Title: Don't

Author: Tracy

Rating: G

Summary: One word. Don't.

Notes: I was challenged by Kate over at AI to write a drabble fic based around the word 'don't.' It wouldn't fit in a drabble, so I extended it. It's still not very long, but it'll do. Horror of horrors - it hasn't really been beta'ed. I'm a bad author. Very bad.

~x~

"Don't."

One word. That's all it took to turn his well-ordered world to chaos. One little word, requested by a small and determined woman. One little word, uttered with a slight waver in her voice that he knew he had no chance of holding out against. One little word, and he was cast astray from his secure anchorage in reason and routine and sent hurtling into a brand new world where black was white and up was down.

He looked at her, momentarily resentful that she should ask this of him. This hadn't been in the original game plan; she'd changed the rules when he wasn't looking and he was left with no idea of what the next play would be. For a split second he considered forfeiting; leaving the game and conceding defeat. It should have been easy. But then . . . then there was that waver that wouldn't let him be, and the knowledge that this wasn't the type of game that you conceded in a fit of pique.

His mind fumbled to form an adequate response, something that would allow him to turn back time so that word was never spoken. It failed; all of the words except that one had disappeared, and he found himself teetering on the last crumbling ledge of his world, about to fall into hers.

Her eyes met his and he was stunned when he noticed a vulnerability that he'd never seen before. He blinked: vulnerable was a word that he'd never thought to use in conjunction with her, and that threw him almost as much as her request did. He was still reeling from this revelation when he felt his hostility vanish as though it had never been, and that too surprised him.

One little word, loaded with all the unspoken subtleties and consequences that a word can be loaded with, and he knew that he was going to break their primary rule.

'Thou shalt leave after the gratifying yet impersonal sex and we shall both pretend it didn't happen.' Only, who had they been trying to kid? Each other? They should have known it wouldn't be that simple. They should have known that it couldn't last. They just. . . should have known better.

He climbed back into the bed, spooning behind her and winding his arm around her waist. He'd stay because she asked him. He'd stay because the idea of living in a world askew with her made more sense than living in an aligned one without her.

He'd stay because he wanted to.