theplatonicnonyeah: (mr1)
[personal profile] theplatonicnonyeah
Fandom: The Americans.
Pairing: Gregory Thomas and Elizabeth Jennings (M/F)
Rating: PG


He was half asleep in the sofa. Music, something jazzy, was playing at a low volume. Soothing notes that swayed back and forth across the room. In the nook of the ashtray on the table a joint was slowly fading. He had been focusing on the smoke for the past fifteen minutes, not thinking about anything, just trying to empty his mind.

It had been raining all day. At one point he considered going down to the café on the corner to see if Malcolm was there or anyone else who would be good at distracting him. But in the end he had decided to stay in and get high on his own.

Only a mellow high, one that would take his mind off things. Not that there were a lot of things on his mind. Just the one thing, really. A woman.

Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, the sound of the doorbell jerked him back to the present. A quick glance at his watch told him it was almost eight in the evening.

He got up slowly from the sofa and tip-toed to the door, unlocking it, but leaving the safety chain on as he opened it.

She was wearing a dress with a cardigan thrown over her shoulders. No umbrella or raincoat. Her hair was wet, clinging to the sides of her face. She did not immediately meet his eyes, but instead looked past him into the flat.
- I’m alone, he said reassuringly, unhooking the safety chain.
- Oh, good, she smiled mechanically. As she stepped inside her face came into the light and he realised that it wasn’t wet just from the rain. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
- What’s wrong? he said, carefully placing a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her tensing up, catching her breath.
- I’m…I can’t…I can’t do it anymore, she said and turned towards him.

There was a mole on her top lip, just to the left of the philtrum. He often found himself looking at it, wondering what it would feel like to run his tongue over it. Or to run his tongue over any other place on her body, watching her skin react to his touch. There had been moments when he thought maybe something was going to happen between them. He could sense the tension in the silence and the way she sometimes wouldn’t look at him, but still allow him to place his hand in the small of her back and leave it there until she had to walk away.

But now there was this vivid proof of another man’s touch, his ownership of her body. She was carrying this other man’s child. Eight months already. He had watched her belly grow and resigned himself to the endless longing of unrequited desire.

- What’s happened? he said.

His hand had moved to cup her cheek, trying to make her look at him. But she seemed to be studying the collar of his shirt or maybe his neck. With the outside of his hand he wiped the tears off her cheeks and then placed his thumb on her lower lip.

- Talk to me, he whispered.
And she looked up at him, parting her lips slightly so that the tip of his thumb slid inside, meeting her tongue.

October 2014


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