Whatever We Lose (Like a You or a Me)
whatever we lose (like a you or a me) 
he has plenty of fantasies about her. and now he finally gets to play one out. sanctuary. will zimmerman, helen/will. set some time after next tuesday. 990 words. r. happy early birfday, kate!
whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
He has plenty of fantasies about her. Among his the top-ranking ones are the plain old dinner date that leads to more afterwards, the more exotic-and even less likely-setting of a solitary island (just them on the beach, sand in places they’ll complain about later), and that slightly worrying daydream in which she shows up in his room late at night, clad in black leather and carrying a whip. He also has a special fondness for that one where he bends her over the desk they work at together every day and takes her roughly from behind.
But his absolute favourite-since the oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico, since before that, even (a submarine, tiny quarters, him tied to a chair)-is her in nothing but water. He’s revisited that particular reverie more often than any other in his mind, so much that there’s a routine now.
Seven weeks and five days-not that he’s been counting, specifically, he just notices these things without even trying, it’s part of his job description, after all-into their relationship (new, exciting, and yet undefined), he has found out so much more about her. The fact that her chambers have a private bathroom doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. Neither does the sturdiness of her shower. What does catch him completely off guard, however, is just how willing she is to let him live out his favourite fantasy.
He starts washing her hair first, which, while a definite deviation from what he’s been dreaming about, feels nice and domestic and so normal something lodges in his throat, and he’s glad for a moment she’s turned away from him, not sure what he would do, what she would see if she was looking. It doesn’t take as long as it should, and before he knows it, she’s rinsing out the shampoo, leaving him gaping at her, mouth slightly open, eyes more than a little unfocused. She makes a little sound in the back of her throat when she catches him staring, not quite a laugh, but definitely not displeasure either, and somehow, it’s enough to make the tightness in his chest go away for a while. She’s always been good at that.
And then it’s just her. Her skin (soft, slick, incredibly smooth), her hair (fingers tangling, pulling her head back), her breaths (fast, ragged, getting louder with every touch), her hands (on his, then on the rest of him), just her.
When he sees that her eyes are closed, he allows himself a moment of gratitude and wonder, still not quite believing how he ever got here. Into this life, into this room, right here at her side, in more ways than one. He’s under no allusions as to what his life would look like had she not unceremoniously run him over with her car three years ago. Bleak, empty, alone are just a few of the words forthcoming, but then her eyes open again, and no matter how much he abhors the cliché, he still feels like drowning every time.
The conversation they should have had about this whole thing somehow never happened (not after the sudden and unexpected first time, nor after the slower, more tender fifth and sixth), and it occurs to him now, in this moment, that they don’t need it. They don’t need to spell it out in words and phrases. Their language has always been defined more by punctuating silences than by what they say. Another long look passes between them now, and finally, all the worry and doubt evaporates, leaving only sighs and moans and gasps, and skin rubbing on skin.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he starts counting his heartbeats in sets of five.
One-licking a trail of water from her collarbone.
Two, three-suckling at dusky flesh, first one rigid side, then the other.
Four, five, one, two-running his hands up and down her flanks, slowly, slowly.
Three, four-her breathing now more irregular than he’s ever heard it.
Five-his own, weirdly in tune.
She brings up her hands, then, first to his chest, just resting there for a moment or three, then one moving up to his cheek, the other down, down…
One, two, three-fingers everywhere, he’s trying hard to hold on.
Four, five, one-pushing her against the wall, hiking her legs up as far as they’ll go.
Two-sinking, sinking.
threefourfi-
He doesn’t know exactly how long they stand like this, heartbeats only fractionally slowing, and the rush in his ears (water, blood, emotion) is too loud for thoughts of anything but her.
Gravity eventually demands he let go, sever the connection, and he only does so willingly because he knows what comes next: Towels, rough against his oversensitive skin, then bed sheets, all the more soft and warm, and her body, curled into his. And sleep, if not exactly peaceful, at least no longer as fitful as it had been before. Before this, before her, in his old life.
He’ll still try to talk to her about this, because he wants to, because it’s a challenge he has to hold on to, because she expects nothing less from him, and they’ll continue their dance of mentor and protégé on the line of so, so much more, never quite sure where exactly they’re standing at any given time, but as long as he can watch her fall asleep next to him, as long as he gets to wake up like this in the morning (even if it’s just to an empty bed-her empty bed-, when she’s already up and working), he thinks he’ll be alright.
(The smile she wears when he gets back to her room late that night washes away the last of his uncertainty. And not just because it’s the only thing she’s wearing.)
fin.
for whatever we lose (like a you or a me),
it’s always our self we find in the sea.
e.e. cummings
he has plenty of fantasies about her. and now he finally gets to play one out. sanctuary. will zimmerman, helen/will. set some time after next tuesday. 990 words. r. happy early birfday, kate!
whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
He has plenty of fantasies about her. Among his the top-ranking ones are the plain old dinner date that leads to more afterwards, the more exotic-and even less likely-setting of a solitary island (just them on the beach, sand in places they’ll complain about later), and that slightly worrying daydream in which she shows up in his room late at night, clad in black leather and carrying a whip. He also has a special fondness for that one where he bends her over the desk they work at together every day and takes her roughly from behind.
But his absolute favourite-since the oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico, since before that, even (a submarine, tiny quarters, him tied to a chair)-is her in nothing but water. He’s revisited that particular reverie more often than any other in his mind, so much that there’s a routine now.
Seven weeks and five days-not that he’s been counting, specifically, he just notices these things without even trying, it’s part of his job description, after all-into their relationship (new, exciting, and yet undefined), he has found out so much more about her. The fact that her chambers have a private bathroom doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. Neither does the sturdiness of her shower. What does catch him completely off guard, however, is just how willing she is to let him live out his favourite fantasy.
He starts washing her hair first, which, while a definite deviation from what he’s been dreaming about, feels nice and domestic and so normal something lodges in his throat, and he’s glad for a moment she’s turned away from him, not sure what he would do, what she would see if she was looking. It doesn’t take as long as it should, and before he knows it, she’s rinsing out the shampoo, leaving him gaping at her, mouth slightly open, eyes more than a little unfocused. She makes a little sound in the back of her throat when she catches him staring, not quite a laugh, but definitely not displeasure either, and somehow, it’s enough to make the tightness in his chest go away for a while. She’s always been good at that.
And then it’s just her. Her skin (soft, slick, incredibly smooth), her hair (fingers tangling, pulling her head back), her breaths (fast, ragged, getting louder with every touch), her hands (on his, then on the rest of him), just her.
When he sees that her eyes are closed, he allows himself a moment of gratitude and wonder, still not quite believing how he ever got here. Into this life, into this room, right here at her side, in more ways than one. He’s under no allusions as to what his life would look like had she not unceremoniously run him over with her car three years ago. Bleak, empty, alone are just a few of the words forthcoming, but then her eyes open again, and no matter how much he abhors the cliché, he still feels like drowning every time.
The conversation they should have had about this whole thing somehow never happened (not after the sudden and unexpected first time, nor after the slower, more tender fifth and sixth), and it occurs to him now, in this moment, that they don’t need it. They don’t need to spell it out in words and phrases. Their language has always been defined more by punctuating silences than by what they say. Another long look passes between them now, and finally, all the worry and doubt evaporates, leaving only sighs and moans and gasps, and skin rubbing on skin.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he starts counting his heartbeats in sets of five.
One-licking a trail of water from her collarbone.
Two, three-suckling at dusky flesh, first one rigid side, then the other.
Four, five, one, two-running his hands up and down her flanks, slowly, slowly.
Three, four-her breathing now more irregular than he’s ever heard it.
Five-his own, weirdly in tune.
She brings up her hands, then, first to his chest, just resting there for a moment or three, then one moving up to his cheek, the other down, down…
One, two, three-fingers everywhere, he’s trying hard to hold on.
Four, five, one-pushing her against the wall, hiking her legs up as far as they’ll go.
Two-sinking, sinking.
threefourfi-
He doesn’t know exactly how long they stand like this, heartbeats only fractionally slowing, and the rush in his ears (water, blood, emotion) is too loud for thoughts of anything but her.
Gravity eventually demands he let go, sever the connection, and he only does so willingly because he knows what comes next: Towels, rough against his oversensitive skin, then bed sheets, all the more soft and warm, and her body, curled into his. And sleep, if not exactly peaceful, at least no longer as fitful as it had been before. Before this, before her, in his old life.
He’ll still try to talk to her about this, because he wants to, because it’s a challenge he has to hold on to, because she expects nothing less from him, and they’ll continue their dance of mentor and protégé on the line of so, so much more, never quite sure where exactly they’re standing at any given time, but as long as he can watch her fall asleep next to him, as long as he gets to wake up like this in the morning (even if it’s just to an empty bed-her empty bed-, when she’s already up and working), he thinks he’ll be alright.
(The smile she wears when he gets back to her room late that night washes away the last of his uncertainty. And not just because it’s the only thing she’s wearing.)
fin.
for whatever we lose (like a you or a me),
it’s always our self we find in the sea.
e.e. cummings