Wing Swing Fic
May. 5th, 2006 08:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
melwilI don't have an option to post to the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wingswing community on my update page, and I'm away for the weekend. If someone (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sangerin? mandysbitch? could post it or a link there (if I'm not too late) for me, I'd really appreciate it.
Title:Stories With Embellishments
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG13/R
Spoilers: Up to end of Season 5
Pairing: Donna/Katie
Summary: She pulls away when you touch her
Author's Note: I haven't seen Season 6 or 7. Spoil me for either season and I'll have to come up with some horrendous punishment.
***
She pulls away when you touch her – just a little, just for a moment. Your hands move across the pale expanse of her skin and she just watches. You know she's still seeing bruises that faded months ago.
You lay, with your heads close together, telling stories with embellishments. Her hand traces patterns on your stomach and you resist the urge to grab her fingers. You resist the urge to grab her.
You don't want her to hurt anymore.
*
You stand with the other reporters, pretending not to stare as she walks through the door. Chris smiles at her and Steve raises his hand in a well planned casual wave. You're all trying too hard to pretend that it's just another day.
You're all pretending that Donna Moss didn't just walk through that door for the first time since she left on her trip to the Middle East.
You can already see the stories they are going to write – all about bravery, and service, and resuming the job. All concern over whether she is really ready to take this step. Speculation about how happy she is to be back . . .
She doesn't look happy. Happy people don't look as old or as weary as she looks. They don't look so scared, or so hurt, or so scarred . . .
*
“Katie?”
Her phone call comes out of nowhere, surprising you.
“My mother wanted me to call,” she says. “She asked me to tell you that your story was the best.”
There's a hint of laughter in her voice, but it rings false. She sounds like she needs to talk to someone, and you're about to ask her to join you for a coffee. But common sense halts you and you swallow the suggestion.
You're just a reporter, after all.
*
She sleeps badly, tossing and turning and spending hours staring at the ceiling. You pretend to sleep as she stalks around the apartment. You want her to tell you about the nightmares, but you don't know how to start that conversation.
She squeezes your hand when she returns to bed, and you smile and move closer to her, giving yourself away.
*
She doesn't bring ice cream or red wine when she arrives.
It's not cold, or raining, and she's not dressed in some brightly coloured evening gown.
She stands in the doorway, her eyes turned downwards, leaving a hundred questions floating in the air. How does she know where you live? Why is she here? What does she want? Does she know how you feel?
You close your eyes for a second, before stepping backwards, letting her step through the door.
*
Her hair is soft and it brushes against your skin as she leans over you. Her kisses are harder than you expected and her fingers push deep into your skin. She pull your shirt off too quickly, ignoring the button that tumbles into the corner of the room.
She keeps her eyes closed as her fingers move swiftly.
You moan as she moves, and she covers your mouth in kisses. She leaves kisses down your arm and you can't help but shiver as you shift to be closer to her.
*
She looks out the window as she drinks her coffee.
You watch her and try to remember the things you've heard. There was someone – a photographer – everyone was talking about him. He was the one who took the photographs, the graphic, disturbing pictures that appeared in every American newspaper. He followed her to Germany, went to the hospital to see her . . .
You can't stop the questions forming in your head. You can't help wondering why she is here, why she is with you. She's supposed to be with someone else.
She turns to look at you and smiles. For a moment you allow yourself to be fooled, to be tricked and bewitched, to think that she might actually fall in love with you.
You reach out to touch her and she pulls away from you – just a little, just for a moment, just long enough for you to understand that you're kidding yourself. To understand that there's other reasons for her being here, and you may never uncover them all.
You picked up your coffee cup and look out the window.
You let the questions float, unasked, unanswered. Just floating through the air . . .
wingswing community on my update page, and I'm away for the weekend. If someone (sangerin? mandysbitch? could post it or a link there (if I'm not too late) for me, I'd really appreciate it.Title:Stories With Embellishments
Author: MelWil
Rating: PG13/R
Spoilers: Up to end of Season 5
Pairing: Donna/Katie
Summary: She pulls away when you touch her
Author's Note: I haven't seen Season 6 or 7. Spoil me for either season and I'll have to come up with some horrendous punishment.
***
She pulls away when you touch her – just a little, just for a moment. Your hands move across the pale expanse of her skin and she just watches. You know she's still seeing bruises that faded months ago.
You lay, with your heads close together, telling stories with embellishments. Her hand traces patterns on your stomach and you resist the urge to grab her fingers. You resist the urge to grab her.
You don't want her to hurt anymore.
*
You stand with the other reporters, pretending not to stare as she walks through the door. Chris smiles at her and Steve raises his hand in a well planned casual wave. You're all trying too hard to pretend that it's just another day.
You're all pretending that Donna Moss didn't just walk through that door for the first time since she left on her trip to the Middle East.
You can already see the stories they are going to write – all about bravery, and service, and resuming the job. All concern over whether she is really ready to take this step. Speculation about how happy she is to be back . . .
She doesn't look happy. Happy people don't look as old or as weary as she looks. They don't look so scared, or so hurt, or so scarred . . .
*
“Katie?”
Her phone call comes out of nowhere, surprising you.
“My mother wanted me to call,” she says. “She asked me to tell you that your story was the best.”
There's a hint of laughter in her voice, but it rings false. She sounds like she needs to talk to someone, and you're about to ask her to join you for a coffee. But common sense halts you and you swallow the suggestion.
You're just a reporter, after all.
*
She sleeps badly, tossing and turning and spending hours staring at the ceiling. You pretend to sleep as she stalks around the apartment. You want her to tell you about the nightmares, but you don't know how to start that conversation.
She squeezes your hand when she returns to bed, and you smile and move closer to her, giving yourself away.
*
She doesn't bring ice cream or red wine when she arrives.
It's not cold, or raining, and she's not dressed in some brightly coloured evening gown.
She stands in the doorway, her eyes turned downwards, leaving a hundred questions floating in the air. How does she know where you live? Why is she here? What does she want? Does she know how you feel?
You close your eyes for a second, before stepping backwards, letting her step through the door.
*
Her hair is soft and it brushes against your skin as she leans over you. Her kisses are harder than you expected and her fingers push deep into your skin. She pull your shirt off too quickly, ignoring the button that tumbles into the corner of the room.
She keeps her eyes closed as her fingers move swiftly.
You moan as she moves, and she covers your mouth in kisses. She leaves kisses down your arm and you can't help but shiver as you shift to be closer to her.
*
She looks out the window as she drinks her coffee.
You watch her and try to remember the things you've heard. There was someone – a photographer – everyone was talking about him. He was the one who took the photographs, the graphic, disturbing pictures that appeared in every American newspaper. He followed her to Germany, went to the hospital to see her . . .
You can't stop the questions forming in your head. You can't help wondering why she is here, why she is with you. She's supposed to be with someone else.
She turns to look at you and smiles. For a moment you allow yourself to be fooled, to be tricked and bewitched, to think that she might actually fall in love with you.
You reach out to touch her and she pulls away from you – just a little, just for a moment, just long enough for you to understand that you're kidding yourself. To understand that there's other reasons for her being here, and you may never uncover them all.
You picked up your coffee cup and look out the window.
You let the questions float, unasked, unanswered. Just floating through the air . . .
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no subject
on 2006-05-14 06:30 am (UTC)