets, and she tugs the robe off, handing it to him clumsily, and he looks at her awkwardly for a moment, like he doesn't know what to do with it. She notices his eyes drop to her chest – she's not wearing a bra under the tank top she has on.
It should bother her, him looking at her like that. At least now, lying in his bed, beat to hell, drugged up and tired. But it doesn't. It makes her shiver, suddenly, her stomach flipping, and she finally takes the pill he's offering, swallowing it down with the glass of water next to her, watching him watch her throat as she does it.
In the low light of the room, she can see it in his eyes, still there, along with the fear. Those feelings, they've both been there, hand in hand, since they met that fist day all those months ago, and she knows how much he's battled it, this attraction to her, and his guilt over it.
She decides that right now, she doesn't care. And the sudden rush of power she feels over him is as attractive to her as anything else about him.
Even with her ribs protesting, she suddenly reaches out, grabbing onto the tie he's still wearing, pulling him closer and pressing her mouth against his.
He stiffens instantly, jerking back an inch, but she's got his tie wrapped firmly around her fist. His hand covers hers, but he doesn't tug it from the silk. He just looks at her, so conflicted and unsure.
She inches closer, brushing her lips against his. He swallows, but stays put, and she licks his lower lip, pulling it into her mouth, and she feels him give up, give in, let go.
His hand slips into her hair, his fingers finally pulling it completely free from the elastic tie, and he tilts his head slightly, kissing her back.
She expected him to be more aggressive, but he kisses her gently, as if he's unhurried, and her pulse racing, she shifts her body closer. When she opens her mouth a little, he sweeps his tongue inside, and she realizes the whimper she hears comes from her own mouth.
Still drowsy from the drugs, she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him back with her on the bed, and he follows, careful to prop himself above her to protect her battered torso from his weight.
He tastes like ginger and coffee, and smells masculine and clean, and she kisses him like she kisses someone who she wants, who she likes, not someone who sees her and gets out his wallet. She runs her hands along the broad and hard muscles of his shoulders, sliding down to the bare part of his arms and up again, her fingers under the hem of the sleeve.
His mouth is soft, his tongue velvety, and he kisses her deeply but gently, tracing the inside of her mouth, gliding over the pearl of her teeth, and she feels dizzy. Sliding her hands around his waist to his back, she tugs his shirt free from his pants gliding her fingers against his bare skin, pressing against his lower back to bring his body against hers as she tilts her hips up, despite the protest in her ribcage.
But he pulls back suddenly, his breathing uneven. "Summer –"
"Kimball," she murmurs against his lips. "Don't stop."
"We have to," he says, untangling himself from her and sitting up, running his hands over his face. "You're hurt, and I'm –"
"What?" she challenges. "Taking advantage?"
"Yes."
Her heart thumps, and it hurts, that he says it. She reaches for him, and he jumps up, off the bed, away from her, and she's too sore to follow. She feels her lower lip tremble, his rejection stinging more than she would have assumed it could.
Getting ahold of herself, she sticks her chin out slightly, clenching her teeth. "I need to go to the bathroom."
He's a few feet from her, out of the direct glow of the lamp on his dresser, and he nods. "You need help?"
She scoffs, and he clears his throat, clearly embarrassed. "Getting up, I mean. Walking there."
"No," she mutters, pulling up the strap on her tank top that his hand had pushed down over her shoulder. "I just need my crutches."
He hands them to her, but she struggles to get off the bed. She still feels groggy, and his bed is low – it's hard to push herself up to the height of the crutches.
He takes them from her instead, picking her up again, and she grips him to hold on, but glares at him crossly. "Quit carrying me."
He sets her down gently at the door of the bathroom, and she can see that she can get herself around inside by holding on to the sink and against the wall – it's not that big.
He doesn't look at her as he reaches to shut the door. "Let me know when you're done."
Standing in front of the mirror, she pushes her hair out of her eyes, gazing at her reflection. The bruise around her eye is shifting to a darker purple, but the swelling has gone down, her eye open normally. The marks on her neck are more noticeable, and she tilts her head from side to side, checking out the damage. No wonder he doesn't want to touch her. She looks like a punching bag, and her face is beat up because some guy she took money from so he could fuck her liked it rough.
Trembling, she sinks down to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, reaching out to touch her lips with the very tips of her fingers. Men kiss her – she's no Pretty Woman who doesn't allow it. But no one's ever kissed her like that before, like they wanted to kiss her purely for the pleasure of it, not as some pretense to a main event.
She's so curious about him, and it stings that he doesn't want her – not enough to get over his own hang-ups, anyway. She's trash to him, someone who has information that helps him out, and she makes him hard, sure, but he wishes that she didn't. Frustrated at the tears that sting her eyes, she tugs a sheet of toilet paper from the roll next to her, swiping at her cheeks.
o ~ 0 ~ o
Sitting in the darkness of his living room, he stares at his bedroom door, his fingers tightly gripping the glass of bourbon in his hand. He'd had to dig to the back of his cupboard for it – he hasn't bought anything stronger than beer in ages.
Sighing, he leans back against the sofa, rubbing his forehead, setting the glass on his thigh. He needs to get her out of here tomorrow. He can repair the door of her apartment, or pay her super to do it, but Brenner is still a possible risk, and with Summer beat to hell the way she is, she wouldn't even be able to run from him or fight back.
It's a probably a long shot that the man would put two and two together, but he still feels sick to his stomach at the thought of her alone in that apartment. He wonders if he can talk Grace into letting her stay at her place for awhile, or Lisbon. Neither of them would particularly like it, but Wayne would be putty in that girl's hands.
And she sure as fuck can't stay here.
He closes his eyes, pressing his hand on the heavy feeling in his crotch. He can't believe he kissed her like that, let anything happen, touched her. And he knows he hurt her again, jumping away from her like that. He'd seen her expression, caught the tightening in her jaw.
Truth is, he's gloriously, horribly fucked when it comes to this girl, because he continuously finds himself doing and saying things without thinking. And that's what he does, always. He thinks first, acts second. It's safe that way, it's smart - it's the best way to survive in a world like this, the world he's in. He should know that better than anyone.
Her fingers on his skin had felt light, delicate, whispering down his back. Despite waking from a deep, narcotic-induced sleep, she'd tasted clean, her tongue tangling with his, her body straining toward him.
Whatever game she's playing, he will not get swept up in it. He can't. Summer lives in a world where sex is currency, and whatever she wants from him, he's not selling, no matter how drawn to her he feels.
He takes another sip of bourbon, holding it in his mouth, letting it sting. Tries to think of how long it's been… months, not since he and Elise split. He pictures his ex-girlfriend's face, her easy smile, her soft eyes. Yeah, it's been awhile, which explains a lot.
Except Elise doesn't stay in his thoughts. As soon as he closes his eyes, he sees platinum blonde hair and lips quirking up in a knowing smile. He sees deep, rich, chocolate brown eyes gazing at him heatedly, feels the silky skin of her shoulder under his fingers, feels the taut tips of her breasts against his chest as she tugs him against her, hears her small moan.
"Fuck," he breathes, tossing back the rest of his drink. "Goddammit."
o ~ 0 ~ o
His eyes snap open at the sound. Sitting up and kicking off the blanket he's thrown over his legs, he hears another moan come from behind his bedroom door and he freezes, his heart pounding.
Blearily searching for his t-shirt in the dark, he can't find it, and he pulls himself to his feet, pausing outside his door, pulling his watch up to see what time it is. Nearly 4am.
Swallowing, he still hesitates, unsure what to do. If she's in pain, she might need another pill.
"NO."
He hears it clearly, and his hesitation is over. Pushing open his door, he walks swiftly to his bed, looking down at her.
Her eyes are clenched tightly shut, her body snapped into a defensive curl, like a little pill bug, her fingers fisted in the blanket.
A nightmare. It must be. His heart pounding, he sits down, reaching out, but once again hesitating before touching her.
"Summer," he whispers loudly, trying to wake her.
She moans, her whole body going rigid, and he snaps on the light by his bed, seeing the dampness around her tightly closed eyes, her nostrils flaring in distress.
"Summer," he tries again, louder. "Hey, wake up. You're safe, okay?"
It does nothing to calm her, or wake her from whatever she's trapped in, so he gives up, touching her arm, trying to tug the blanket out of her fist.
She wakes up swinging, crying out at the pain it undoubtedly causes her, and he grabs her quickly, locking his arms around her like a vice to keep her still instead of squirming, to protect her ribs as well as himself.
"Hey, hey, hey," he soothes, his mouth by her ear, trying to keep his tone low. "Easy, Summer. Easy. It's me."
She sucks in a breath, her whole body going rigid, but he loosens his grip on her slightly, and she lets out a choking sob. "Cho."
"Hey," he murmurs, his hand coming up hesitantly to stroke her hair, trying to comfort her. "Hey, it's okay, alright? You're safe here. I promise."
He feels her body let go suddenly, her hands grabbing onto him, and she presses her face into his chest, her tears rushing out, wet against his bare chest. She's not delicately crying – she's a snotty, hiccupping mess, and she's squirming closer, hanging onto him, gasping air as she cries.
He's so unsure what's best, and he tries to rub her back, to run his fingers over her hair, to hold her close, but she's so worked up, he finally gives in and tugs her onto his lap, enveloping her as much as he can in his embrace, and after a few more moments, she's starting to settle down, her breathing coming more easily, her damp face pressed against his throat. She's still trembling, but at least she's quieted, pulling her knees up against him. He glances down at her feet against his thigh, at her toe poking through the hole in her socks, and he tugs the fabric up and over it, covering her.
He stays still for what seems like an eternity, until finally all he can hear is the sound of both of them breathing. But when he tries to move her off of him, to settle her back onto the mattress, she clutches to him tighter.
"Summer," he murmurs, "Let me just –"
"Don't leave me," she begs, in a whisper. "Please, Cho."
Again, he hesitates. He can't stay with her like this, it's so inappropriate – this whole thing is inappropriate. But when he glances down at her, he sees such fear in her eyes that he knows that, at least for now, this isn't a game. She's scared, and when she blinks, he sees teardrops on the ends of her lashes, sees the dark circle under her eye that isn't already black and blue. She's been through enough.
Wrapping an arm around her, he sinks slowly back onto the sheets, tugging his blanket up around both of them. She shoves a leg between his, pressing against him, and he grits his teeth at her nearness, but she settles after that, her breathing soon steady, her body relaxing, and he knows she's asleep.