fic: restless (pg, lewis/hathaway)
Apr. 11th, 2008 10:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sua_layTitle: Restless
Author: Rimau Sua Lay
Fandom: Lewis
Pairing: Lewis/Hathaway
Rating: PG
word count: ~1100
Summary: - Hathaway doesn't wait until the morning after.
Notes: Inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ainaria's fic Maybe Tomorrow ; this would be the brighter future. I also owe her thanks for the quick beta, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Restless
Something tickles on Hathaway's nose, making him snort as he slowly wakes up. It's dark in the bedroom, the curtains tightly drawn over the window, and it takes him a while to realise that he's not in his own bed. He's disoriented for just a moment, like he just dozed off for a few seconds. He doesn't usually nap, falling asleep after a long workday, sometimes aided by a glass or two of wine before he crawls to bed and hopefully has no dreams.
Not that he usually wakes up in his own bed wrapped around a naked body, hair tickling on his face as he nuzzles the back of someone's neck.
He lies still, pretending for a moment that he has no idea where he is and what has happened. It's a pleasant fantasy, though a bit ambiguous; sleeping around with strangers isn't his style, casual shagging something he's never been comfortable with.
Maybe he doesn't know anything; he's not responsible for his actions, has made no conscious decision to be here, wherever here is. In bed with a stranger, just for a few hours of pleasure and nothing more complicated than that.
For some reason the thought makes him feel guilty as soon as it forms in his mind, like even idle imagining is wrong.
His arm is wrapped around a solid body next to his, the other one tucked under the pillow, allowing him to lie more comfortably, and the blankets are carelessly pulled up over him, over them both.
He really doesn't want to move.
This is not wrong. It's not penance or guilt or duty. He's here because this is where he wants to be, maybe even needs to be, and he can't regret any of it.
Not the looks, not the slow rebuild of trust. Not the first awkward touch, leaning forward and touching running his fingers down a rough cheek, and that heart stopping moment right afterwards when he thought he'd read the moment wrong, made a bad assessment of it all, and ruined a perfectly good working relationship, and even more, a real friendship.
It had been exhilarating to be touched back, to be kissed enthusiastically, to be held without any agenda beyond the want to share this. Terrifying as well, giving up control so easily, for once not caring about anything beyond the next touch.
Of course it couldn't last, his mind quiet for a few blissful moments and then beginning the nagging doubts again, thoughts about this moment and the one following and the endless string of tomorrows like an impending doom was unavoidable. He closes his eyes against the darkness, but it doesn't bring sleep back, doesn't calm his mind at all.
He wonders if he should get up, get dressed and walk home. It's a long walk, so it'd clear his head, make it easier to think about this in a rational way. Lying here is comfortable enough, but he wonders if he should still leave, like staying the night is assuming too much. How does one act after the first acts of passion anyway? Thanks for the shag, see you tomorrow?
But it's not like that, is it? He wouldn't risk everything for just a shag; if that's all he wanted, he could have found someone else. Someone more likely, someone more appropriate.
Someone who can't really touch him.
He wants to stay, wishes he could assume this is as earth-shattering to both of them. He hasn't let his own dreams blind him like this for a long time, but is now unable to separate wishful thinking from reality.
He needs to know this is all right. And he needs a cigarette. In that order, preferably, though he thinks the cigarette can wait until the morning.
Breathing in, he can almost taste the heavy scent of sweat and sex that still lingers in the room, wishing he could just let it lull him into peaceful sleep. His body feels heavy, satisfied, but he can't let go of the worry, finding the uniqueness of this moment almost unbearable. It's been a long time since he last held someone, but even then he'd known it wasn't what he really wanted. Not just someone who wanted to learn to know his body, but someone who knew his mind; heat and lust and passion and quiet moments of doing nothing, just being together.
This is the one thing he will never walk away from, not voluntarily, and yet he wonders if that's exactly what this moment calls for; to walk away now so he can maybe come back tomorrow.
But come back as what?
The slight whisper of movement against the sheets is the only warning he gets, and then a hand touches his, firmly, with intent, fingers lacing with his. He tenses, almost unable to breathe as he waits for whatever comes next.
"Hathaway..." It's a pained groan, a familiar sound by now. Exasperation and annoyance in equal measures.
He almost snaps out 'sir', but that really would take this from ridiculous to surreal, so he mumbles, "Yeah?"
"I can't sleep with you thinking so loud." Still grumpy, but with a hint of worry. "Everything all right?"
Hathaway smiles. "Yeah." All right may be the understatement, though. He's good. Better than he's been in a long time. But he won't say it, not yet. Maybe when it won't sound too melodramatic, when this isn't so raw, so new, and when touches have become simple in his mind, less overwhelming.
He wonders if the rest of it will ever be easy, if the caring and the trust, all this feeling will ever be mundane enough to be taken for granted.
"Then go to sleep, man! We have a meeting with Innocent at 9 am, remember?"
Of course he remembers that. Refusing to say anything, realising that another yeah will turn this into a farce, really, he just mumbles, "Mmm hmm," daring to brush his lips against the soft skin so close by. It's ridiculously easy to relax, to let the normalcy of the quietly muttered conversation ground him. This is what they do best after all, the comfortable togetherness something he's never really experienced before.
"Right then. Good night, James." More squirming, and then there's nothing but heavy, boneless contentment. The hand never leaves his, holding tight.
Taking it as an order to stop worrying, Hathaway nods. "Good night." He closes his eyes and buries his face more firmly into the pillow.
*
The End
As always, all (constructive) comments are welcome.
Author: Rimau Sua Lay
Fandom: Lewis
Pairing: Lewis/Hathaway
Rating: PG
word count: ~1100
Summary: - Hathaway doesn't wait until the morning after.
Notes: Inspired by
ainaria's fic Maybe Tomorrow ; this would be the brighter future. I also owe her thanks for the quick beta, all remaining mistakes are my own. Something tickles on Hathaway's nose, making him snort as he slowly wakes up. It's dark in the bedroom, the curtains tightly drawn over the window, and it takes him a while to realise that he's not in his own bed. He's disoriented for just a moment, like he just dozed off for a few seconds. He doesn't usually nap, falling asleep after a long workday, sometimes aided by a glass or two of wine before he crawls to bed and hopefully has no dreams.
Not that he usually wakes up in his own bed wrapped around a naked body, hair tickling on his face as he nuzzles the back of someone's neck.
He lies still, pretending for a moment that he has no idea where he is and what has happened. It's a pleasant fantasy, though a bit ambiguous; sleeping around with strangers isn't his style, casual shagging something he's never been comfortable with.
Maybe he doesn't know anything; he's not responsible for his actions, has made no conscious decision to be here, wherever here is. In bed with a stranger, just for a few hours of pleasure and nothing more complicated than that.
For some reason the thought makes him feel guilty as soon as it forms in his mind, like even idle imagining is wrong.
His arm is wrapped around a solid body next to his, the other one tucked under the pillow, allowing him to lie more comfortably, and the blankets are carelessly pulled up over him, over them both.
He really doesn't want to move.
This is not wrong. It's not penance or guilt or duty. He's here because this is where he wants to be, maybe even needs to be, and he can't regret any of it.
Not the looks, not the slow rebuild of trust. Not the first awkward touch, leaning forward and touching running his fingers down a rough cheek, and that heart stopping moment right afterwards when he thought he'd read the moment wrong, made a bad assessment of it all, and ruined a perfectly good working relationship, and even more, a real friendship.
It had been exhilarating to be touched back, to be kissed enthusiastically, to be held without any agenda beyond the want to share this. Terrifying as well, giving up control so easily, for once not caring about anything beyond the next touch.
Of course it couldn't last, his mind quiet for a few blissful moments and then beginning the nagging doubts again, thoughts about this moment and the one following and the endless string of tomorrows like an impending doom was unavoidable. He closes his eyes against the darkness, but it doesn't bring sleep back, doesn't calm his mind at all.
He wonders if he should get up, get dressed and walk home. It's a long walk, so it'd clear his head, make it easier to think about this in a rational way. Lying here is comfortable enough, but he wonders if he should still leave, like staying the night is assuming too much. How does one act after the first acts of passion anyway? Thanks for the shag, see you tomorrow?
But it's not like that, is it? He wouldn't risk everything for just a shag; if that's all he wanted, he could have found someone else. Someone more likely, someone more appropriate.
Someone who can't really touch him.
He wants to stay, wishes he could assume this is as earth-shattering to both of them. He hasn't let his own dreams blind him like this for a long time, but is now unable to separate wishful thinking from reality.
He needs to know this is all right. And he needs a cigarette. In that order, preferably, though he thinks the cigarette can wait until the morning.
Breathing in, he can almost taste the heavy scent of sweat and sex that still lingers in the room, wishing he could just let it lull him into peaceful sleep. His body feels heavy, satisfied, but he can't let go of the worry, finding the uniqueness of this moment almost unbearable. It's been a long time since he last held someone, but even then he'd known it wasn't what he really wanted. Not just someone who wanted to learn to know his body, but someone who knew his mind; heat and lust and passion and quiet moments of doing nothing, just being together.
This is the one thing he will never walk away from, not voluntarily, and yet he wonders if that's exactly what this moment calls for; to walk away now so he can maybe come back tomorrow.
But come back as what?
The slight whisper of movement against the sheets is the only warning he gets, and then a hand touches his, firmly, with intent, fingers lacing with his. He tenses, almost unable to breathe as he waits for whatever comes next.
"Hathaway..." It's a pained groan, a familiar sound by now. Exasperation and annoyance in equal measures.
He almost snaps out 'sir', but that really would take this from ridiculous to surreal, so he mumbles, "Yeah?"
"I can't sleep with you thinking so loud." Still grumpy, but with a hint of worry. "Everything all right?"
Hathaway smiles. "Yeah." All right may be the understatement, though. He's good. Better than he's been in a long time. But he won't say it, not yet. Maybe when it won't sound too melodramatic, when this isn't so raw, so new, and when touches have become simple in his mind, less overwhelming.
He wonders if the rest of it will ever be easy, if the caring and the trust, all this feeling will ever be mundane enough to be taken for granted.
"Then go to sleep, man! We have a meeting with Innocent at 9 am, remember?"
Of course he remembers that. Refusing to say anything, realising that another yeah will turn this into a farce, really, he just mumbles, "Mmm hmm," daring to brush his lips against the soft skin so close by. It's ridiculously easy to relax, to let the normalcy of the quietly muttered conversation ground him. This is what they do best after all, the comfortable togetherness something he's never really experienced before.
"Right then. Good night, James." More squirming, and then there's nothing but heavy, boneless contentment. The hand never leaves his, holding tight.
Taking it as an order to stop worrying, Hathaway nods. "Good night." He closes his eyes and buries his face more firmly into the pillow.
*
The End
As always, all (constructive) comments are welcome.
