Fic: Snore
TITLE: Snore
PAIRING: Riley/Greg
RATING: PG
GENRE: Romance
SUMMARY: Riley reminisces on silence and not-quite-silence while Greg is away at a conference. And, when it comes down to it, she misses the way he snores. PG interpretation for KinkBingo.
Author's Note: This was written for KinkBingo, though I tried to take the fluffier (see PG) way out of it. The kinks are 'silence' and 'phone sex' (I'm going for a double line, which is why there are two kinks involved). Enjoy ;)
The house is quiet without you here. I know to expect it by now, but, sometimes, I never quite manage not to be surprised by it. Anticipation doesn't dull the pain of the silence in your absence, even though I knew in advance that this was coming.
This.
How is it that it's so painful at this point? Five days? I never thought myself the type to go wimpy over such a timeframe. And yet here I am missing the sounds.
The coffee maker doesn't whir, nor does it emit those sounds. Strangely enough, I don't even think of the taste, though the taste of it on your lips as I taste you is certainly up there.
Still, it's not the coffee. It's not the way it bubbles, let alone the way it bubbles on my mouth.
It's not the warmth of the steam treading upward from it, nor is it the clean look. It's not even the taste, nor is it the way the coffee sometimes sticks to your upper lip as you grin at me with a foolish but lovable not-quite-Blue-Hawaiian-coffee-mustache (although I do miss that too).
It's the sound of you slurping it down. The slightest sound of suction as your tongue dances across your lips. Normally, I have no reason to be jealous of the coffee since I can trace the same path as soon as you're done -- often sooner, if I so choose and you so let me (you're not always the most functional before you've finished your morning glass, but, for the most part, it doesn't seem to affect your kissing abilities. If anything, your body is programmed to slurp exactly one and a half cups of coffee, and, when I offer you something else to slurp first, your tongue knows to go ahead).
Now, the air is empty, and I miss the sound.
I boil my own coffee, but it isn't the same.
Unlike all the other times, this time I am in fact jealous of the coffee. It is with you -- in New York at this year's Forensics Conference -- and I am here. In silence.
I don't think people realize just how improbable silence is. And it's not just because of who you are. I know you're a bit notorious for your loudness, mostly (apparently) because of your old lab rat days. I would definitely argue that you've toned down since then, even though I didn't know you back in your lab rat days.
Still, you are never silent, and I don't know how you could be. Even when you try to be silent, you're not.
When you creak across the floor to the bedroom -- the one that used to be yours, but seems now equally mine -- from the office or bathroom or kitchen, in an attempt at stealth so as not to wake me up, I can still hear you. Sometimes -- especially when you're in the office working on the book or an old case -- I stay awake waiting. And, in the end, I always hear you creaking back to me, your attempts at stealth inadvertently foiled, not that you know. I never tell you how much you fail at surreptition, and I never will because it's far too amusing (and maybe a little endearing) to listen to you try. When it comes down to it, I've never been quite able to burst your bubbles.
They'd think you'd be quiet when you sleep too. Not so.
They haven't heard the little wheezes you let loose in your sleep. Really, I suppose you haven't either. If you did, you might very well try to stop yourself, and I couldn't take that.
Sure, you've taken catnaps at the Lab, but you never make that sound.
Airy wheezes and delicate hiccups. I don't think of myself as that much of a sentimentalist, but the only thing I can think is that it sounds like you're sniffing your dreams.
And I hope that your dreams, whatever they may smell like, will include me. Which is why I need to hear it.
When it comes down to it, It's only a matter of time before I call you. Technically, the hotel room is free for PD, so it won't be any harm to leave the receiver up when you sleep so I can listen to the sounds. Maybe you even listen to whichever sleepy sounds I make.
xxxxxxx
"Sanders," you answer groggily.
"Hey," I reply quickly -- my voice ten times more alert than yours, so much so that I almost regret what almost sounds like neediness. I don't quite want to admit how much I needed this, to the point where I didn't even really stop to think that you might be asleep.
"Adams," you reply, your voice picking up no perceptible amount of attentiveness, though I think I can hear the hint of curiosity.
Curiosity. Of course. Because you're bound to be curious as to why I'm calling you at this hour. It's not like we have any cases right now. Nick and Catherine took over your caseload so that you could go to this conference. Technically, it's coming out of your vacation days, but I can't complain. It's not like we were going to take vacation together. We're not together together. It makes no sense. I hate this kind of relationship-nonsense jargon -- the way you, or anyone, is always forced to walk on careful stringy lines to navigate what and where exactly a relationship is. Ours? I have no idea. We sleep together often. It's a comfortable arrangement, and very enjoyable. But no four-letter words, and, I have to say, this is the first real urgent sense of need -- where I really miss you -- that I've ever felt. It's been years since I felt this way about anyone.
Nobody sleeps the way you do, making those cute whisper-sniffing snores.
I can tell you're drifting off, and I wish I could stroke your forehead and see your eyelids' tiny trembles as they try to close again. To see if you make them stay open, despite what I know must be fatigue. It's always hard switching schedules, I know. The conference is during the day -- during the hours you're used to sleeping.
And to partaking in various other activities.
"What are you doing?" I whisper. I didn't realize how apparent the need would be in my voice.
"Eh," you reply. You pause, stifling a yawn. "What were you doing?"
"Missing the way you snore," I reply. The words come out before I realize it. Before I have a chance to stop them. I didn't mean to tell you that. It was a secret between your sleeping form and my ears.
You chuckle. I can imagine you blushing. "Thanks." You pause again, letting a full-blown yawn out this time. "I miss you too."
Minutes later, I hear it again. The sounds of not-quite-silence are so sweet when it's you on the other line.
xxxxxx
Thanks for reading, and please review. I would especially appreciate any feedback on whether the first person works here, or if the story would work better in third-person (and I mean that in terms of grammatical third-person, so the actual content would be the exact same and all 'I's and 'you's would just be switched to 'Riley's and 'Greg's.)