Fic: Washed Clean (1/1)
Title: Washed Clean
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Richard/Ben
Word Count: 200
Summary: Their hands have more blood on them, now. For starfoozle’s prompt “Ben/Richard,” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. General Spoilers Through S5.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Guh, I missed writing these two; thanks for the opportunity, doll :)
Washed Clean
There is more blood on both of their hands, now, and it catches between them when they touch: where they used to know the curves and dips, their fingers stutter, tremble; their nails dig and snag. Where they remember sweetness, the edge alone remains; where they’d memorized the rhythms, the ebbs and flows of one another time and again; now, the chords play off-key.
So they steal glances, looks above lashes and beneath guilt, the weight of what they’ve both missed, of what they’re close enough to feel coiling between them -- far enough to fear in time with the tides; they relish stolen moments, charged with heat -- the way Ben’s breath warms the skin at Richard’s upper lip; the way Richard’s eyes flash in the firelight, spark in the pit of Ben’s stomach. For men that shared paradise, for a time, they have never been more disparate; torn at the seams.
Yet when Richard backs him into the trees, when the bark marks him with slow and steady certainty; when Richard slides against him in the dark, Benjamin Linus knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is home.
That even the most cursed hands can be washed clean.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Richard/Ben
Word Count: 200
Summary: Their hands have more blood on them, now. For starfoozle’s prompt “Ben/Richard,” at my Valentine’s Day Gift-Drabble Meme. General Spoilers Through S5.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Guh, I missed writing these two; thanks for the opportunity, doll :)
Washed Clean
There is more blood on both of their hands, now, and it catches between them when they touch: where they used to know the curves and dips, their fingers stutter, tremble; their nails dig and snag. Where they remember sweetness, the edge alone remains; where they’d memorized the rhythms, the ebbs and flows of one another time and again; now, the chords play off-key.
So they steal glances, looks above lashes and beneath guilt, the weight of what they’ve both missed, of what they’re close enough to feel coiling between them -- far enough to fear in time with the tides; they relish stolen moments, charged with heat -- the way Ben’s breath warms the skin at Richard’s upper lip; the way Richard’s eyes flash in the firelight, spark in the pit of Ben’s stomach. For men that shared paradise, for a time, they have never been more disparate; torn at the seams.
Yet when Richard backs him into the trees, when the bark marks him with slow and steady certainty; when Richard slides against him in the dark, Benjamin Linus knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is home.
That even the most cursed hands can be washed clean.