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Dec. 19th, 2004 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helsinkibabyTitle: In the Middle of the Night
Fandom: CSI Miami
Pairing: Speed/Calleigh
Rating: PG, angst
Spoilers: Season three
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lasairfhiona, whose prompt was Speed/Calleigh, the ocean and a full moon.
The dream, when it comes, is always the same.
They are on a deserted beach, the light of the full moon dancing across the rippling ocean, a thousand stars shining in the sky. His hand is in hers, real and solid as they walk in silence, and even though it’s night-time, even though her long hair moves in the breeze, she feels no cold, and the sand is warm beneath her bare feet.
In the dream, she wears a dress the like of which she would never buy in a million years; a glorified night-gown, long and flimsy, swirling around her ankles while leaving her shoulders and arms bare. She would never buy it, would never wear it, but in the dream, she loves it, and more than that, she loves the look in his eyes when he looks at her wearing it.
She should, she thinks, be offended by that, because she’s never wanted to be judged on her looks. How can she be, though, when she’s harbouring much the same thoughts about him? He’s wearing pale blue jeans, his feet bare like hers, and one of his many over-sized shirts, this one pristine white, the first few buttons open, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
They walk in silence for what seems like miles, the only two people on the beach, and she stops when he does, turns to him and steps into his embrace. Her arms slide around his waist, holding onto him for dear life, and one of his hands tangles in her hair as the other one slides up and down her back. His chin rests against her head, and his breath moves through her hair, sending shivers up and down her spine, and when he pulls away, looks down at her, she wants to cry.
She doesn’t though; instead reaches up to touch his cheek, the stubble she finds there prickly against her palm, and it makes her smile. The faintest of sad smiles touches his lips too, and he leans towards her, his intentions obvious.
She wants to tell him to stop, because she knows what will happen, but she’s no more able to speak than she could turn back time, and God knows, she’d love to do that too.
Because when his lips are a hair’s breadth from hers, close enough to feel his breath on her lips, close enough to smell the cologne he always wore, what always happens happens.
She wakes up.
She wakes up and runs her hand down flat sheets where he used to lie, and tears smart in her throat, in her eyes as she remembers all the times that she would wake up in the middle of the night to see him sleeping there. Sometimes he would wake too, would hold her, talk to her until they both fell back asleep. Other times, he would sleep on, and she would simply press her body closer to his, close her eyes and be back asleep in minutes.
But he’s not there any more, and every time she wakes in the middle of the night, she misses him all over again.
Fandom: CSI Miami
Pairing: Speed/Calleigh
Rating: PG, angst
Spoilers: Season three
Notes: For
lasairfhiona, whose prompt was Speed/Calleigh, the ocean and a full moon. The dream, when it comes, is always the same.
They are on a deserted beach, the light of the full moon dancing across the rippling ocean, a thousand stars shining in the sky. His hand is in hers, real and solid as they walk in silence, and even though it’s night-time, even though her long hair moves in the breeze, she feels no cold, and the sand is warm beneath her bare feet.
In the dream, she wears a dress the like of which she would never buy in a million years; a glorified night-gown, long and flimsy, swirling around her ankles while leaving her shoulders and arms bare. She would never buy it, would never wear it, but in the dream, she loves it, and more than that, she loves the look in his eyes when he looks at her wearing it.
She should, she thinks, be offended by that, because she’s never wanted to be judged on her looks. How can she be, though, when she’s harbouring much the same thoughts about him? He’s wearing pale blue jeans, his feet bare like hers, and one of his many over-sized shirts, this one pristine white, the first few buttons open, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
They walk in silence for what seems like miles, the only two people on the beach, and she stops when he does, turns to him and steps into his embrace. Her arms slide around his waist, holding onto him for dear life, and one of his hands tangles in her hair as the other one slides up and down her back. His chin rests against her head, and his breath moves through her hair, sending shivers up and down her spine, and when he pulls away, looks down at her, she wants to cry.
She doesn’t though; instead reaches up to touch his cheek, the stubble she finds there prickly against her palm, and it makes her smile. The faintest of sad smiles touches his lips too, and he leans towards her, his intentions obvious.
She wants to tell him to stop, because she knows what will happen, but she’s no more able to speak than she could turn back time, and God knows, she’d love to do that too.
Because when his lips are a hair’s breadth from hers, close enough to feel his breath on her lips, close enough to smell the cologne he always wore, what always happens happens.
She wakes up.
She wakes up and runs her hand down flat sheets where he used to lie, and tears smart in her throat, in her eyes as she remembers all the times that she would wake up in the middle of the night to see him sleeping there. Sometimes he would wake too, would hold her, talk to her until they both fell back asleep. Other times, he would sleep on, and she would simply press her body closer to his, close her eyes and be back asleep in minutes.
But he’s not there any more, and every time she wakes in the middle of the night, she misses him all over again.
