Second
301 Drabble
by
elfin
~ Tom ~
God, he’s beautiful. I’d forgotten.
And for a moment I have no
idea what I’d be expected to say.
He sticks his hand out and I
stare at it. He throws some random
insult, I attack, hands around his throat, wanting to touch, living
dangerously.
He doesn’t push back, waits
for Harry to split us up but his eyes never leave mine and his smile
doesn’t
fade.
He has my life, I remind
him. Some things never change. He touches my arm, tells me not to worry, and
I almost smile back at him, almost tell him how fucking good he looks.
~ Adam ~
When I heard the
news I
couldn’t believe it. Even Fee looked at
me with raised eyebrows. I told her
about Tom Quinn. She wanted every detail.
We met at Tring after I got
home from Yemen. Walked out of
one hospital straight into another. Went
a bit crazy for a little while, couldn’t think past the echo of a siren
in my
head and the memories of the terrors I’d been introduced to.
Tom had lost a colleague in
the line of duty – a woman who’d been killed right in front of him in…
nasty
circumstances.
I refused to talk to the
shrinks. So did he. Instead
Tom and I talked to each other, in
the silence of the grounds, the quiet of the house after midnight. His guilt, my
fear; the wounds healing over slowly.
The first time he touched me,
just the vaguest stroking of his fingers across the back of my neck, it
was
electric, like he’d touched every over-stimulated nerve at once. All I’d felt in too long was pain.
As he undressed me, every
movement slow and deliberate, he reintroduced me to my own body, to
what felt
good and what felt amazing. He was the
best therapy I could have asked for.
And Harry Pearce has given me
the chance to repay him for saving me.
It’s why I talk Carmen into
killing herself after she’s confessed.
Her death is my way of thanking him.
Out here in the real world it’s the only way I can think of.
~ Tom ~
We both need a
shower.
Naïve to think we can keep it
just about water and soap.
His long fingers crush into
the aching muscles in my shoulders, flat wrists against the curve of my
spine.
There’s still something
achingly vulnerable about him, the raw wounds of his torture still so
close to
the surface. His eyes tell a story few
could bare to read.
He kisses with all the
passion he feels, gives himself over, body and soul.
He’s the only one who didn’t
believe the set up for a second. He’s
the only one who hasn’t looked at me with suspicion.
If we’d met on the beach just after I’d shot
Harry, I still think he’d have believed me.
It means more than I want to
admit.
He slides against me, our
hands, mine on top of his, keeping us together.
It’s desperate, almost brutal, and when I come it’s with a yell
of
triumph. I’ve beaten them, I’ve proved
them wrong. I feel like I’m standing on
top of the world and nothing – no one – can touch me.
It’s a dangerous place. A long way to fall.
He was here long before me.
Little do I know he’ll be
here long after me.