This chapter will be a short one. In light of what's happened this week, dealing with some of the subject matter was more difficult. I - as I'm sure everyone reading this will do - will keep anyone suffering real-life tragedies this holiday season in my thoughts and prayers.
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He was kissing her neck and lingering on that spot that he knew oh-so-well. His hands were both rough and gentle as they moved toward her back, taking their inevitable course.
And all she could think about was the small tracking device she'd just planted inside his coat as he showered.
The touch that had once set her on fire now chaffed, and she pushed him away. It was just a reflex, so he shouldn't have looked so hurt. Or perhaps the reflex – the instinct – was why he had every reason to be hurt.
"It's been a long time," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted…"
He couldn't finish it, or maybe the root of it all could be boiled down to that one word.
Want.
"I have -"
"Please, don't say you have a headache, Greenlee." The grin held no humor. "I think we've moved past that excuse."
Fine, if he wanted honesty when he was capable of providing none himself, then she'd give it to him. "I have questions."
He pulled on his pants, obviously feeling that the night's mission could be written off as a failure. Truthfully, she was not altogether sad about his lack of initiative.
"I've told you, I can't talk about my -"
"Cases that are obviously more important than spending Thanksgiving with your kids, I know." She didn't mention their own lack of a Thanksgiving together, and she didn't stop to wonder why.
"That's not fair, Greenlee."
"Oh, I think it's very fair, Ryan."
She'd actually supported his need to 'rediscover' himself after what had happened at that mansion. The sad fact was, not one person who was there that night truly left as the same person. So if her wayward fiancé wanted to fuse his former con-man ways with his ever-present hero complex and go all PI Joe, then who was good ole' Green Butterfly to stand in the Dynamite Kiddo's way?
Little things like bloody shirtsleeves had a way of changing perspectives, though.
He had already turned his back to her, so when he simply asked, "Do you want me to take the couch?" she really had to resist the urge to kick him to said couch.
It could never be that easy with them, though. And she was tired. Yes, she could blame everything on the fog rapidly descending around her eyes. "Let's just go to bed," she finally said.
#
He kissed her, and she was lost in wonderfully familiar, rational irrationality. His parting left her panting, and she reached, reached for him…to him…
He was in the shadows, but the area beside her on the bed held a still-sleeping form.
She should watch those easy, steady movements. Her eyes, however, craved the darkness. The shadows.
"Who are you?" she asked, although she couldn't say if the words ever found form.
They must have.
They must have, because she heard the response just as clearly.
Felt it.
"You know."
Just as her fingers felt, then clasped the soft fabric in her hand.
She didn't awaken with a pulse-pounding, sweat-soaked start, but with a rhythmic, persistent drumbeat. Greenlee pressed one hand against her chest.
Behind her, a groan broke the quiet, followed by a tense "No, no." She turned briefly toward the empty space between them. Ryan had settled back into an easy, if not peaceful sleep.
Greenlee reassumed their former, familiar positions: back-to-back. Her eyes, once again, searched the shadows.
####
It cleared.
It always cleared, and he felt every difference. The wrong curves, the wrong marks, the wrong soft skin, and the wrong set of dark eyes.
The mouth, and oh had he attacked it so voraciously before…those tempting lips that had made him forget now only served as bitter reinforcement.
Where the tiny part and the teasing smile should have been there was only swollen, trembling skin too much like his own.
He should have kissed her again, more tenderly. Maybe he should have held her in his arms and let her relinquish, let her surrender her control in a better way. A healthier way.
Maybe when he rolled onto his back and let the chilled air dry them, maybe when he stared at that blank ceiling, maybe he should have shattered the tense quiet that always settled afterward with a simple word.
Maybe he should have stayed.
Maybe then the too-familiar ritual could have been broken.
One knock, only one now. No logic, no communication but the tearing, ripping. Chasing away the quiet by filling it with more primal sounds. Full exposure while risking no exposure. Pushing piles of unidentifiable meaningless nothings off the table, the wall, the bed, any available surface.
It was always rough, quick, but just long enough…just long enough to get lost. To pound and wail and gnash at the memories; to preserve them in their precious box.
Two people joined by their paralysis, their instructions that they weren't objective enough, weren't detached enough. Two people who by God would be joined by something other than the one thing that now defined their lives.
Maybe Jesse should have stayed with Liza.
He never could.
####
It wasn't the slender red dress with that tantalizing slit that she liked to save for special occasions. It wasn't the lacy little black number for really special occasions. Hell, it wasn't even his ultimate kryptonite: the Red Wings jersey. that covered, well, just enough. And too damn much.
It was just a wrinkled, slightly torn and oversized tee marked not with perfume, but with the remnant's of Ian's latest masterpiece. And by God, if he didn't get it off of her right now…
She pushed away from his spirited appraisal of her neck with a smirk.
His growl into her collarbone brought a chuckle… Not the light, airy chuckle, but that other one that drove him…
"Easy, tiger."
He growled again, and his lips were peppering well-timed kisses between always-intrusive words. "Tigers…are…overrated."
"It's not an optimal time on our schedule, you know."
He looked at the flickering screen, complete with the suited-up guy, the rain-soaked girl, and their candlelight dinner that defied even a rainstorm. Perfect plans go awry.
His calloused thumb traced a soft cheek and, as always, he marveled at the inconsistency, the dichotomy, the paradox that somehow always made perfect sense. His breath left a trail of small bumps as first his nose, then his lips brushed an earlobe, releasing a faint breeze that carried a very clear message. "I love you.'
His hand was finding warm and very responsive skin underneath that shirt. A few brushes and a well-placed pinch, and schedules did that thing they always did best: disappeared.
"This is my settled-in, old lady look," she offered breathlessly.
Zach's exploration stopped just long enough to offer a suggestion. "How about this old lady settles in with her old man in their old bedroom?"
She grabbed his hand and proceeded to show him just how receptive she was to that suggestion.
#
He'd never been a dreamer. But he'd had the free-falling, jump-awake moment a few too many times to count. As a kid, it was practically his morning wake-up ritual.
This, this was different. At least with falling, there was some freedom. Some sense of escape. Not the rapidly closing walls of blackness. Not the...
With effort, he pried his fingers from the death-grip they'd had on the sheets since he woke up a few minutes earlier. They ached from the tension, and from basic need. He moved closer and wrapped each finger around its perfect complement: its other half.
Zach had never been a dreamer, but sometimes...sometimes he was a believer.
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I would like to end on a positive note by passing along something that you may or may not have heard already. Over the past couple of weeks, some reputable individuals and sites have suggested that ABC may be mulling over ideas to resurrect AMC and OLTL in some form or fashion once they get the full rights back in January. Seems the powers that be may be having 'buyer's remorse' in regards to some decisions they have made. It might be a long shot, but there's always hope...